Lo-Fidelity

Charles Grindley - Sailors and Cloth

2011-08-15T12:00:00.001-04:00

Charles Grindley brings us this well composed poem. Read it aloud to yourself under your breath when your boss is away if you're at work. If you work from home, do the same.

Sailors And Cloth:

Small creative designs,

Saint Bartholomew playing with a razor

And no damn skin,

Toying with brown shiny wings,

Bending the day into a sort of pen,

Mixing paint in old silver socks and green baggies,

These are all roofs,

Powdered fast red coats of paint,

Wainscoting, waistcoats, workshops,

Poorly-made excuses repeated indefinitely.

This is bloody and the truth,

The release I sought was one of disease.

I sat beside Hugh and said:

Grease ‘em up you goofy shit,

You are right, nothing is crazy.

If a day cannot pen even weak love,

How can it quest,

How can it pursue entire Sundays,

When the distant clangs throw it off the course,

And harsh words streak down phone lines,

Telling us about roofs

And red coats of paint.

It is all so harsh and unhappy

And bloody and the truth.

Howie Good - Adam and Eve

2011-08-15T08:28:00.001-04:00

To break us from our hiatus we have this lovely gem of a poem from Howie Good called Adam and Eve. Really dig the idea behind this one.

ADAM & EVE

They crawled up

into the darkness,

two nobodies,

the first of many,

all of creation

like a poem

that was accepted,

but never run.

2011-07-29T12:38:00.000-04:00

Please Read...

2009-11-07T13:53:00.002-05:00

Can you say 'Hiatus?'

We apologize for our absence... we are listening to everything you send us. Things have been busy around 'the office' so we have had little time to concentrate on Lo-Fi. Please accept our apologies and understand that we will be back soon. You are our greatest influence. Please don't abandon us.

Adam Moorad - The Wanna-Be-Singer-Songwriter

2009-07-22T07:00:00.001-04:00

Today we have a story from Adam Moorad called The Wanna-Be-Singer-Songwriter. It's a quick little tale about romance on the road. Check it out!

The Wanna-Be-Singer-Songwriter

On the side of the road the Wanna-Be-Singer-Songwriter felt like it was Christmas. He pointed to his license and told her his picture was taken a long time ago. She stood there behind her badge. Cars passed. It was dark outside. She handed the license back. She smiled and said her shift was about over.

She said she was against marriage. She twirled the straw in her margarita. The Wanna-Be-Singer-Songwriter agreed under the assumption that it was what she wanted to hear and she said that was good. Marriage is forever, he said.

A waiter ran by with is arms full of hot plates and she said that someone must be hungry.

They ate their dinner prepared by people who were working the country illegally. She looked the other way. The Wanna-Be-Singer-Songwriter said he used to be in love with a Hispanic girl. She got quiet then asked him how long ago that was. A long, long time ago, he said. Do you still love her? she asked. He said it wasn't real love, that he was young then and is older now.

The waiter wore a button-down shirt and toreador slacks. He spoke broken English and asked if they would like to have another pitcher. Beads of sweat rolled down his cheeks as if he had just eaten and mouthful of tamales. He left. The Wanna-Be-Singer-Songwriter looked at her face. He made an expression and she laughed.

She covered her mouth as she laughed and he told her she covered her mouth. He asked her what was so funny. She was more talkative that before and was getting drunk. He pinched her arm and said she cleans-up well. She said the same and said she was getting tired. The Wanna-Be-Singer-Songwriter asked her if he could write a song about her and if he could put her name in it.

A real song? she said. She said she thought that was just a line he likes to use to get out of speeding tickets.

He said she was right, that he always did. He said she had him figured out. He asked her if she was mad. But can I? he asked. I only will if you let me, he said.

She said it was fine and brushed the bangs from her forehead. The Wanna-Be-Singer-Songwriter said it will be a song about a policewoman and he'll play it for her on the guitar. So you can play guitar, she said. A little, he said. Is that your job? she asked. Sort of, he said. She said that she works for the city with a radar gun, that she writes speeding tickets to people who look less cute. He looked at her. She laughed and covered her mouth. And they rode in her squad car to his apartment.

And they made it. The Wanna-be-Singer-Songwriter asked her if she had ever been to the rodeo. She said no and she asked if he had a song about that too. He said something like that.

Christian Ward - Floods

2009-07-20T07:00:00.000-04:00

Christian Ward brings us today a poem called Floods. Enjoy the wonderful imagery and wordplay.

Floods

The streets have become flooded

with our childhood dreams.

Puddles blend into

astronauts, paving slabs, firemen.

Artists wash the pavements

in a sea of colour.

Our adult selves, thin as spindles,

watch from behind netted curtains,

holding each other as the houses

slowly move towards an ocean

of someone else’s making, bodies

quivering like fish desperate for water.

Kevin Brown - Positive

2009-07-18T07:00:00.001-04:00

Well, if you had plans for the next few minutes call the doctor and tell them you're going to be late. Kevin Brown's story Positive will draw you in from the first sentence and not let go until the end. I want to keep reading this, over and over again.

Positive

“I gave my kid AIDS,” Mike says. Sitting alone in his pick-up outside the health clinic, he says, “Not even born yet and I killed it.”

He looks at the creased photograph of Kaycee wedged beside the speedometer and twists his wedding ring around on his finger. He grips the steering wheel with both hands and the shaking moves up into his forearms. A few thick raindrops pop the windshield, leaving puckered shadows on his face that slide down in dark streaks.

Closing his eyes, he leans his head back and squeezes the wheel. He swallows over and over against the nausea in his throat.

Last night, Mike wasn’t sick. Not that he knew of. He’d have been hard pressed to tell you what HIV or AIDS even stood for. He knew people got it and that they died, but he never knew any of them. Those people, they were a world away, on the other side of CNN best he could tell. Last night, what Mike was, was thinking about his new job on Monday. He was thinking about the camping trip this weekend with the guys. Tossing and rolling, he draped his arm over his wife, who’d taken a home pregnancy test earlier in the week that came back positive.

He’d never even heard of antiretroviral therapy or CD4 cell depletion. PNAP or contact retracing.

With the rain starting to click faster on the hood, Mike looks in the seat at the yellow folder filled with information—contact numbers and Websites. Support groups and financial assistance forms. Fifteen minutes ago, he’d gotten the first lesson in a class that would last the rest of his life.

“Positive,” the health counselor told him, her eyes the wide type that say things without saying them. She’d said more, but what he heard loudest was that one word.

And she was going on about a drug treatment called HAART. About behavior modification. But this lady across the desk saying something about the prolonged suppression of viremia, she was wrong. He didn’t get tested for this. People who hear the things he was hearing, they got tested because they were worried. They suspected. He just needed blood work for his new job as cook at Azia’s Gourmet.

Mike smiled, closed one eye, and said, “My name is Michael Ahrens.” Leaning forward, angling his head to see the file, he said, “A-H-R-E-N-S. Ahrens.”

And this counselor, she kept staring at him, those wide eyes not blinking. Tiny vessels webbed pink over the whites. After a few seconds, his hands started to tremor.

Looking out the office window, through the half-drawn blinds, Mike could see his truck parked outside. See the camping gear piled in the seat—his sleeping bag. A duffel bag with a couple changes of clothes and a water cooler icing down a case of beer. Behind that, the road dipping and twisting out of town to where the campsite was. Storm clouds were sliding and clawing over each other.

“Mr. Ahrens,” the counselor said, “I need you to tell me about your wife.”

And Mike looked at her. His mouth went gummy, and he started swallowing in tiny bursts. His skin pricked and shifted. Lost connection with his insides.

He opened his mouth. His voice broke and the counselor looked down and blinked. “No,” he said, no breath. Chin twitching. “I’m Michael Ahrens.” He rubbed his face hard. “I can’t have AIDS—”

“You don’t have AIDS, Michael,” she said. “You’re HIV positive—”

“It’s wrong,” he said. His voice high, he said, “I want another test.” He said, “I don’t use needles.” His hands palmed out mime-style, he said, “I only had sex twice before Kaycee.”

And yes, he knows it only takes once, but he used protection.

And yes, he knows condoms aren’t a hundred percent, but Jesus….

The counselor, she said, “I know this is difficult.” Crossing hand over fist on the desk, she said, “But it’s important we find out where you contracted the virus.”

Contracted the virus, Mike repeats, almost laughing. His eyes quick-blinking and snapping around the room.

The counselor said, “Could Kaycee have been infected before?”

“Not possible,” he said. “I was her first.”

Soft and serious, her eyes fixed on him again, the counselor told him, if that’s the case, they should assume it was contracted through one of the previous partners. She said they’d have to be contacted and informed of the situation. “They could be spreading it unknowingly to others,” she said.

Bouncing his knee, Mike’s face started to hurt.

The counselor thumbed through his paperwork and said, “Says you don’t have children—”

And Mike slowly leaned back, mouth wide, eyes wider. He put his hands over his face and pushed hard. Thought: if you’re gonna cry, this is the place. Now’s the time. And he did.

The counselor dropped the folder back on the desk.

After a minute, his hands still covering his face, he finally caught his breath and his shoulders stopped twitching.

Outside his hands, the counselor said, “How far along is she?”

He bit down hard, his teeth rubbing, jaw popping. Two positives in one goddamn week. The best news followed by the worst. Watch your step, son, he could hear his father telling him, walking through a wheat field when Mike was a boy. He’d said the same thing when Mike got his first car. When he went to college. Whatever you do, just watch your step.

Opening his eyes, Mike could see his wedding ring, enough light catching it in the dark of his cupped hands. He slid them away. “Six weeks,” he said.

The counselor opened a yellow folder and placed a stack of pamphlets and papers inside. She told him he should be aware that HIV can be vertically transmitted. That, being so early in the pregnancy, a lot of mothers choose not to have the baby under these circumstances.

And she told him more.

As if he could really hear it.

Something about being required by law to inform his wife and previous partners. About PNAP and CNAP—Partner/Contact Notification Assistance Programs—as an alternate method of doing so. “If you’d rather not tell them yourself,” she said.

God closes one door, He opens a window to jump out of.

She talked about more treatments. About support groups. Before he left, she said, “Michael, we’re way beyond where we were fifteen years ago. It’s incurable, but it’s highly treatable.” Standing, handing him the yellow folder, she said, “I’ve seen people live healthy and happy lives for several years.” Her eyes bulging, she said, “HIV is not a death sentence.”

Mike took the folder and left, keeping his head down as he passed through the waiting room. She’s wrong, he thought, and everything she told him was just a fancy way of saying, “The End.”

Curtain closed.

Because it is a death sentence. A murderer gets the death penalty, he may sit on death row for ten years, but everyday’s a countdown to the chair.

Still sitting in his truck, the rain sweeping hard against the side of the door, Mike stares at the window of the office he’d been in. Wondering if that lady, her eyes wide and white and unblinking, was in there right now, telling someone else what she’d told him. That you’re living with this disease, not dying from it. He palms his throat and cups a hand to his mouth. Cracks the window, letting the rain slip through on his face.

It’s funny, but the moment you hear the news, you can feel it. The disease, you can actually feel it running through your veins.

Watch your step, his dad’s saying.

On the dashboard, his cell phone lights up and vibrates in a half-circle. The screen says SHAWN and Mike’s stomach cramps. He lets the ringing stop, and a couple seconds later, it buzzes again. “Hello,” he says, his fingers blurry.

On the other end, there’s loud voices and blaring music. “Mikey!” Shawn says. They’re at the campsite. They’re drinking.

“Yeah,” Mike says, but his voice shakes.

“Where you at?” Shawn says.

Mike says he’s on his way.

“You finished?” Shawn says, and another voice gets close to the phone and screams: “So’s your dick gonna fall off or what?” then pulls away, laughing.

Mike pulls the phone from his ear and puts a palm to his forehead.

He can feel a cough coming. He feels the fever and nausea.

He tries to fake a laugh.

On the other end, the guys are still laughing. “Your brother-in-law,” Shawn says. He says, “He says to get your ass down here and help us with this beer.”

Mike doesn’t answer. Hangs up and switches the phone off. His brother-in-law, Kris. His best friend since grade school and Kaycee’s older brother. Mike looks at the office window again and thinks about walking back in. Asking how you tell your best friend you killed his little sister. Will PCRAP handle that for you, or do you just go up and say, Sorry? Just: Oops!

He puts his finger to the window and traces a worm of rain down the glass. There’s no way to hide this. Some secrets closets can’t hold.

Starting the truck and throwing it into drive, he pulls onto the highway headed toward the camp, thinking about taking the wrong step and falling straight the fuck through.

Mike turns onto the dirt road leading back to the campsite. He sees the bonfire glow above the trees. He’s been killing beers the whole ride out, and twice he missed the turn. Thinking about Kaycee’s face, about the shock she’s in for, he drove five miles past each time. Somewhere along the way, it got dark and the rain stopped.

He lets the truck creep in low and turns the headlights off, in case he decides to turn around and run. Let the doctor’s handle it all. Just escape and pretend none of this ever happened.

Cut his losses.

Getting closer, he hears the muffled music and stops, throwing it into park. How do you do this? How do you go up and fake it, pretend you’re not dying right under the skin? How can you face them? Face Kris?

Mike and Kris, they go back. Summer camp and peewee football. Puberty and girls. And if there’s one thing about Kris, it’s that he always got the girls. In high school, he averaged more leg a week than Mike had dates in a semester.

But he’s never had an STD in his life. No scares. No knock-on-woods.

Now, Mike can just see it. When it all comes out, it’s what you’d expect, best friends or not. Bang a thousand girls and dodge the bullets, that’s fine. Sleep with two and get the wrong one, you’re a dirty piece of shit. And look what you’ve done to his sister. To her baby.

He balls his fist tight until his hand loses color. It starts to vibrate, and he slams it into the roof of the cab. He does it again and again, until his wrist buckles and jams. Until dust and chipped foam drop down into his hair and in the back of his shirt. He looks at his knuckles, the skin flaked and peeled back. Blood forms and pools up. Slides over the side.

There it is, he thinks. All mixed in. Get to know it like the back of your hand.

Mike wipes his hand on his pants and slides the yellow folder under the seat. He grabs a beer out of the ice cooler and kills it in a few swallows. Tossing the bottle out the window, he throws the truck in drive and pulls forward, around the trees toward the fire.

“Bout fucking time,” Shawn says, walking up with a couple of beers in each hand. His hair and clothes soaked, a large mound of mud caked around his feet, he says, “What’d you, get lost?”

Kris is holding a stick jabbed through a hot dog in the fire, turning it over every few seconds. Parked behind him, his new RV, the front door standing open. Music blares from somewhere inside.

Holding out a bottle, Shawn says, “Cerveza?” Mike gets out of the truck, bubbles it empty. Squinting, Shawn says, “What’d you do to your hand?” He reaches for it and Mike pulls away.

“Don’t,” he says.

Kris walks up in nothing but a pair of cut-off shorts. He’s choking a large bottle of vodka. Taking a drink, he looks back at the camper and says, “So bro, there she is.” He says, “You like?”

Mike nods and tries to smile.

Slurring, Kris says, “Well, mi casa su casa.” He takes another drink and says, “Unless you fuck mi casa up, then it’s su ass.” He throws an arm around Mike’s shoulders and says, “Glad you made it.”

Mike pulls away. Grabs his cooler and walks toward the camp, the guys following.

Kris’ stick is still in the fire, and when he picks it up the hot dog is crusty black and flaming. “Glad the chef’s here,” he says. “I’m hungrier than a motherfucker.”

Shawn sits by the fire while Kris gives Mike a tour of the camper. Mike doesn’t talk, keeping his bloody hand in his pocket.

Outside, Mike opens another beer, kills it, and Shawn says, “You came to goddamn drink.”

Mike sits down and hiccups. Inside, Kris spins the dial on the radio, finds “Take On Me” by Aha and comes out laughing. “Remember this shit?” he says, stumbling. Dancing. He squats beside Mike, singing the high-notes into his bottle.

Mike reaches out and takes the liquor from Kris. And he keeps drinking, taking large swigs of vodka. Chasing it with full beers in a couple swallows. He tries to picture the alcohol mixing with the virus in his blood. Two poisons in battle.

Lightning whitens a thick cloud, and thunder grumbles.

Kris and Shawn, they eat burnt marshmallows and drink and talk. Mike sits there, hands on his knees, head down, smiling and nodding whenever they look at him. Answering whenever they ask. Pretending to be there. To be alive.

Kris talks about this girl, Mitzi, he fucked three times last Saturday. How she sings Madonna songs when she comes. How she’d do anything, and he means anything, after a four-pack of wine coolers.

Shawn says he wants to fuck Keira Knightley and Asia Argento. He says, “Till my dick falls off.” He says, “And Jessica Alba, Jesus Christ!”

Kris says he’d fuck anyone in Hollywood. “Even Kathy Bates.”

Mike gags and belches. He says, “That all you guys talk about? Who you’d bang and how?” Taking a long shot of Vodka, it runs over the corners of his mouth in a frown. “Fuck’s sake,” he says.

Kris says, “Dude, the fuck’s wrong with you?” Laughing, Shawn says, “Old lady ain’t pregnant a week, already got your balls in vice grips.”

Mike looks at Shawn and thinks of slamming his fist into his face like he did the truck. He thinks about mixing a little blood with both of them, level the playing field. Then they can sit around and talk about fucking girls all night. See if that heightens the conversation.

Instead, he gets up and staggers to the camper bathroom. He washes his hands, red then pink in the sink, and cups water on his face. Looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes are mapped red with lines and he sucks his cheeks in. Like death’s supposed to look, he thinks.

He slips his cell phone out of his pocket, turns it on, and calls Kaycee. After a few rings, the voice mail picks up. It beeps and he says, “Hey. It’s me.” Still staring at himself in the mirror, he says, “Just calling to say I love you…”

His voice lowers and breaks. His chin tremors and his face goes tight.

Slurring, he says, “…I’m so sorry.” He says, “I swear I didn’t know.” He hangs up and turns the phone off again.

Going back out, he takes another shot. Then another.

And Shawn’s going to a party next Friday.

And Kris has another date.

They’re gonna do some fishing. They ought to buy a boat. They all should start a business, a restaurant.

Always talking. As if Mike could hear them.

Mike looks at Kris, bites until his jaw knots and pops, and takes a drink. Right now, he hates him. This lottery winner of life. This prick who walks through rainstorms missing Every. Single. Drop.

Mike looks away, thinks of Kaycee. Reading baby books and telling friends the good news. Getting wet when she’s not even in the storm.

Watching her steps while she’s being stepped on.

Thing is, he knew something like this would happen. Since he was a kid, he could see God pissing all over his life. Whether it was a loss of faith or a faith in loss, the world was just so goddamn predictable.

Staring at the flames, his eyes half-open, Mike says, “I got AIDS,” but it’s under his breath, and they don’t hear him. Rain begins to click on the camper roof and hiss in the fire, sending up mouse-tails of smoke.

And they should all take a road trip. Maybe Vegas or Miami. Just get away for a while. Do a little scuba diving. A little gambling. A little jet skiing.

Mike cocks the vodka bottle over his head and shatters it in the fire, the flames sounding like a box being stomped. The momentum sends him face-first to the muddy ground. And he starts to vomit.

Kris and Shawn jump back, saying, “The fuck?” Saying, “You’re acting like a dick.”

Mike’s stomach pushes hard up under his ribcage. It’s loud and violent, and he can’t get his breath. His eyes bubbled in tears, it keeps coming up. On another day, it’d be the alcohol. But now, he knows what it is.

And this is everyday.

Forever.

He finishes. Coughs and spits. Shawn and Kris are standing over him, backlit by the fire into silhouettes. Trying to get up, he tips forward, his hand slipping through the vomit. It covers his fingers. His wedding ring.

The silhouettes reach down, trying to help Mike up, and with his forearm he shoves them back.

“No,” he says. “Get back, you stupid fucks.” He says, “Don’t touch it. You fucking stupid?” He gets to a knee, twists, and drops down on his ass and elbow.

Kris and Shawn, they look at each other, at Mike, writhing on the ground.

“Just don’t fucking touch it’s all!” Mike says, and his voice cracks. Starting to cry, he says, “You’re so fucking stupid! How could you be so stupid? How?” He lowers his head, puts his hand to his face, and screams, “How could you be so stupid?”

T.R. Healy - Rip City

2009-07-16T07:31:00.000-04:00

Here is an awesome short story by a T.R. Healy. I hope this doesn't happen to you or someone you know!

RIP CITY

Again, the telephone in the kitchen rang, and this time Rudge answered it in time. "Hello."
"Harvey?"
"Yes, speaking."
"Hello. This is Libby Mathabane. I don't know if you remember me or not but your sister introduced us at the Greek festival last spring."
"Oh, right," he lied.
"Anyway, what I called about is your pickup truck. I'm on my way to your cabin to claim it and I was wondering if you need my address to send me the title or is it inside the truck?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, lady," he said in bewilderment. "My truck isn't for sale."
"I know that. I understood you were giving it away."
"Come again?" he blurted.
"That's what you said in your ad."
"What ad?"
"The one in the Courier this morning."
"I didn't place any ad there."
"Well, someone did," she said as she looked again at the "Open House" ad in the paper that she had circled with a red pen. "It says you have been forced to sell your cabin and all your possessions there, including the pickup, are free for the taking."
"That's preposterous. I'm not selling my cabin."
"Well, that's what it says."
"I can't believe it."
"If I were you, I'd get out there as soon as you can before everything's gone."
He did not reply, he was so stunned by what he had just been told by the woman.
"And I'd call the sheriff's office too."
"Yeah, I'll do that."
"Whoever did this to you ought to go to jail."
For a long moment, after hanging up the phone, Rudge just stared out the window as if in a trance then he grabbed his keys from the breakfast counter and rushed out the door to his car. Usually it took him a good forty-five minutes to drive to his cabin but he hoped he could make much better time this morning. He had to, he realized, or else scarcely anything would be left when he got there.
"Damn it!" he screamed, racing past a slow moving panel truck. "Damn it ... damn it ... damn it!"
He just could not believe this was really happening to him, thought he was caught up in some weird dream until one of his back tires clipped a curb and he bit the tip of his tongue. His mouth suddenly felt on fire. He wished he could stop to get a drink of water but he didn't have the time and pressed his foot down on the accelerator pedal.
About half a mile from his cabin, heading in the opposite direction, was a grungy station wagon with a mattress strapped across the roof. Immediately he wondered if it belonged to him but knew there was no way of telling so he kept on driving. When he got to his place he saw several cars parked outside of it and a man and a woman coming out the front door, their arms stacked with dishes and lamps and silverware.
"You can't take those things!" he shouted as he stormed out of his car. "They're mine!"
The couple ignored him and continued on to their SUV.
"You're thieves!"
Quickly they put the items inside the trunk then turned and headed back to the cabin.
"This is my property and I want you to leave now!" he screamed, striding after them.
Another guy, breathing heavily, then staggered out the front door, cradling a coffee table in his bulging arms.
"What the hell do you think you"re doing?" he demanded.
The guy, puzzled, stared at him but did not say a word.
"This is my house. You can't come in here and take my things."
"The ad in the paper said I can," he snorted, staggering past the incredulous Rudge.
"It's not my ad," he snapped, grabbing one of the table legs. "Now put this back where you found it."
"The hell I will. The ad said whatever is here is free for whoever wants it and I want this table."
Rudge, seething, struggled to pull the table out of the guy's arms but it wouldn't budge despite how hard he pulled. Then, all of a sudden, the guy let go of it and spun around and clipped him across the side of the head with the back of his hand. He went down at once, groaning in pain, and the guy then picked up the table. He reached out for it again but the guy kicked away his hand.
"You want something you get it yourself, buddy. You don't take what I've got."

Dozens of people were still rummaging through the cabin, despite Rudge's frantic demands that they leave, when a deputy from the sheriff's office pulled up in his cruiser a little after nine o'clock. At once, Rudge introduced himself as the owner of the property, and though he didn't have his deed with him, he did have a photograph of himself standing in front of the cabin with two of his nephews last winter. He also told him he was the one who called his office for help. Deputy Bolton wasn't sure whether to believe him but decided not to allow anyone to remove anymore items from the cabin until someone with more authority could examine the deed. A few people protested his decision, showing the "Open House" ad to him, but all complied with it if somewhat reluctantly.
"So how do you figure something like this could have happened?" the deputy wondered as he wound a spool of security tape around the cabin.
"I've no idea. All I know is, I sure as hell didn't invite people to come here and take whatever they damn well please."
"You figure this was some kind of prank?"
"I just don't know."
"If it was, it was a mean one all right," he said, continuing to string the tape. "They clean you out pretty good?"
"I haven't had a chance to figure out what all was taken, but I suspect it's a fair amount," he said disconsolately. "I just can't believe no one would stop after I told them who I was and what they were doing was stealing."
Turning his head aside, the deputy spit out a stream of tobacco juice. "If folks think they can get something for nothing, they're going to take it even if they don't need it."
Rudge, devastated, stared blankly at an overturned lantern that the deputy had prevented some agitated woman from hauling away in her car.
"What you should do now, sir, is make as complete a list as you can of all the things that were taken from you. You never know, but we might be able to recover some of them. And you should also make a list of anyone you can think of who might be behind this."
"I can't believe anyone I know would've done this to me."
"Well, sir, you'd be surprised what so-called friends can do sometimes."

Though it took a while, Rudge was able to provide the sheriff's office with a fairly complete inventory of all the items taken from his cabin, but he had a hard time thinking of anyone who could have placed the "Open House" ad in the paper. Deputy Bolton was convinced that a hoax as malicious as this was done by someone Rudge knew in retaliation for something he did to the person.
"You cross some folks badly enough you're likely to be crossed yourself," the deputy told him just before he left the cabin.
Rudge was fifty-five years old so he had some strenuous relations with more than a few people in his life but he could not imagine he had offended any of them so gravely that they were willing to commit a crime to get back at him. As a result, when he gave Deputy Bolton the list of missing items, he did not include a list of possible suspects.
"You're sure you can't think of a single person who might have done this to you?"
"Not yet, but I'm still giving it some thought."
"Well, you keep thinking, sir, because I'm sure someone who knows you caused you all this grief."
He did come up with two possible suspects but he didn't mention them to the deputy because he thought he should speak with them before he got them involved in the investigation. One was an old flame, Charla Cummings, who became so furious when she discovered he was seeing someone else while he was living with her that she cut up half a dozen of his dress shirts and spread them across the hood of his car. Another possible suspect was a neighbor he had wrongly accused of stealing library books. He bought a couple of atlases from Crocker at a yard sale and noticed library stamps on them and notified the director of the local branch and, sure enough, the books were listed as missing. His neighbor, however, had proof that he purchased them from someone else so he apologized profusely for his mistake but Crocker never forgave him for accusing him of the crime.

The first one he telephoned was Charla, late one night after one too many beers. He had not spoken to her in a couple of months when she asked him to return the key to her apartment.
"Hello, kiddo. This is Harvey."
"What do you want?" she asked coolly.
"I called to see if you heard about what happened at my cabin over the weekend."
"Why do you think I'd be interested anymore in anything having to do with you, Harvey?"
Quickly he told her about the spurious newspaper ad and all the people who responded to it and took things from his place.
"So am I suppose to feel sorry for you? Is that why you called so you can have a shoulder to cry on?"
He took a deep breath. "No, not at all. I was just wondering if you might have left something in the cabin the last time you were there because, if you did, someone probably has it now."
"You must have me confused with some of your other lady friends because I was there only once, if you remember, and that was six or seven months ago."
"Oh."
"What you're really calling for is to find out if I'm the person who placed the ad," she said after a lengthy pause. "That's right, isn't it?"
"It did cross my mind."
"You bastard. You really think I'd risk going to jail to get back at you? If you do, you're wrong because I put you out of my thoughts a long time ago."
"I thought I should ask," he replied meekly.
"You did, did you? Well, as far as I'm concerned, you deserve every bad thing that happens to you. And, believe me, if I'd known about the ad, I would've been at your cabin taking everything I could get my hands on."

Rudge had intended to call Crocker right after he spoke with Charla, but his conversation with her was so withering he decided to put it off until the following evening. Then he put it off to later in the week because he wasn't in the mood to listen to someone else denounce him. Curiously, the longer he took to call Crocker, the more people he thought of who had enough of a grudge against him to place the "Open House" ad. He was surprised. Only a few days ago he could not think of one person who might have done it now he had come up with several candidates. The thought of calling each of them mortified him yet he knew he had to unless he chose to give the names to Deputy Bolton to call. Then, of course, they would detest him more than ever he knew.
Before he got around to calling someone other than Charla, however, he was notified by the deputy early one morning that the people who perpetrated the hoax had been arrested in a neighboring county. A man and a woman were caught trying to sell three stolen bicycles, one of which belonged to Rudge, over the internet.
"It turns out they've placed ads like this before to cover up their theft. Their name is Rockove. You know them?"
"Nope."
"Well, I sure was wrong. I really thought the ad was placed by someone you knew because of something you had done. Revenge is the usual motive in pranks of this kind."
He sighed, cradling the telephone against his left shoulder. "I don't know anyone by the name of Rockove."
The deputy chuckled nervously. "If it's any consolation to you, it's nice to know that you haven't crossed anyone enough to cause them to pull a stunt like this against you."
He did not reply, wondering if that was really the case. He had rankled a lot more people than he had ever imagined until Deputy Bolton asked him to compile a list of possible suspects. He may not have committed crimes against them but he certainly had hurt them. Probably each one could have placed the bogus ad, might even place another one some day.
The deputy, before hanging up, said he hoped Rudge would be able to recover some of his possessions but now Rudge didn't much care if he recovered anything. Maybe he deserved what happened to him, just as Charla claimed.

Nick Sansone - The Battle

2009-07-14T12:06:00.001-04:00

Today we have a great story about the life of a young rapper by Nick Sansone. Engine engine number nine, on the NY transit line...

THE BATTLE

By Nick Sansone

In high school I had a friend who wanted to be a rapper. We were seniors, both of us still reasonably unacquainted with failure and therefore capable of pursuing our fantasies with conviction. PlayStation being my lone passion at the time, I hoped to be a video game designer.

My friend was good at what he did. In our junior year he won second place in the battle of the bands contest put on each Fall by area schools. He finished behind a four-person punk ensemble whose vocalist sang through his nose, and who (badly) incorporated the harmonica into the act, really stretching the limits of the term “punk music” in a very offensive fashion, at least to me. The following year my friend placed first. He beat out several other gifted musicians and about a dozen more tone-deaf dilettantes. For his victory he received a two-hundred dollar gift certificate to a music supply chain, which he used to buy the cheapest wireless microphone they had in stock, and then he pocketed the difference, spending the rest, as best as I could tell, on weed.

Rightly he felt encouraged by his success. He applied to several music colleges, most of them up north, with the vague idea that he would go there under the auspices of training for the trade of, say, a sound engineer, and instead wow his classmates with his lyrical prowess and become somehow famous. I thought this was a bad plan, but I kept it to myself. I had learned over the course of our friendship to let his schemes play out to their natural conclusions. (Around this same time I sent in applications to several two-year tech schools that offered degrees in video game design.)

Towards the end of senior year my friend turned eighteen, now old enough to compete in a freestyle contest held each Wednesday night at a club downtown. He entered several weeks in a row. Each Thursday morning in class I could tell how he fared the previous night; he was lethargic and gloomy, and he kept his head planted on his desk for most of first and second period.

Up until that time he called himself D-Light. He had performed under that name in the battle of the bands, and he sketched out elaborate logos in a composition book during fifth period geometry, using the public-school-property protractors to draw intricate and flawless lines. He said he was deciding which one he wanted to be on the cover of his first CD.

However, after his consecutive defeats, my friend thought he should change his name. During his matches, he told me, his opponents used it against him, calling him things like “Sunny D-Light” and “D-Slight” and “D-Light-in-the-loafers” (a withering line, he said, that his opponent managed to rhyme with chauffeur). He needed a handle less open to ridicule.

“How about ‘orange’?” I suggested at lunch one day, probably thinking about a glass of Sunny Delight. “That word doesn’t rhyme with anything.”

“What?” my friend said. He looked betrayed, as though he felt I didn’t understand, or care about, the seriousness of his dilemma. “How exactly could I use that word in my name and not have it sound completely stupid?”

I knew little about rap—in fact I still know little about it; ska and punk was always more my scene—but I did understand the importance of a persona. (The lead singer of The Dead Kennedys would not be nearly as memorable if his stage name wasn’t “Jello Biafra.”) I apologized. Then, trying to be supportive, I said: “I always liked your old name. It suits you.”

“Makes me sound like a pussy.”

We were both silent for a while.

“Nothing rhymes with ‘silver,’ either,” I said eventually. “Or ‘nostril.’”

The next several weeks my friend skipped the club competition. He deliberated a succession of aliases—all of which were better than my suggestions—and he practiced in front of his mirror, trying out new lines with each new name, noting his favorites in the same composition book that bore the endless incarnations of his fantasized album covers. And at school, during lunch, out by the benches in the courtyard, he tried out those lines on other kids who liked to perform for the attention of girls. Many of these kids were the same ones my friend whipped at the battle of the bands the past two years.

Shortly thereafter my friend and I got responses back from the colleges to which we had applied. I was rejected from my top schools because of poor math scores (I had yet to learn that algebra figured heavily into video game design, or technical design of any sort for that matter). I was, however, accepted into one program in digital arts that was run out of a local theme park, and the admissions adviser promised that my low scores would not be a huge hurdle because they taught remedial courses and provided tutorials to help me catch up. “Just make sure your tuition is paid,” the adviser had advised. My friend, he was more successful, but equally dissatisfied. He was offered a seventy-five percent scholarship to a university in the state capital, but was unanimously rejected from his top choices as well. I tried to console him. “It’s cold in the north east, anyways,” I said.

It was then that he told me he intended to go to New York. He assured me that that was where all the industry bigwigs were. Maybe he would try out for MTV or something. Normally I would have ignored his plans and waited for reality to sink in, but I found this to be a dangerously boneheaded move. “Does your mom know? Because I bet she’d smack you if she heard you were turning down free money.”

“I’m an adult,” he said. “Besides, I got a savings. I need to be where I can get exposure.”

The next time my friend entered the nightclub’s freestyle competition I had also turned eighteen. It was just after graduation; we were both preparing for after summer, me for the little technical school located at the theme park, and my friend for New York, where he had a cousin who would let him stay at his place until he got settled. In order to be encouraging, and with the half-formed idea I could talk him out of going up north, I accompanied him to the club. I could see he was nervous. He gestured wildly as he drove, and his voice quavered, his words piling up in miniature collisions as he spoke. Though, even had I been less deductive, I would have caught on to his nerves by the time he dry-heaved in an alley a block from the club.

“Every time I do that,” he said.

“You should stop.”

The bouncer stamped our hands with a big X so that the bartender would know not to serve us alcohol. He collected my ten-dollar cover charge (my friend got in for free since he was in the competition), and we went inside, walking towards the dazzling array of strobe and laser lights. The bass from the massive speakers compressed my chest and obliterated all other sounds. Women in skimpy outfits gyrated with each other on raised platforms. My friend went backstage, and I staked out a spot in a booth with a good view, of the stage not the platforms.

That night I smoked heavily from a pack of six-dollar cigarettes I purchased at the bar. I was excited to be old enough to do it in public without the fear of the police showing up and messing with me. My friend was in the third pair of first round competition, going against a man probably twice his age, a gigantic Puerto Rican who called himself Big Z; “like snooze, right?” my friend asked when the emcee pointed the microphone at him. The crowd oohed, Big Z scoffed, and the tightness in my stomach relented for the moment.

My friend went first, and, while I thought he performed masterfully, delivering several cutting shots about his opponent’s weight and speculated incapacity to view or reach his penis, Big Z, when it was his turn, mowed down my friend in a merciless assault of rhymed insults. I winced. The emcee solicited the audience for applause to determine the winner. It was not even close. I could hear my own voice above the polite applause from the others in the audience, and the lack of support soon cowed me into silence.

“You kicked ass tonight,” I said when he joined me in the booth after twenty or so minutes. I gave him a cigarette. “Fuck what these idiots think.” I swept my hand towards the people in the club.

“Thanks,” he said. His voice sounded small and broken. It was then I attributed his delay to crying. On stage the emcee was reintroducing the first-round winners before commencing with the second part of the competition. “I got stomped.”

“You have all summer to—” I said, then hesitated, unsure how to complete the thought.

“Not all summer,” he said. “I leave for New York in a couple of weeks.”

“You still plan on going?”

My friend was quiet.

We left the club before the final round, though Big Z made it in the top two, and I pointed this out to my friend in a misguided effort to cheer him up—no shame in being beaten by the best, or some such platitude.

“There’s always shame in being beaten,” he said.

We hung out together a few more times over the next couple of weeks, played some gratuitously violent video games and smoked weed. After that I didn’t hear from him, and I didn’t bother to call. I assumed he was in New York.

In August I started the two-year technical school and stayed enrolled just long enough that I was unable to get a refund when I dropped out, having discovered that design was all math, and way over my head. The following semester I matriculated to the local community college to see if I could find a career more suited to my skills, whatever those were.

A few months into my first semester at the community college I got a letter from my friend—an actual, physical one—and enclosed inside was a flier for his first show. He had scored an (unpaid) gig at some small venue as an opening act with a couple of people he had formed a group with. The return address was to his campus mailbox at the state university.

Matthew Amos - Shelter

2009-07-12T07:50:00.000-04:00

Today we have a poem from a first time contributor to any literary magazine, Matthew Amos, about someone who is not at their best.

Shelter

Chris had asked her if he “should stay over”

She told him it upset her that he asked if he “should”

like he was obligated to

She was trying to lie as still as possible

every movement of her body she could feel herself shifting

between her legs

it made her shudder uncontrollably

she wanted

to vomit out her organs

to heave and heave

until all of her insides came out

She felt tainted,

inside and out,

like a glass of water invaded by a few drops of black dye

the darkness twisting and spreading throughout her

its long fingers stretching to tickle her in a torturous sensuality

She sat up straight

kicked off her covers then curled her head into her knees

and wrapped her arms around her legs

She wanted to do something

anything but lie there in her bed, helpless

Sarah thought about turning on the tv, but didn’t

She grabbed her jeans out of their crumpled heap on the foot of her bed

covering her legs sheltered them for a second

Lisa Grigouli - Stuff by Lisa

2009-07-10T07:42:00.001-04:00

Today we have a picture from one of lo-fidelity's oldest friends Lisa Grigouli! My favorite is number 18.

Brant Goble - Black Friday on Long Island: A Comedy

2009-07-08T07:32:00.001-04:00

This story doesn't need an introduction: just know that Brant Goble writes an excellent poem about how things are.

Black Friday on Long Island: A Comedy
by Brant Goble

Scene 1:
This is the music—
the green hum
(Cue lights, flickering on)
chorus of mumblings and broken speech
(Awaken the zombies with the hollow eyes)
rattling locks—shake and bang
(Roust a couple watchmen, armed with clipboards and halitosis—
God knows we can't afford any better)

(Throw back the bolts)

Let a few in first
(the lithe ones, with slit-snake eyes
who can slide past the titans with their slack jaws)
but not fast enough

Scene 2:
Show the frenzy and the flying fists
(Call all the extras—envision raging breadlines or Eisenstein's battles)

Rumble floor, rumble
as the crowd breathes in—
(a giant thing, heavy and weighted with cold and sleep)

—and out

All bodies, now pressing, pressing
(bones and clothes and marrow turned liquid)

Man falls, tumbles, thrashed, and trampled
(commanding a scream to curdle milk or pierce a heart through
were any available)

Warp the metal, break the frames, tear the hinges off
(The doors become accordion)

All leap for the heavens as they burst through
towards a sea of shiny things and happy, happy noise machines
ecstatic, orgiastic, at the thought of ephemeral pleasures
and even more shit to become obsolescent
unmindful
of the carpet of meat that once had dreams (and hope)
and the babe-not-yet-in-arms
(as blind and blank as its vessel)
beneath their feet

Scene 3:
Send in stooges with polished badges—
rendered impotent and red-faced
(even they've been discounted here)—
unable to disburse the savage masses
but promising to watch the replay

“There will be justice for this—we'll have every foot that tread through here”
(but be damned if we look any higher)

(Lower curtain)

Today men will die over childish things
(men who live amongst angels and sunshine)

And boys will smile (with glassy eyes) while they empty
clips (for a few hours longer) into flesh
in the name of their God
in a city that can't keep the Bombers at bay

This comedy's too dark for my tastes
with the players all method, all feeling too much
to be self-conscious or ironic
and the aisles aren't laughing

Who authored this farce
with its tired puns and low blows
this opera for beggars and billionaires
with greed and air and vitriol
between their ears?

What is this thing?

This is the season of the Son of Man
and all the world's adorned with plastic crucifixes

Jennifer Ethington - Ode to a Young Man in a Button-Down Shirt

2009-07-06T07:22:00.000-04:00

Today we have a poem by Jennifer Ethington. It's a very cool reversal of traditional gender roles. Speaking of which, if anyone is going to the bakery could they pick me up some real gender rolls? The ones with cinnamon sugar please.

Ode to a Young Man in a Button-down Shirt

You make me want to do things that are stupid

Irresponsible

Driven by primal things

Subconscious things

That dirty bastard thing called “urge.”

I want to grind on you in uncatholic ways

Make you realize just how expert you are not

I want to hurt you

And not care if you enjoy it

I want to hear a knock on my door

And know

Just know

It’s you on the other side.

But you’d be stupid

And naïve

To think you’d walk away easily

You are blissfully unaware of the knot

You are hurtling toward

Thinking you can save me

From what? Myself?

Other men?

You mistake love and lust

One for another.

You’ll get caught up, little boy

You think you can just amble in,

Amble out,

No problem.

But one foot at a time

You’ll get stuck

Until you’re ensnared and can’t move.

Or maybe you’re stupid enough to think

I am the one who couldn’t walk away.

Perish it.

You fail to notice that I’ve been in control

All along.

I’ve played in ball games bigger and harder than this one

And I’ve conquered the field, Babe Ruth-style.

See, I play to win,

But,

Unlike you,

I don’t need the game.

Ray Succre - One Five A.M. More

2009-07-04T11:49:00.001-04:00

Happy Brithday America! Being a social studies teacher in my spare time, I really love all the history that goes down on the 4th. Even though I know a lot of things are historically inaccurate, it's nice to think about how far we've come as a country. So, to honor this wonderful event, here is a beautiful poem from Ray Succre is a beautiful. Why is it that really good and descriptive poems make me want to smack my lips together in joy?

One Five A.M. More

Above the gray-moor pave and par-decent folk,

across finicky airs, both the natural and the man-made,

and in hardnesses beneath crisp motions,

near dead pansies from a truck-bed drop,

persistent blood and ostensible living.

Most eat tension, pissing better, paychecking as by zip-line,

to fidget up routine's hem before elasticity sets on,

and have the days rude hard, a happening of sensual activity,

and ruddy deep.

If the waist opens to expel its foal, this life is by its own banks

accusatory, obsessive, expulsions and inhalations

in the core like a love.

I know this nature has a fuck to it, a sensibility you can taste,

and I, too, breathe on the grey-moor pave,

as the grit crawls up my thighs and the whumps land down,

warmly taking me for senseless

Dzanc Books Writing Seminars

2009-07-04T08:14:00.002-04:00

So, Dzanc Books is putting together an online seminar to help writers write their books and get good feedback for their works. It's incredibly flexible and inexpensive and a good way to get your work looked at, even if you're at school to learn to write anyway. Published authors and editors will read your work and e-mail you an evaluation. Additionally the money they make goes to helping little kids learn how to write.

So check it out at http://www.dzancbooks.org/creative.html, and while you're there look at some of the great books that they put out!

Becky Hunt - You Eat a Live Pig and other love songs

2009-07-03T11:48:00.001-04:00

Today we have a pretty funny collection of lyrics to popular songs by Becky Hunt. I think my favorite is the Proud Mary one because it reminds me of high school.

You live like a pig, and other love songs.

Coolio: Gangsta’s paradise.

And maybe we are living in a gangsta’s paradise, that’s if gangsta’s love to live in filth, with dirty socks and underwear strewn across the floor, mixed up with the weekend papers, beer cans and ashtrays. Let’s be honest, this is a gangsta’s embarrassment – it’s disgusting. No, I don’t think I’m overreacting. Well, you better watch how you talking, and where you where you walking, or you and your homies might be lined in chalk!

All I’m saying is tidy up. Another thing I’m saying is that gangsta’s know how to sort out recycling, so don’t throw those beer cans in with the normal rubbish.

Millie Smalls: My Boy Lollipop

My boy Lollipop, you make my heart go giddy up. And when I say heart I mean mouth. And when I say giddy up I mean the fridge is empty. So why don’t you lollipop your shoes on and go to supermarket and buy some food. I honestly don’t see why food shopping is my sole responsibility. We both have jobs and earn salaries, so we should both buy food. It’s perfectly reasonable to expect we share the financial burden of being sugar dandies.

The Teddy Bears: To know him is to love him.

To know know know him is to find him grossly negligent of basic hygiene. It’s also to be sick sick sick of him. I’m talking directly to you through the bathroom wall. You’ve probably already guessed that I’ve just found out you forgot to flush the toilet, and it revolts me. What’s wrong with you? I’ve seen TV shows where cats can flush the toilet, and you’re a grown man with hands. Look, I’m not interested in talking about it; I just want you to deal with it. And I do, and I do, and I do.

Ike and Tina Turner: Proud Mary

Big wheel keep on turning, violent anger keep on burning. Why am I so angry? Because I’ve discovered that you spilt red wine over my laptop and now the laptop is dead. Didn’t you think I’d notice? That I was going to sit there with red wine pouring out through the keyboard and not notice? How am I going to work for the man every night and day now? Yes, I am serious - until you replace this laptop it’s going to be you who’ll be worrying ‘bout the way things might have been. What? You can’t afford to replace my laptop? Then it looks like, as usual, we’re not going to do things nice and easy, because when it comes to respecting other people’s possessions we never do things nice and easy.

Frank Sinatra: My Way

I did it my way, as in the normal way, as in I washed the dishes. Your way, leaving the dishes to crust together in a heaped pile in the sink, is a shit way. It makes me want to roll myself up in a big ball and die. No, I don’t care if that lyric is from That’s Life, it’s all Frank Sinatra. You’re missing the point completely. Listen, if you don’t stop I’ll show you exactly where my vagabond shoe is longing to stray.

Womack and Womack: Teardrops

Okay, we need to talk. Whispers in the powder room have informed me of the state of the kitchen. The stench of something rotting reminds me baby of you. Overflowing bins, next time we’ll be through. We’ll be through, we’ll be through, (take the bins out), we’ll be through, yeah.

OMG!

2009-06-27T19:59:00.002-04:00

Oh wow! McSweeny's is offering three columnist jobs! Your writing could appear on the famous front page! Check out the rules! Who knows, you could be the next writer of a column about growing a mustache!

The Singing Butler - Chris Hubbard

2009-06-27T18:35:00.003-04:00

Today we have a nice refreshing piece of prose from Christopher Hubbard, a very dear friend of lo-fi's. Enjoy reading this lovely work titled the Singing Butler and let the descriptions wash over you like the rain that's falling outside (at least in NJ)

THE SINGING BUTLER

A waltz under dark skies, on slick, shiny tan earth. Lovers roam the grounds whilst servant borne umbrellas stave off rain drops from the black, rolling, sheets above. Shadows paint short lines in the ground, proof of a sun, piercing through the afternoon gloom. All stand in black or white but one; a rose in a bland garden of activity, she swirls in bloom around her partner, completely relaxed and free. In contrast to the standard bearers around her, in a silent tango, in the vast, damp wasteland

Don't Smile

2009-06-19T18:05:00.003-04:00

So normally we don't put up videos, but check out this experimental film Lo-Fidelity's friend Ricky Lorenzo and a group of unspecified ruffians. Post what you think it means below!

It's also at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zYDnrmDUP50 if you can't work hyperlinks.

Bike ride inspiration, also links!

2009-06-17T14:41:00.003-04:00

So after a relatively eventful bike ride to the library to drop off a book I read on Zen through the eyes of a hardcore musician I decided I would post a news post. The book, by the way, is very concise and well explained introduction to Zen Buddhism. It's official title is Sit Down and Shut Up but both of the books by Brad Warner are about Zen Buddhism and hardcore (punk rawk). Check it out.

First of all Glen is going to Minnesota, wish him luck and bug him about not writing anything lately. Also, there are a bunch of new stories up at 50 to 1, a collection of 50 word stories and 1st lines of stories. Broadset has posted an interview of Maryann McFadden (an author of two books). Keep updated on that blog too, I hear that they're going to interview Ben Greenman soon. And if you don't know who Ben Greenman is, click his name and look at his stuff and laugh your ass off. In a good way.

There I think I gave you enough to keep you occupied at work for a minute or two.

Quick poll (answer in the comments) Would you subscribe to a lo-fidelity twitter account?

Gingerbread Lady - Michael Lee Johnson

2009-06-17T14:33:00.003-04:00

Today we have a poem from Mr. Michael Lee Johnson, a very accomplished poet published all over the world and writer of really excellent poems. Check out this musing on getting old, it's a good read!

Gingerbread Lady

By Michael Lee Johnson

Gingerbread lady,

no sugar or cinnamon spice,

years ago arthritis and senility took their toll.

Crippled mind movies in then out, like an old sexual adventure,

blurred in an imagination of finger tip thoughts−

who in hell remembers the characters?

There was George her lover near the bridge at the Chicago River

she missed his funeral, her friends were there.

She always made feather light of people dwelling on death.

But black and white she remembers well.

The past is the present; the present is forgotten,

who remembers?

Gingerbread lady.

Sometimes lazy time tea with a twist of lime.

Sometimes drunken time screwdriver twist with clarity.

She walks in scandals sometimes she walks in soft night shoes.

Her live-in maid smirks as Gingerbread lady gums her food,

false teeth forgotten in a custom imprinted cup

with water, vinegar, and ginger.

The maid died. Gingerbread lady looks for a new maid.

Years ago arthritis and senility took their toll.

Yesterday, a new maid walked into the nursing home.

Ginger forgot to rise out of bed,

no sugar, or cinnamon toast.

Road Trippin'

2009-06-15T10:46:00.002-04:00

Well, I just got back from a road trip to New England (including visiting Jack Kerouac's gravesite and hometown) and am ready to start posting some of the awesome submissions that we've received in the last few months. Don't forget that we still need more artworks if at all possible.

Also, the plans for Lo-Fi 4 are in the works with the Broad Set Collective doing a collaboration and featuring a writer! Be sure to stay posted on what we're doing.

Today we have a poem from Howie Good called Autumn Sonata. I'm really diggin on the flow and images. Very cool stuff Howie!

AUTUMN SONATA

When the tree, in high dudgeon, suddenly

pushes through the polished wood floor,

and the congregation of small scared birds

disbands in confusion,

when the deaf despise the hearing,

and the night janitor at the Museum of Mad Ideas

wipes with special care

the shatterproof glass under which

Hitler’s voice rages,

time’s up,

and I shed my coat on the ground

and lie down beside her,

believing,

as we curl gratefully into each other,

what is real is whatever is

faded, or broken, or falling.

News fit to blog

2009-06-05T10:15:00.002-04:00

Glen has yet another story published! This time in the excellent blog for every year where they write a story honoring every year since 1400 (the death of Chaucer if you're interested). Glen's story is about male postpartum depression. But you have to read it to find out!

Also, if you've contributed to lo-fidelity and have one of your other works published elsewhere, feel free to tell us about it, we'd love to tell everyone!

50 to 1 is back!

2009-06-04T13:10:00.002-04:00

So, with the summer comes both Glen and I getting off our butts and doing something that we really want to do. The result? Two things to submit your awesome work to and another blog to look at every week (at the least).

50 to 1 has restarted! If you don't know about it, here's some information from the about page:

an ezine that posts only 50 word stories and first line inspirational sentences that are meant to get the reader hooked into the rest of the story. By limiting our readership to these conventions we hope to liberate them from the terror of writing a short story or a novel and get more stories out into the collective unconsciousness and share the experiences that make us human.

If you have something to say in 50 words or in 1 sentence, please submit it! Also, don't forget to bookmark the site so that you can see the other cool stories that are up there.

Charles Haddox - Rega's Bone

2009-05-28T18:12:00.003-04:00

Another short story treat for you, today we have Rega's Bone by Charles Haddox. Enjoy this cool story within a story about revenge, Mexico style.

Rega’s Bone
Charles Haddox

When he was little, Javier Echeverria claimed to have a disease that made it impossible for him to hold it, so he would take it out and urinate whenever he had the urge. In the street, on someone’s porch, in the middle of a park, it happened everywhere. He may have been making up the disease part, but he stuck by his act. We thought it was hilarious when adults caught him peeing on their steps or their walls or their bushes—and went nuts. The little waterboy. He even got a nickname out of it: Regasón. Eventually, he got cured somehow, or decided to give the whole thing up on his own, supposing that it was all just an act. Either way, the name stuck. Even when he was in his forties we still called him Rega.

Rega’s grandfather had been a cacique in a little village just north of Jalpa, you know, down in México. Rich, cruel, and wily—according to what Regasón told us—he came to own several plantations spread over a wide area that had once been cattle country. His laborers were treated little better than slaves, and when the revolution of 1910 broke out they had their revenge. His house and crops were burned, and he and his family were forced to flee. He eventually ended up in the United States, where he ran a dry goods store that failed shortly before he died. After the grandfather’s death, Rega’s father found work in a cotton ginning plant as a laborer, and sold off the remaining merchandise from the store to a couple of Lebanese brothers who were just getting started in the mercantile trade. Rega’s father, Don Ulises, the humble laborer, was a fanatical admirer of Franco and Salazar, and supported sinarquismo in México with small but regular contributions. There were rumors that he had been questioned by the FBI during the war on suspicion of being a German sympathizer. His resentment of the Mexican revolution and the effect it had had on the family’s fortunes ran deep. He never made much money, and Rega was forced to leave school at the age of fifteen. He went to work for the railroad.

I really didn’t see Rega much when he was still working, but word got around that he made good money as a cop for Southern Pacific during those years. He had an accident, and went on disability, but by that time he owned his own house and had four sons. When he started coming around again he was a fat, balding little man—no taller than five-foot-three—roughly my age, that is, in his mid-forties. He was dark as any Indian, but would claim to be pure Vasco. He certainly had the oversized square head which I had come to associate with Vascos, and his grandmother’s maiden name was Ugarte. Of course, many people are ashamed to admit that they are even part Indian, so the truth of his blood was known only to him.

He’d come around the old neighborhood mostly to see Coques, who’d been his best friend when we were kids. Sometimes he would go and see Florencio as well. He was Coques’ older brother. Florencio had married when he was just sixteen. By the time Rega, Coques and I were in our mid-forties, Florencio—we called him Flor—was a full-fledged wino. He used to hang out with some other winos, sitting in the shade of a wall across from the Quality Food Mart, yelling, “Hey Leandro,” at every guy who walked past. All of the winos thought it was funny that Flor called the guys Leandro. He had delicate features and small hands, and his skin was like a baby’s even after years of hard drinking and roaming around in the sun. And then with that girly name—well, I was always expecting that when he finally drank himself to death, or got hit by a bus, we would all be in for a surprise. You know, like the surprise at the end of Grande Sertão: Veredas, which I have to admit I read in Spanish because I don’t know Portuguese, and the Spanish translation is supposed to be the best. Some people just start dressing up their girl and treating her like a boy for kicks, or vice-versa, and it sticks. Maybe they have their reasons.

Our neighborhood—the one that Rega had grown up in, and the one that he had left for a new house on the far Eastside that was poorly built but very affordable—was still my home, and the home of a lot of the guys that we grew up with, Rega and I. That neighborhood, rows of red brick bungalows shaded by Chinese elms that nobody bothered to water or trim, neglected lawns overgrown with feral vines and stubborn weeds, existed on the edge of a faded downtown that the city had outgrown. It was slowly being encroached upon by the spillover of disreputable commercial enterprises. There were plenty of offices without any outward sign of what was going on inside of them, and shady warehouses used to store merchandise of less than legitimate provenance. Ours was the neighborhood that you went to if you needed fake immigration papers or cigarettes without tax stamps. There were also some parasitic social service agencies, always flush with money, but they didn’t actually provide services to anyone but their own staff. Everybody had a con, it seemed to me.

Anyway, Rega would come around, and I’d see him standing out there with Coques, talking to Flor, who would be sitting in his wino spot with his hands shading his eyes, like an effeminate monkey, looking at them, his quart tucked between his legs, and every once in a while yelling, “Hey Leandro,” at some guy walking by. I’d wander over to visit with them, taking a break from my writing, and listen to Rega tell us about his family history or his neighbors on the Eastside or the things he saw when he was working for the railroad. Rega had all kinds of stories about his family, especially his grandfather. He had been Someone, that grandfather, a kind of legendary monster in his salad days—the brother of Pedro Páramo, if you know what I mean. Nothing like my grandfather, a Welsh immigrant who settled in Pachuca and built a cottage and worked for the coal mines. That Regasón, he came from people who could wrestle with the devil!

On one occasion he was showing Coques and Flor something. He had taken it out of his pocket just before I joined them, and at first I thought it was a knife. When he let me have a closer look at it I saw that it was a little flute or whistle made out of a hollow piece of bone. It was yellow and looked just like a segment of turkey leg bone. I was turning it over in my hands, feeling its clean smoothness and the little reed and finger holes that had been carefully carved into it, when Rega said to me with an air of importance, “It was made from a human bone.”

“Ay, ay,” Coques said dismissively.

“Hey, I’m not making this up.”

Flor raised the quart of malt liquor he had been drinking out of a paper bag and saluted a young man who was passing by. “Hey Leandro,” he yelled.

“¡Cálmate, mamón!” Coques said to him.

It was hot standing out there, even in the shade of the wall. It belonged to a warehouse that was being used to store counterfeit Sesame Street toys that some Korean guys were selling wholesale. They left the winos alone, so as not to draw attention to their operation.

I handed the bone flute back to Rega. He put it in his pocket.

One of the winos was opening a new quart. He held it out to me. “Bautizalo,” he mumbled, wheezing. I took a swig and handed it back to him.

“Okay,” I said to Rega. “¿Qué ’s el cuento?”

Rega was ready. A born storyteller, that one.

“My father, you know, he was born when my grandfather was already in his fifties, so he only heard about what happened. He didn’t actually witness it himself. My grandfather had come way down in the world, so he used to love telling about the days when he was so important that he could be a total bastard and nobody could say anything.

“They’re calling him to breakfast, even though the sun is barely peeking over the soft, scrubby hills. He just got back from being out all night drinking with friends. He walks toward the door of the house, past the dusty cypress and two planets of foliage—the sapodillas—wondering what they have prepared for him. He used to eat fragrant strawberries when he was a student, learning arithmetic and reading in Guadalajara, but now it’s beef liver and tortillas and rice. Maybe he could get the cook to grow some melons, or someone could bring him peaches. He has his golden key out (carrying it makes him look like St. Peter), but no, the door is open, the heavy wooden door of this sturdy brick house in the campo, with the huge veranda, just outside what could be called the proper precincts of the village.

“He nods to the young man guarding the door with a rifle and breezes into the warm, stale air of the sala, and on to the dining room where four places are set. His wife is seated at one of them: a soft, exotic beauty— my grandmother—looking more Moorish than Vasco, with dark skin and black eyes. He takes off his gray felt hat, which matches his gray suit nicely, and leans over to embrace her, a chaste embrace. She is younger than he is, though he is by no means old. His thick mustache is still black, his hair is full, and though he is portly he gives an impression of strength. As he seats himself an old woman, one of their most trusted servants, pours his coffee from a pewter service. No sugar, no cream. If he wasn’t so tired he might ask for a little whiskey. In a small basket full of ripe zapotes that sits on the table is a single pear—rare, fleshy, firm, blushing like a fig; he takes it, cuts it in half with a knife and hands a piece of it to his wife. She takes a small dish and places it carefully in the middle. The servant takes the other half and places it on a plate for him. He cuts away the core, like a surgeon, and divides it into several parts that he proceeds to eat with a fork.

“Little son-of-a-bitch, he’s sitting there eating his pear, with his beautiful young wife, when two of his men bring in an old man, worn black by years of laboring in the fields. He is hatless, with a thick mat of white hair, and his gnarled hands are tied with a tough rope. The old man’s clothes are soiled, and there is a deep gash across his forehead.

“He doesn’t speak until he finishes his pear. Then he looks straight at the old man, and asks him, ‘Are you the father of Cipriano Ortiz?’

“The old man just stands there, saying nothing.”

“Hey Leandro,” Flor yelled at a kid with a shaved head.

The kid raised his arms, and yelled, “¿Qué, puto?” back at him.

“Pinche Leandro,” Flor mumbled to himself.

Rega looked annoyed at the interruption. After a moment, he took up the story where he had left it.

“He looks at his men. One of them nods.

“‘You know what to do,’ he says as he reaches for his coffee.

“After they finish him, they bury him in a pit of cal. That way only the bones will be left.

“Almost a year later, and he’s sitting on the veranda of his house, in a nice wooden rocker painted sky blue, smoking a fat cigar and watching the crows gather in the sapodillas. Wiping his fat, sweaty face with an embroidered handkerchief, he wonders when the rains will return. Drought lies over the land, and the streams and waterholes have dried up all the way to Guadalupe Victoria. He hears the sound of horses. There are twenty armed men watching the place, especially the clay hills to the north where volcanic bombs lie strewn about. He’ll have to hire at least thirty more soon. The number of bandits is growing; he doesn’t know how many of his own workers have joined them—defections are increasing every day. The sun is high in the sky, but the roof of the veranda throws enough of a shadow to cover the brick wall that the chair is leaning against. It’s early afternoon, and he’s just had a chicken smothered in gravy, and white rice and frijoles en olla, and he’s letting it all sit for a bit before going back to work. He’s chewing some Black Jack in addition to the cigar. Somewhere, inside of him, the son-of-a-bitch is vaguely aware that he’s developing a toothache in one of his molars. He’s too fond of sweets, and loves a cup of chocolate, no wonder he’s getting fat. What’s he to do? He has to live. And that thick gravy, who can get enough of that?

“He sees two horses ridden by soldiers in uniform. One of them is leading a mule with a tether. A young man, dressed in white cotton trousers and a collarless red shirt, in chains, his head bowed, is mounted on the mule. They are riding toward the house. He smiles.

“As they rein up in front of the veranda, in a cloud of yellow dust, the soldier with a captain’s insignia hails him. Both soldiers dismount, and the corporal helps the young man in chains down from the mule. He shuffles his bare feet as the soldiers pull him by his arms toward the man sitting in a rocking chair. The young man stands there, in front of the delicately carved posts of the wooden veranda, his bare head bowed. He looks like a starved bird.

“The son-of-a-bitch stands up to face the young man—who is still being held under his arms by the soldiers standing on either side of him—and gestures with his cigar.

“‘You look like hell, Cipriano Ortiz. If I were you, I’d at least get someone to cut my hair and give me a shave. When was the last time you washed your face? You must be tired of eating snakes and lizards. What’s wrong? Your men couldn’t drive off a steer from one of the ranches? You weren’t expecting us to be ready for you, but we’ve known what you were up to ever since you shot Don Felipe. We knew you’d come to ground eventually. There’s no water in the north, until you get to the barrancas. There are old Indian settlements, but I don’t know how they survive. I guess that they’re a lot smarter than you are. But you already know that. All that matters is that now you’re waiting for the firing squad. I asked them to bring you up here today because I wanted to see for myself the man who was making all the trouble. Can I offer you a cigarette?’

“Without taking his eyes off Cipriano, he takes a cigarette case out of his coat pocket. He’s still wearing the gray suit. The case is gold-colored and inlaid with mother-of-pearl, something his wife picked up for him in Zacatecas. He extracts a fragrant American cigarette and puts it in Cipriano’s mouth. Cipriano spits it out.

“‘Well, I see you don’t want to smoke. Suit yourself. Let me at least offer you all something to drink. And then you can water the animals over there.’ He gestures toward the corrals, and crushes the cigar out on the slatted wooden floor of the veranda with his boot.

“Then, before turning toward the door to call the maid, he adds, ‘Hey, Cipriano, I met your father a while back. He said you played the chirimía. I thought that you might be needing one to play while you wait for your date with the angels—or maybe it’s the Other Guy you’ll be meeting soon. I hope you like it, the chirimía, I mean. I had it made especially for you. Your father may be hobbling around in hell because of it, but I’m sure he doesn’t mind. After all, it was he who raised such a clever boy.’”

A guy was sitting in a black Trans-Am in the parking lot of the Quality Food Mart playing the radio. Chico Che’s “Tons Que Mami,” blaring through the neighborhood. Hah! Just the other day Josie was complaining that nobody listens to that kind of music anymore. She was saying that everybody just wants Norteñas, which she derisively calls “that tuba music.” Flor had fallen asleep, and was lying on the pavement with his arms outspread and his mouth wide open, snoring loudly. His four wino companions, sitting in a line against the wall like prisoners, were almost there as well.

“No, Rega,” I said to him, shaking my head, already turning back toward my house. “I just can’t believe it. It’s just too much. Like that disease you supposedly had when you were a kid. No, man. I don’t buy it. Take your flute and your story with you back to the Eastside. It’s just too weird.”

Rega put his hand on my shoulder.

“Think about it, bro. Cipriano is sitting in some little jail, watched over by the soldiers. I think he’s playing the chirimía that my grandfather gave him. He’s playing his father’s favorite song, the one that welcomes San Sebastian’s festival. On the day he is finally brought before the firing squad, he tells the captain to take the flute back to the son-of-a-bitch since he won’t be needing it anymore. My grandfather keeps it, so he can brag about what he did to Cipriano and his father. But Cipriano, he doesn’t care. He plays that little flute in spite of what my grandfather has done. He knows he’ll have the last laugh. My grandfather, his house is burned to the ground by Cipriano’s men. He flees México, and never sees his village again.”

Flor, crucified on the pavement, stuck out his tongue and moaned. He seemed to wake for a moment and looked around confusedly. I was still skeptical, but shook Rega’s hand in a friendly way. I nodded to Coques, with an ironic expression on my face, but before I was able to take my leave, Flor managed to say something.

“Hey Leandro,” he whispered in a voice of infinite weariness, before sinking back into blackness.

Connie Platt - Grandpa and the Rice Cakes

2009-05-27T20:11:00.002-04:00

Our first short story for coming back off of hiatus is an interesting one from Connie Platt. If this is the future, I sure hope I don't have to live in it.

Grandpa and the Rice Cakes

“Grandpa, can you remember when you could go to a store and buy a hamburger and French fries? I read in my history book that there was a special place where you could go and get some to take home or eat there.”

The old man rubbed his thinning hair and shook his head. “No Ryan I’m not as old as I look. That was before my time, but they weren’t called stores they were fast food restaurants. I do remember in my youth hamburger spots. You could go and knock on the door, usually in a dark basement, and if you knew someone they would let you in. There was a little porthole like door and you would say “Joe sent me”. There were video games and music and always lots of pretty girls. Yeah it was a good time. The French fries were golden brown and crisp, the girls beautiful and friendly.” The old man reminisced.

“Have you read about speakeasies where people went to drink liquor? They were sort of like
that.”

“You mean people bootlegged hamburgers and French fries? Wasn’t that against the law?”

“Yes of course it was against the law but outlawing hamburgers made people outlaws. That used to be the main teenage diet. Not like the tasteless stuff the kids eat today.”

“What did they taste like? What were they made out of?”

“Mainly it was real Angus beef, ground up but they must have put something else in them to make them taste so good. The potatoes were cut real thin and fried in deep fat. I can close my eyes and----.” the old man stopped mid sentence watching Ryan. The boy was almost salivating thing about food.

“Did you ever go to one of those underground places?”

“Oh no, like you say that would have been illegal. But I did have friends that told me about them. Now days you can’t even make them at home. All sorts of terrible things might happen if you were to eat an old fashioned hamburger. They weren’t made out of ham you know.” He looked at Ryan to gauge his reaction. “Come on let’s go in the kitchen ad get one of those rice cakes your mother brought home.”

“Naw, I’m not hungry right now. I’m going out for a while.” Ryan closed his book and made for the door.

As soon as he got to the street he heard someone call his name.

“Hey Ryan, come over here and see what I got.” Butch was one of the toughest kids in school. He seemed to always be in trouble. Right now he was leaning on the trunk of his car. Slowly Ryan walked over.

“Yeah? Whatcha got? Ryan asked.

“Look here! I scored some of the good stuff. You want in?” He pointed to the open trunk

Spread out on waxed paper was cheeseburgers, bacon burgers, double burgers, French fries all with an appetizing aroma wafting right to Ryan’s nose.

‘Where’d you get all this man?” Ryan asked his eyes tearing up at the thought of eating his choice of the glorious food.

“Don’t worry about where I got it. You want some or not?”

“How much? I don’t have much money.”

“The first one’s free/ Take your pick. If you like it then we’ll make some kind of deal. If you don’t want anymore then I’ll go on my way no hard feelings.”

Ryan reached for a cheeseburger. He bit into the sandwich and the combination of flavors burst like rockets in his mouth, lettuce, onions, pickles, and dressing. He moaned in ecstasy. When he was finished he licked his fingers.

O.K. what do you want me to do to get another one? How many banks do I have to rob?”

“It’s simple all you have to do is distribute hamburgers for me. You have to get your own customers though. I have a cook that will make all you can sell. You can make some extra money and eat all you want at the same time. Keep in mind that if you get caught I don’t know you or what you do.”

“How big a risk is it?”

“Are you thinking about changing your mind?”

“No but I like to know what I’m getting into. Will I do jail time?”

“Probably not. I’ve got cops as regulars. But of course there is always a chance that you could run into some tough guy that wants to make a name for himself. So you do have to be careful. I’ll pay the fine the first time but if you get run in again you’re on your own.”

“How do you keep them warm?” Or keep them fresh?”

“I’ve had a special unit built in the trunk of my car. It keeps them warm until I get them sold. There’s no trouble keeping them fresh. They go too fast to worry about that.”

“That sounds O.K. to me but how did you know I would go for a deal like that?”

Because your grandfather is one of my best customers. He’ll probably start buying from you now, but he told me you might be a candidate for hamburgers. He said you were always hungry that those rice cakes didn’t fill you up.”

“Yeah you might as well eat cardboard.” Ryan reached for a bag of French fries.

Joseph Reich - Days Before Kindergarten

2009-05-27T19:35:00.004-04:00

Today we have a poem from Mr. Joseph Reich called "Days Before Kindergarten". Even though it's not explicitly about summer, I feel as though it is necessary for the month of June.

days before kindergarden

doors magically and mysteriously open to the school

and half-crazed kids come stampeding out

leaping onto their little red tricycles

the teacher enthusiastically

hollers--"one time around!"

then returns them

back to the shadows

is anything in this life?

anything? comparable?

Vic Cavalli - Original 77

2009-05-27T16:52:00.004-04:00

So, we have here a drawing from Vic Cavalli. Stay tuned for more updates, coming your way!

Editor's Note: Vic Cavalli's name was misspelled as Vic Cavilli. We're sorry for the error.

Back!

2009-05-27T16:26:00.003-04:00

So after graduating college (mostly? just Sam and Keeks?) Lo-Fidelity is back. Sam has finally printed out the third issue and it has the distinction as being the most lo-fi of all the issues ever of Lo-Fidelity. You can ask for a copy, but it may take some time.

Luckily though, we have new stuff to post. We have been busy with our other work, but you have kept submitting and you deserve a huge THANKS! So after our hiatus, I would like to offer up for your consideration I offer you a poem from Michael Lee Johnson and a photo called Blisa from Ashley Sheeran. We need a few more visual art submissions, by the way so you painters, photographers, and whatnot send us something at lowfidelitysubmit@gmail.com. Writers, you are still extremely welcome to send in things as well!

Also, if you don't like us anymore, check out what Pete is doing over at the Broad Set Writing Collective. There may be some crossover type event coming soon. Think of a record split but with writing. Mabye?

Nothing to Do

Michael Lee Johnson

Summer

As the world burns,

Nothing else to do, but

Step into liquid cool waves

And swim.

Blisa by Ashley Sheeran

A Quick Update

2009-02-16T09:48:00.004-05:00

In said time it is to be known that we have been really busy. For this we apologize. With all of the work we have had lately, the zine has been set aside in our hectic routines. Truly, we do apologize for the lack of notice.

Issue 3 is still alive. There are copies sitting in a giant box in Sam's room. We still have everyone's address who asked for one. If you want one and didn't send in your address, email us. We'd be happy to add you to the list. Also, we had stickers made up. So if you want a few, shoot us an email.

We will get around to mailing them out. Promise.

Right now Glen has been sorting through the emails and sifting the submissions since he seems to have the most time on his hands.

But just let it be known that Lo-Fidelity is not dead. We are still running, just a lot slower due to all of our hectic schedules. Thank you for your continued support and we love you more than you know.

Spread the word about awesome literature. Spread the word about Lo-Fidelity.

Good News, Everyone!

2008-12-13T15:34:00.004-05:00

Lo-Fidelity Issue 3 has finally been created!!!!

6 long months of agony, alcohol abuse, career-advancing-opportunities, and other various activities had caused this issue to take somewhat of a detour. After meeting up in June to decide which submissions would be accepted all the editors found themselves in a tightly woven groove that involved advancing their college degrees and working nonstop. Therefore the print issue was pushed aside for a while. But now that we had time to sit down and lay it out - we kicked it's ass.

But alas! It is finally done! It had some of the best work we've seen yet! So to get your FREE copy email us, call us, text us. Do whatever you can to get in touch with us and we'll send you a bunch of copies and maybe some stickers if you ask nicely.

And remember: keep submitting, people.

All accepted submissions will appear on the site and the best of the best will appear in print. So keep 'em coming!

Susan Max - My Twin

2008-12-12T14:49:00.001-05:00

Shu Yanagi - Sunset

2008-12-12T14:48:00.002-05:00

Karly Hamburg - Untitled

2008-12-12T14:46:00.005-05:00

Shu Yanagi - Maria Without Halo

2008-12-12T14:46:00.004-05:00

Julie Yi - Untitled

2008-12-12T14:43:00.002-05:00

Lisa Grigouli - muted

2008-12-12T14:37:00.002-05:00

Brian Brown - In the Car Graveyard, Mobley Pond Road, Berrien County, Ga, 19 Feb 2008

2008-12-12T14:31:00.001-05:00

The Party - Shavon Keller

2008-12-12T13:06:00.001-05:00

A house ten minutes from campus. A familiar house, a reminder of blurry memories. Melissa and I walked through the door and all the fuzzily familiar faces turned to see the new comers. I was wearing my new blue halter top, to accentuate my blue eyes, and my favorite jeans. This outfit made me feel really good when staring at myself in the mirror, but now I couldn’t help but feel a little self conscious. Some people nodded in recognition, others just quickly turned back to their conversations. I was sure they were complaining about classes, reminiscing about hilarious moments at previous parties, or discussing their views of music legends, music now, or whatever. Melissa went her way and I made my way through the crowd with quick greetings here and there until I reached the fridge.
Yes Yeungling. That’s what’s great about parties at this house, they always got Yeungling. It was delicious and no doubt better than the typical cheap college beer, Nati Ice, Keystone, Ice House. They took advantage of the great deal at the local discount liquor store: a 24 pack for fifteen dollars; they loose six bottles compared to the typical cheap college beer but it’s worth it for the taste. I twisted the cap off and took a good first chug. Now I’m ready to be here. I walked back into the living room. Melissa already found a comfy spot on the couch and a make-out buddy. I could never feel comfortable making out with someone in the middle of a party for everyone to watch. She always bragged about it afterwards; well except with that one guy who began to slightly stalk her afterwards. She definitely regretted that one, and had actually stopped making out with guys at parties for a short while. But I guess if she’s having fun more power to her. Melissa was wearing a very short skirt, as usual, and I saw her new friend slide his hand up her leg. I looked away quickly. Another chug.
“Hey. Oh my gosh. I haven’t seen you in like forever.” Great it’s the way-too-cheerful Cheriyl. She reminded me of a puppy self combusting from over excitement. “Hey” I said with about a fifth of the excitement she had in her voice. I listened to her yap without absorbing a word she said. This was typical; she’s very good at having conversations without the other person having to contribute. I surveyed the room, hoping to find a better companion tonight than Cheriyl. And there he was. Danny Mitchell. He didn’t see me at first but he must have felt my eyes because he suddenly turned away from his conversation and his eyes caught mine. He revealed a slight smile and I quickly turned my attention back to Cheriyl, who was still yapping. I tried to concentrate on what she was saying, hoping to find a safe way to end the conversation. She was on the topic of how she spent last year’s Spring Break. “That sounds great” I said. “I know right?” she said. I chugged the rest of my beer. With fake disappointment of ending the conversation short I said, “Looks like it’s time for another.”
I escaped back to the fridge, glad to be free of her but trapped thinking about Danny. I don’t know how he expects me to act. I haven’t seen him in at least half a year, well besides that brief time at another party when we didn’t talk at all. I closed the fridge and suddenly warm, strong arms were wrapped around me. “Long time, Jen,” he said. I turned, “Yeah it has, Danny.” We stared at each other until it became awkward so I twirled my blonde hair around my finger, hoping it made me look more cute than nervous. Then Danny asked, “Do you like pomegranates?” That’s what’s great about Danny, he skips the How are you? Fine and you? Good, what’s new… boring singsong nonsense. He just starts talking about whatever’s on his mind. I used to find this weird but I’ve really come to appreciate it. “Yeah, I like how they are the opposite of typical fruit because you eat the seeds,” I answered. “Well I’ve just discovered them and I’ve really taken a liking to them.” He has great hair: dark, soft, just the right amount of greasiness and it always slightly covers his seductive blue eyes. “What you been up to?” he asked. “The usual. I can’t believe this is my last semester of school,” I said. “Take advantage of it, it goes by quick.” Danny graduated last year. I know I must have looked like a retard beaming back at him, but I couldn’t help it I was so glad he was talking to me and I could still feel the warmth from his hug surging through me like the first sip of hot rum cider. Like I said, it had been awhile and we were at a point where it didn’t seem like we cared about the other’s life or were even interested in seeing each other. We just became distant for no reason at all. But that all seemed like such a little blip in the past. I was glad now. He was like my favorite TV show starting up again after the writer’s strike.
“Jen come here, you’ve got to see this,” Melissa slurred as she appeared suddenly between Danny and me. As she pulled me away, like a mother pulling her daughter from her favorite swing, I looked back at Danny and gave him an apologetic smile. We plopped down on the couch next to Melissa’s make-out partner, who was impressively cute, now that I could see his face. What I had to see was a video on this guy’s camera of Melissa apparently drunk and hilarious at a previous party. After that entertaining show and my reassurance that she was in fact hilarious, Melissa returned to her make-out session. I returned to my Yeungling and my contemplative isolation while observing the room. Everyone was in little groups. Four people debating their ensemble of the perfect band in heaven: “And John Frusciante on the guitar.” “But he’s still alive.” “I know but he’s awesome, he’ll be dead some day.” Three people on that couch discussing who they were going to vote for in the next election without having any real support for their views: “Well Obama sounds too much like O Sama so that’ll never happen.” And two people in the doorway to the kitchen downing their shots of vodka “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe you’re making me do this.” You got to love the diversity and intelligence of college students and their solo cup politics. I used to be friends with these people but somehow I am just growing apart from them. They still want to have these ritualistic parties they’ll never truly remember. I just want to move on.
Where did he go? Once I began to feel uncomfortable with Melissa and her mouth-fixated-guy-friend rubbing against me, I got another beer and decided to check how the upstairs looked, and hoped to casually run into him again. I inspected the main room with its beer pong and other various drinking games, he was nowhere. Then I saw blue light floating out of the cracked door of the back room. I took a chug and walked as confidently as the Yeungling would allow at that moment toward the blue light. There he was, sitting on the bed all alone, the blue light creating this mystical version of him as if he were outlined in bold and everything else in the room was a blur. He’s the reason I came tonight. “Hey, you want a hit?” He asked as he held the joint out to me. “Sure,” I answered. He moved over to make a space for me to sit and said, “Close the door behind you.” I did, then walked over to the bed and sat next to him. I was alone with him at last and we were glowing blue.
Once we were finished smoking, we sat in silence and allowed our selves to just be. And then he kissed me. I forgot he had a tongue ring and how great it felt to kiss him. I don’t know what it was about Danny that made me feel this way, like a peach turned inside out, you know all fuzzy on the inside? I just knew that no one else made me feel that way. While we laid together on the bed he said, “At the last party I didn’t talk to you because I had a girlfriend back home.” I told him he didn’t have to explain himself to me. “But I want to. I ignored you the best I could because-” He paused. “Because I was afraid if I was near you I wouldn’t be able to not kiss you.” I didn’t say anything. We were both quiet just lying there in the blue haze.
Soon he was asleep, practically snoring with his mouth parted, his jaw slightly lower than the top of his mouth, like gravity was too powerful even for his strong jaw. His right eye was squished against the pillow and his eyebrow raised as if questioning me, but I had no idea what the question was. I looked him over and ran my hand from his face down his shirt and over his mole next to his bellybutton which made him look like he had a slightly off center outie. He’s the only ritual I will miss. I kissed him on the forehead. Until next time. I left the room, closing the door behind me and leaving Danny to dream about blue lights, hazy nights and whatever girl he wanted.

Seasonal Angst - Mike Owens

2008-12-12T13:04:00.000-05:00

Only about half the bulbs glowed in the sad string of colored lights strung over the door of Dugan’s Bar. That gap-toothed arrangement and the small radio that piped out a mixture of carols and inane ditties in chipmunk voices were the sole acknowledgement of the holiday season. At Dugan’s, the main holiday cheer flowed from the row of bottles behind the bar. In the words of Big Dan Dugan himself, “You want decorations? Go to the fucking mall.”
The noon crowd was gone now leaving the two of them alone, except for Jimmy the bartender, who dozed on a stool at the far end of the room.
Glenn Becker turned his chair halfway toward the nodding figure. “I always worry when he does that.”
“Why?” His friend Larry had come straight over from work and still had his nametag clipped to his shirt pocket.
“Someday he’s gonna fall. Break his skull or something.”
“Jimmy? Nah. He’s been practicing that routine for years, got it down pat.”
“This place depresses me when it’s empty like this. You can see how crummy it really looks.” Glenn moved his beer glass around in a little circle. “Think they’ll ever upgrade?”
“Change Dugan’s? Hell no. The way it is it’s kind of a landmark, like, with historical value, you know? Besides, if they upgrade Dugan’s the rest of the neighborhood will look even more crappy by comparison.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Glenn turned back toward the table, the legs of his chair grinding on the dusty floor. “Jeez, how long we been coming here now?”
“If you count when we used to try to sneak in after school I’d say fourteen, fifteen years. But I don’t get over here so much anymore. No reason to, not with you off teaching at that college. Besides, Ruthie gets pissed when I do. I swear that woman can smell a beer at two hundred feet, at least.”
“Why two hundred feet?” Glenn laughed.
“That’s how long my driveway is. Says she can smell it as soon as I turn in off the street.”
“At least you got somebody to come home to.”
“Stop, dammit. Stop right now.” Larry smacked his palms down on the table. “It’s three days to Christmas and I’ll be damned if you’re gonna get all mopey on me. Would it kill you to cheer up some?”
“Okay. I hear you. Look, I’m smiling.” Glenn tilted his head back and bared his teeth, more grimace than grin.
“Shit. I’ve seen better smiles on dead people.”
“I’m gonna go wake up Jimmy, get us a couple more beers.”
“Get a pitcher.” Larry threw a five on the table. “And don’t sneak up on him. If you scare him he really might fall.”
When Glenn got back to the table Larry had lit up.
“When did you start smoking again?”
“I didn’t. I just keep a few around for emergencies, and, from the looks of you, I think I’m gonna need one, or several, maybe.” Larry took a deep drag then blew a column of smoke toward the ceiling. “Because now you’re gonna tell me what’s got your panties in a bunch. I don’t really wanta hear it but I don’t seem to have much choice.”
“You sure?” Glenn topped off both their glasses and foam spilled over the rims.
“Go ahead, dammit, before I change my mind.”
“Well, I been thinking.” Glenn leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“That’s how it usually starts with you. Maybe if you didn’t think so much….”
“Listen, have you ever wondered, like, if they gave out letter grades for life, what
you’d get?” Glenn said.
“Oh, God, I’m not ready for this.” Larry rubbed his eyes with his fists. “In the first place, I don’t know what you’re talking about, and second, push those peanuts over here. The way you’re wolfing them down I’ll be lucky to get any.”
“How can you eat peanuts and smoke at the same time?” Glenn shoved the bowl across the table.
“That’s my problem. It just so happens I can’t stand the taste of cigarettes. Now go on or you’ll be at this all afternoon.”
“What I mean is, based on how good you’ve lived, you’d get a grade--A, B, C, or something like that.”
“Wouldn’t make any difference.” Larry took a long swig of his beer. “Everybody gets an F.”
“Why?”
“Everybody dies, moron.”
“That’s not what I mean. The grade would depend on how good your life has been, not whether you live or die. A good guy would get a good grade and a bad guy….” He looked straight at Larry. “I won’t mention names, but a bad guy would get something else.”
“Man, I shoulda’ seen this coming. Every time you get drunk around the holidays you start dishing out some senseless philosophical bullshit. To begin with, who’s gonna say whether you’ve been bad or good? Santa Claus?”
“I don’t know. God, I guess.”
“No way, sport. Last time we talked you claimed to be an atheist, remember?”
“I’m rethinking that now.” Glenn tore his paper napkin into little strips and piled them neatly in front of him.
“Just tell me how getting drunker helps you think clearer. And why the hell can’t we just have a normal conversation sometime?” He threw a peanut shell at Glenn.
“What’s normal?”
“How about basketball?”
“I think I’ll go over and talk to Jimmy. Even half asleep he makes more sense than you do.” Glenn pushed his chair back.
“Hang on, my fine-feathered friend.” Larry pinned Glenn’s arm to the table. “I’ll explain this so even you can understand it. What happens at the end of basketball season?”
“A playoff.”
“Leading to what?” Larry leaned in closer.
“A national champion.”
“And how many national champions can there be?”
“Oh, that’s a tough one. Lemme see. Is this like, multiple choice?” Glenn cradled his chin in his thumb and forefinger, frowning as if deep in thought.
“Come on, you turd, how many?”
Glenn stuck up his middle finger and smiled.
A man wearing grimy blue coveralls stepped through the front door, took a look around the room, then left without a word. Jimmy appeared to nod at him, or maybe it was just a forceful sigh.
“Right. One national champion.” Larry held up his own middle finger. “Every other team fails. So, there’s one A, and only one. If you want to get technical about it you can give the runner-up team a B, maybe Cs to the semi-finalists.”
“I suppose somewhere in your twisted mind you think you’ve made a point.”
“What I’m trying to show you is how ridiculous your idea about grades for life is. Who gets the A? The one and only A? And, for that matter, what difference does it make? By next season nobody remembers anyway.”
“That’s not what it’s all about. It’s not just a matter of winning or losing.”
“Oh, my God, you’re not gonna say it. Please, tell me you’re not gonna say it.” Larry let out a little groan, then leaned back and covered his eyes with his forearm.
“Say what?”
“It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game. Spare me that one.”
“That’s exactly what I mean, you asshole.”
Larry laughed as he drained his glass. He snorted and a trickle of beer ran out his nose. “Damn, this is the best part of you coming home for the holidays--talking nonsense. What was it last year? Global warming? Save the whales?”
“Coming from you, who’s never had a serious thought in his entire life, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Look, I know you’re serious. But the only way that grading thing could ever work would be if you got some kind of mid-term report. You know, when the old professor tells you where you’re doing okay and where you need to improve. Otherwise the idea of a final grade is inherently unfair. You oughta know that, being a teacher.”
“Much as I hate to admit it, there’s some logic to that.”
“Why is this bothering you so much? You worried about something? Damn, wait, I can guess. You finally got into Marcia’s pants, didn’t you? You dog. Now you’re having some sort of stupid guilt trip. Leave it to you to have remorse over sex.”
“No, that’s not it.”
“What, you didn’t get into her pants?”
“You’re missing the point, as usual. This is not some sort of post-coital remorse thing.”
“Post-coital remorse, now there’s one I haven’t heard before. Maybe I oughta write that down.” Larry pulled a pen from his pocket and made a big show of scribbling on a damp cocktail napkin. “Spell coital for me, will you?”
“Don’t bother. Premature ejaculation would be more your style anyway.”
“Me? Premature? Never.”
“You know, once again you have succeeded in destroying a perfectly good conversation. Don’t you ever step back and look at your life, wonder if you’re doing what you should be doing?”
“I know one thing, Glenn, my boy. In the end, whether you’ve done good, bad or indifferent, all it amounts to is a bunch of people standing around a hole in the ground—probably in the rain—and when they lower you in they don’t put a letter grade on your casket. All they put in is dirt. And that’s that.”
“Full of sound and fury signifying nothing.”
“Huh?”
Glenn sighed. “Shakespeare.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot you’re a big college professor. But I agree with the part about signifying nothing.”
“I’m sure he’d take great comfort in that fact.”
“Fuck you. For that matter, fuck Shakespeare, too. What grade did he get? Come on, before we get too drunk let’s go over to the park and shoot hoops. That’ll give you a chance to contemplate the perfect arc of my jump shot as it soars over your head and lands in the basket.”
“Fat chance, asswipe. The only arc your jumper’s gonna take is the one where I swat it up into the bleachers.”
They ambled off down the street, crossed over by Davie’s Dry Cleaners where a single wreath embossed with red ribbon hung in the doorway, and took the path that ran alongside the rusted chain link fence. The narrow lane they followed had, over the years, been worn down several inches below ground level by countless pairs of sneaker-clad feet. At one time or another most of the residents of Centreville had followed that short path, diverging then along other routes, toward other destinations. But being on it again was to slip back in time; feet were quicker, lighter, younger somehow.
As they walked, trading the occasional playful shove, an elbow prodded into ribs, carefully barbed insults exchanged, a passerby might have suspected animosity, a fight to follow, perhaps; but it had always been this way. True, skirmishes had occasionally erupted over the course of their long friendship but any breach always healed over quickly. Relocation and the transition into adulthood had brought new responsibilities and limited their time together to holidays, but some things didn’t change.
Ahead lay the public basketball courts with worn tufts of yellowed grass peaking through cracks in the tarmac, and much like the bar they’d just left, empty on this late December afternoon.
Larry dribbled the ball to the top of the key and launched a shot that caught the front rim then caromed off toward the fence.
“Do you have to make so much noise when you shoot?” Glenn whined. “All that clanking hurts my ears.”
“I’m just getting warmed up, dickhead. Pretty soon all you’ll hear is swish swish—nothing but net.” He retrieved the ball, panting, then took another shot that hit nothing but air.
“Much better. That was a lot quieter.” Glenn held his sides, laughing, then made a big show of looking at his watch. “How long you figure it’ll take you to get warmed up? It’s only light out for another hour or so.”
Larry slapped the ball back at him. “Here, hotshot. See if you can do anything besides talk.”
When Glenn’s shot wedged between the rim and backboard Larry fell to his knees howling in laughter.
After many futile leaps at the ball both stood gasping, hands on their knees. “Damn,” Larry said. “In high school I could dunk.”
“Your memory’s gone south, my friend. The only time you ever dunked was standing on a chair.” Glenn found a broom handle lying against the fence and with a few vigorous pokes dislodged the ball. “Let’s get started. First to twenty. Loser buys the beer.”
After half an hour of lunging, shoving, grunting and cursing, after a barrage of shots, most of which clanged off the rim or hit nothing at all, Glenn dropped to one knee and rasped out, “You know, we suck.”
“You do for sure. I’m winning, remember?”
“Oh, yeah, what is it now? Six to four? At this rate even if we combine our scores it’ll take us the rest of the weekend to reach twenty.”
Larry bounced the ball a couple of times then kicked it into the corner. “We could set aside this childish contest and behave like reasonable men.”
“And?”
“Head back to the bar.”
#
Later, seated at the corner table again, a fresh pitcher in the center, Larry leaned back and burped loudly.
“Charming, thanks for sharing that,” Glenn tossed a pretzel at him.
“I knew you’d appreciate it.”
“You know, it’s amazing.”
“What?”
“Jimmy. He woke up, filled the pitcher, took my money, now he’s back asleep
like nothing happened.”
“Told you, years of practice.” Larry tapped his forefinger on the table. “Say, listen, I’ve been thinking about your project, your letter grade idea. I can see how to solve your problem using my excellent analytical skills.”
“If your excellent analytical skills are anything like your excellent jump shot I don’t want to hear about it.” Glenn threw another pretzel at him.
“Listen and learn, and stop throwing food. Is this how you behave at that college? What I’m gonna do is make up a spreadsheet. Four columns: Good things you’ve done, bad things you’ve done, good things you could’ve done but didn’t, and bad things you could’ve done but didn’t. You get a plus one for every good thing you’ve done and for every bad thing you could have done but didn’t. And a minus one for every bad thing you did and for every good thing you could have done but didn’t. It’s a straight pass-fail system; more plusses, you pass, more minuses, you fail. Brilliant, huh?” Larry leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.
Glenn gazed up at the ceiling. “Brilliant is not the first word that comes to mind.”
“You got a better idea? I mean, you started the whole thing, remember? Besides, I think it’s pretty damned clever. I bet, once I get the kinks out of it, I can sell it, make some money off royalties. This could be big. There’s probably plenty of neurotic bozos out there, like you, who’ll pay for it.”
“Forget about it. I’m sorry I ever brought it up.”
“You know what your problem is?” Larry leaned forward. “You’re afraid to find out the truth. You’re afraid you might fail the test.”
Glenn ran his fingers up and down the frosted sides of his glass, tracing random patterns in the moisture.
“What’s with the silent treatment? You not gonna talk to me any more?”
“You’re right,” Glenn said softly.
“I am?”
“Yeah. I’m afraid I might fail it, and it scares the shit out of me. I mean, look at me. I’m pushing thirty and I teach philosophy at a community college to a bunch of people who could care less. It’s not like I’m grooming next year’s big thinkers. So, yeah, I’m afraid I might fail.”
“Ahh, now we’re getting somewhere. You, my very good friend, are having your usual holiday existential meltdown.”
“What the hell?” Glenn’s eyebrows shot up like twin question marks.
“Hey, I read books too, you know.”
“Hell, you make me sound like a mental case.”
“No worse than anybody else we know. But don’t worry; I’ve got you covered. First, lighten up, will you? Don’t be so damned serious. As usual, ol’ Larry is gonna save your worthless ass. Remember what I said about everybody deserves an interim report, so you know what to work on before the big final exam? Just for you, because you’re an old friend and you’re buying the beer, I’m gonna let you have a trial run of Larry’s Amazing Life Grade Assessment Device. Fill it out in the comfort of your own room, after you’ve paid me for it, of course. Then when you face that big final exam in the sky—assuming you still think there is one—you’ll ace it for sure. How’s that for a deal?”
“Damn.” Glenn let loose a long sigh, then chuckled. “I was dead serious about this thing when I brought it up. I’ve been stewing over it for a whole month.”
“I knew you were, dimwit. I know you a lot better than you think. You were like that as a kid; you’d latch onto something and worry it to death. And holidays were always the worst. Damned sure, next time you come back here it’ll just be something else. For all that high powered philosophy you teach, you haven’t changed.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It is, you big doofus, it is.”
“Hey, I’m the philosopher here, remember?”
“But you’re on the inside looking out. I got a better vantage point.”
For a moment the only sound in the room was Jimmy’s soft snoring.
“The worst part, what I hate most, is when you’re right.” Glenn shook his head slowly.
“Hold on. I’m gonna get Jimmy over here. I want a witness to hear you say that.”
“How in hell does your wife put up with you?” Glenn laughed softly.
“Same way you do, good buddy, same way.” He slid his glass across the table and clinked it against Glenn’s. “To old friends, one of whom has an amazing jump shot.” Larry thumped his chest, ape-fashion.
“Up yours.”
The lights over the doorway flickered, just before the entire string went out. Jimmy looked up from his barstool perch. “Aw, shit.” Then went back to sleep.

Understanding in a Car Crash - Anton Djamoos

2008-12-12T13:03:00.000-05:00

There he stands at 11:30 in front of a shiny new BMW M3 convertible. It’s blue with that finish that makes it look metallic and futuristic, the envy of all others on the road. Trevor Grant’s shiny new law practice has earned him enough money to easily afford this automobile, but he has hesitations about it. The hesitations about the purchase come from his wife, Heather, who is very stingy about money even though she has much more than everyone else on the block. She wants to save his money until they have enough to move to a block where she only has a bit more money than everyone else on it. Trevor Grant bought Heather the ‘cute’ bulldog puppy that she wanted two weeks ago, so she shouldn’t mind too much. It is his turn for an impulse purchase. “At least you don’t need to clean up a car’s shit,” he thinks to himself with a smile.
“I’ll take it,” he tells the dealer, flashing a perfectly white smile, firmly shaking the dealer’s hand, knowing that he must make this decision quickly because he only has so much time on his lunch break.
(I’m planning on making Grant get into a car accident. Grant can die or Grant can live, that’s all up to me. I am at a crossroad with what I should do. You see, Grant comes off as a guy who has a lot of money, and no one likes those rich pricks. You know the type. Those guys who will be driving those fancy cars, swerving in and out of lanes on the highway while modestly over the speed limit and, even though you don’t let them, they cut you off and give you the pinky thank you because their hand is busy on their cell phone yelling at other employees because they’re rich and therefore snotty and mean. I should kill him. Killing an archetype that nobody likes makes everyone happy. When you can’t do it in real life, get away with it in creative prose.
But then again, maybe Grant deserves to live. He has done some noble things in his life. Grant has his own law firm, which “grants” ha ha people a new lease on life. He specializes in car accident claims, whose fault it was, etc. Trevor Grant really helps people out. He owns his own practice and works by himself, so he’s not using anyone to get to the top or anything, he’s quite good at what he does and truly earns the six-figure salary he makes. Grant should live and keep helping people with their problems in life. I mean, when you’re in a car crash, you think that everything’s over. Grant helps people see that this is not so. However, Trevor Grant is a lawyer.
Everyone hates the parasites that are lawyers, feeding off your emotional distress. The last thing that people want to think about after they get into a car accident and know that they’re going to be spending a lot of money on something knows the extravagant fees that come with lawyers. Especially a lawyer like Trevor Grant. It’s always fun to kill off a lawyer, regardless of how anyone feels about him. He’s a lawyer; they are hated by definition. All lawyers should die! Being a stupid teenager, I’ve never had the experience of dealing with a lawyer, but they are portrayed in a negative light everywhere in our society and it is always successful. That lawyer in Jurassic Park was eaten on a toilet! Michael Crichton knew that people hate lawyers so much that they degraded him by having him eaten by a Tyrannosaurus Rex while sitting on a toilet. Those silly lawyers. That movie made a lot of money. Trevor is a lawyer, and therefore should be killed off. I mean, wouldn’t it be ironic and literarily exquisite if he died in a car accident? Yes, he should die because people will love the fact that he dies and because it will be one of those really strange coincidences that belong to the Darwin Awards.
It would be sad however, to kill him off because of his situation with Heather. Trevor Grant loves Heather; he bought her a hideous bulldog puppy. Have you seen how truly ugly bulldogs are? The fact that he is willing to get a puppy which he will have to endure with longer than the average ugly bulldog is proof that he will do anything to make her happy. He’s allergic to dogs, too and he’s willing to get the hypoallergenic shot monthly so that he can live with a happy woman. Love would be a terrible thing to ruin by spiting Grant to death just because he is a lawyer. Heather, however, is not in love with him and his unibrow. Heather is obviously using him for his money.
Heather’s main goal in life is to be better than the Jones’s. With Trevor, she has found someone who will allow her to do this and have a “cute” puppy along with it. Trevor Grant is a rare breed indeed. The reader now sides with Grant and thinks that Heather should be killed in his stead, because she’s a superficial bitch who isn’t good for Trevor. She’s not good for him so she should be killed off, there will be no resentment.
There is also always the 1:140,000,000 chance that the earth can be hit by a huge meteor and kill everyone. The problem with a meteor is that it provides no resolution for any of the characters, which makes such an ending out of the question when trying to write a story that focuses on the dynamics of character.
Dammit, Grant. Just when things seem to be looking up for you, you have to say that thing about not having “to clean up a car’s shit,” showing that you hold resentment toward the dog. While it is understandable that you are allergic, that gives you no reason to speak with such negativity. Everybody loves puppies. If you hate puppies, especially puppies that are so ugly that they are pitied, you should die. Well, Trevor, the odds are against you now. I guess there’s only one thing left to do. Time to brainstorm.
Ending 1: Trevor Grant does all the paperwork and about a half hour later, drives out of the lot with his new shiny metallic blue BMW M3. At 12:03, Grant bids his last goodbye. At his first traffic light, he crashes it into a telephone pole because he is not used to how quickly a BMW M3 accelerates and the brake system is different from the beige Ford Taurus he used to drive.
And we are all happy.
I’m gonna give this ending a no because it’s the obvious ending and it’s what the reader wants. We want Grant to die, but this ending is too obvious. It won’t work.
Ending 2: Trevor Grant does all the paperwork and about a half hour later, drives out of the lot with his shiny new metallic blue BMW M3. He works late and gets home at about 12:03 in the morning where his wife greets him with a bullet to the face.
Trevor Grant is dead. And we are all confused.
The reader here will infer that Heather had a gun and found out that (gasp!) Trevor has been cheating on her for the past two years! This could work as one of those twist endings that come out of nowhere and make no sense but the reader loves anyways regardless of the lack of substance. It’s great to throw the reader for a loop and when he’s expecting all of these great things out of a character then Bam! something comes out of left field and ruins the pristine image granted to the character they have grown to love. Adultery works perfectly for this, which is why this ending could work.
Ending 3: Trevor Grant does all the paperwork and about a half hour later, drives out of the lot with his shiny new metallic blue BMW M3. On his way back to work, he sees that it is already 12:03 and he is late to get back to the office. He decides that he can be a bit late getting back because he never got a lunch and he wants to roll up in the drive-thru with the new ride. Smoothly pulling up next to the drive-thru menu, he is about to order his favorite when, out of nowhere, a smoldering rock soars overhead at blinding speed. Seconds later the shiny metallic blue paint of his BMW M3 peels off due to intense heat and Trevor Grant is vaporized from the heat a huge meteor striking the earth created.
OK, now I’m just playing around. A meteor? People will interpret this as an easy out, like I’m not smart enough to come up with an actual ending. Oh, these people. Do they not see the complexity of this story that I am writing? In one short paragraph, I have a multitudes of possibilities that can happen with a life and I can explore them all and have whatever I want happen in an effort to please the reader. The reader loves seeing characters die, especially characters that the reader would not like in real life. For many reasons, Trevor deserves to die.
Trevor is a lawyer. Trevor deserves to die.
Trevor is a rich prick. Trevor deserves to die.
Trevor does not like puppies. Trevor deserves to die.)
Trevor Grant drives out of the lot and goes back to work in his shiny new metallic blue BMW M3 Convertible. He is the envy of all the other drivers and when he gets back to the office, he has three miles on the odometer. He has a great rest of the day at work and is able to stay positive knowing that he just bought something that will bring him a lot of joy. At the end of the day, he drives home and Heather greets him at the door with a stern look on her face. She does not look pleased with his purchase.
Trevor nervously walks up to her and gives her a kiss on the cheek. “Hey babe,” he says, glancing at the sleek vehicle. “What do you think?”
She looks at the car, then looks at him and his proud eyes. “Boys will be boys,” she sighs.
“Come on, let me show you how it rides.”
They take an enjoyable drive with the fresh air combing their hair. They both have a great time talking about the lovely neighborhood that they live in and Heather discusses all of the cute things Bradley, the cute bulldog puppy, did today.
Upon returning back to their large home, Heather cooks an immaculate meal while Trevor watches SportsCenter. They engage in deep and meaningful conversation over the chicken cordon bleu. After dinner, they have wonderful, passionate sex and before going to sleep, each reads a chapter in the current bestseller they are reading. They tell each other that they love each other and go to sleep.
(Readers love unexpected endings better than predictable death.)

Penne - Gabe Posluszny

2008-12-12T12:53:00.000-05:00

Her eyes scanned the elegant display before her for only a moment or two. I could tell, she wasn’t reading, just looking. When she spoke she was sure. “I’ll have the filet mignon, please.”
“A fine choice for a fine lady” said the waiter as he took her menu and held it under his arm so he could continue to exaggerate every word with his hands. Only the best and pure of breed are employed at such a strictly Italian restaurant. “And for the young gentleman?” His hands lowered as he said young, they clasped as if in prayer as he said gentleman. I don’t like praying, I’m not that short, and I think I won’t come here anymore.
“Penne.” I said.
“We have an assortment of wonderful-” his hands flailed wildly on wonderful but it never seemed like he went too far, I wish I could look so sure all the time, “-sauces on the third page. There’s marinara, vodk-”
“Stop, stop, stop, I saw the sauces. I’m very proud of you for memorizing your menu, I want penne.”
“Surely you wan-”
“Put some butter on it.”
“Of course.” He bowed. Spirit fingers are for musicals and should stay there.
I looked to my left. There are a lot of rich people here, they like spirit fingers and praying. They don’t notice me. To my right, a window, the city. People. Lots of them.
“What are you doing? Sit down.” She said worried, looking around to the people indulged in their food literally oblivious to me.
“I prefer candle light.” I said as I finished closing the curtain. While I do prefer candle light, I have no vendetta against street lights either. It is the eyes of the people wandering I could do without.
“You’re so inappropriate. Why do you have to be so…so…whatever.”
“You can’t possibly have meant something by that.”
“Just forget about it.” She said exhaling and scanning the room for any eyes that might be following them.
I exhaled too. A long sigh. “Done.”
…
The rest of our dinner was silent. My penne was excellent, her prime cut was expensive. The tip was cut lower. She still gave me a kiss when I put the money on the table. I hate the way that relationships are set up in the female’s favor sometimes. I pay for everything but she makes close to as much I do. I don’t have extra money to buy nice things for myself let alone her. But she goes shopping regularly. If she doesn’t have enough money to shop, it’s my fault. I feel used, but then again that money seemed worth the kiss. She should have been an actor. It really seems like she enjoys every minute of this, but I’m pretty sure she has a conscience which would certainly take that spring out of her step. It’s harder to put one foot in front of the other if it matters who is under your $120 heels.
The ride home was a tightrope walk. We got in the car and the center console was a 20 foot gap. As we nimbly closed the gap, showing our agile prowess, any sudden movement by the other could throw their partner off to certain humiliation. As the tension lifted in the car the rope became more erratic. Just trying to speak is reckless as I fumble with my words. “I’m sorry.”
She acted like she deserved every syllable. “I know,” is all she says avoiding my eyes in a stunt that would have made me fall completely over the side if it wasn’t part of the routine. My multi faceted girl could have been an acrobat on the side. By the end of the ride, we’ve switched sides, but are just as far away as before, and complacent with the stability. Not wanting to stray too far from the routine we shimmy down from the platforms and go our separate ways.
She quickly opened her passenger side door and went full stride to couch. Kicking off her shoes she let out a sigh of relief. After a day like today their soles would need a break to withstand another long callous tomorrow. My driver’s side door creaked open so slow that it stopped at every conveniently engineered resistance originally set to keep the door from hitting other parked cars. Instead it was keeping me from getting out. Each time, a chance to change my mind. Continue, or not.
I was not surprised as I got out and walked to the front door to make my next decision. Not surprised when I got to the kitchen. Or by my snack, making it to the living room, sitting speechlessly across from her. “You know,” she said looking me straight in the eye, “I really appreciate you putting up with me today. I was distracted. I think I failed the term paper I was working on all week. Don’t be upset with a lousy dinner, I’ll make you your favorite tomorrow.”
“What’s my favorite?”
“Surprises.” She said with a smile. “One of these days I’ll make you as happy as you make me.”
She should have been a lawyer. I’m convinced.

Days - Blake Solomon

2008-12-12T12:51:00.000-05:00

No matter what they say, life continues on.
James only spoke in profound phrases other people had already said. James desperately wanted to be the first to say something, but hard as he tried, he failed. We all fail. That one was taken, too. James said goodbye to Anne with a Bible verse. Cheater. He only called her Anne after she passed. The word “mom” never felt right, anyway.
Some people just come out ordinary with no marks or distinguishing features of any kind. James’ body was smooth like sanded wood. James’ body was clay nobody bothered to sculpt. So he ran and ran and walked a little until his legs heaved more than his chest. He ran towards a feeling in his ribs. He opened his eyes and saw sand, cars, desolation. He saw East Texas.
James tried comprehending how far he ran, but numbers weren’t his thing. He figured, carry the two, he ran at least 1436 miles. For a split second, shorter than a split second, James wondered if this was death. Someone was thankful it wasn’t. So James walked towards civilization.
****
“Tell me everything,” said James.
“Everything sounds better on a full stomach,” she replied, almost too quickly.
“Give me bacon, eggs sunny side up and a metaphor nobody understands.”
“Coming right up.”
She kept her promise and explained what happened to Rick Cowlishaw after he molested his daughter and when the football team lost by 3 points but the other team cheated. She told him her name was Julia, but she didn’t explain why. James felt uneasy around her, but he did feel something, which was better than before. He asked her if he could stay at her house. Not like the way an old friend asks, but more like the way a crazy uncle does. Strangers don’t stay that way for long, especially when they sleep on your couch. Julia’s couch could use the company.
“Well it isn’t much, but it could be worse.”
“I have no idea what perfection looks like, and this probably isn’t it. I’m willing to be ignorant.”

****
Julia was moving slowly in the kitchen, vaguely aware of burnt toast, very aware of her swishing robe. You know, just in case James was her uncle. There was no attraction like normal people have. There was a want stronger than any scientific concept. The strongest things are those that take the most time. Or so she told herself. James showed no interest of doing anything other than sleeping on her floor and watching the news to get depressed and then drink away his depression. He washed dishes at her diner, but that was just for his hands. His mind needed something else. Julia wanted into his mind. She wanted to understand parts he didn’t even understand. Julia was going to lobotomize him out of love.
“ Why are you staring at me?”
“ I’m staring through you,” she said.
****
In another life, James would have loved Julia as easily as he would have left her. Something formed inside him during nights under the stars and days in the kitchen. James would imagine her smile when he was looking right at her. He knew everything about her without asking a single question. He hummed her favorite song while in the shower. James disguised time in the wrinkles on his face so she would never get bored.
“Remember when we met and you told me a metaphor that made no sense?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I get it now.”
****
Holding hands was one of those things James and Julia hated. Proving love wasn’t something that could be done, they figured. The point they started thinking the same thoughts, using the same brain, is unclear. But if you ask James, it was a Sunday without any shadows. Julia thought it was a Wednesday. Time blurs the most important memories. Consequently, Julia started wearing makeup.
“ Did you know this would happen?”
“ I knew we would happen.”
Who said what wasn’t important.

Real Talk: On The Poem (Real Talk: On When I Said I Love You) - Rance Robeson II

2008-12-12T12:50:00.003-05:00

Now you know I was just saying that shit to get chu madd!!

You know I luvvvv you girl!!

Real Talk: On When I Said I Love You - Rance Robeson II

2008-12-12T12:50:00.001-05:00

I really wasn’t being honest

Honestly

U-Turn - Michaela Shanklin

2008-12-12T12:49:00.000-05:00

Let’s draw a map
of this thing we started
Sketch paved highways, side streets, back roads
Draw in mountains, rivers, trees, and birds
Pencil in rest stops and road signs
Mark an “X” at our final destination
Or we can just keep driving
Windows down music glaring
The air freshener twirling
Ashes flying around our paved romance
Thoughts and dreams pass us by
Smoking too many cigarettes
Trees and back roads get erased
Birds dance in the wind
As we become an us
Hear the shutter preserve this summer romance
At night you draw stars, the moon, airplanes passing
Sleep next to me
Fade into me
In the morning you draw my portrait
You smooth my face with your finger
The ignition stalls
The leaves are dying
Home seems far
I take the map from your hands and draw
a U-turn an inch from where we are
This thing we started…

This Is a Poem - Zachary Ayres

2008-12-12T12:48:00.002-05:00

Trillions of times per second, innumerable cosmic particles
shoot silently through our bodies, and leave infinitesimal perforations.

We do not notice.

All Your Little Apocalypses - Brian Brown

2008-12-12T12:48:00.001-05:00

Another night pacing the floors,
mourning, then cursing your absence,
when the phone brings the same bullshit
from a different halfway house,
a counselor whose credentials
are workshop at best
reassuring me you haven't lost it,
there's still hope,
as if I can pay his goddamned fee
with hope.
It reminds of the time
you found those checks
out at Devils' Den,
the ones your cousin swiped
from the doctor's office where
she worked to support her
burgeoning crack hobby.
You ordered a thin crust cheese
from Domino's to feed your munchies
& got busted for forgery.
But it’s different for me now.
I’m not going to fight for you,
nor spread hate among friends,
via inflammatory texts,
electronic or otherwise.
I'm toasting a round of cheers
to all the forgotten nights
you'll spend a lifetime
trying like hell to remember.

Georgia - Brian Brown

2008-12-12T12:47:00.000-05:00

I follow the same red dirt highways
seeking a celestial music,
a fugue of meadow beauty,
a cantata of dandelion wings.
Stand shamelessly before
unlocked doors of farmhouses
long abandoned, where icicles of neglect
hang permanently from fragile panes.
Stereotypes vanish into the towns,
the old folks at home now
seeking lottery tickets, the placebo
salve of Wal-Mart's low prices.
Roadside religion surrenders
to a plethora of prefab churches,
with billboard sermons threatening
surefire damnation to the unsaved.
I listen again and still I hear
no special music,
just the sorry whine of rusting hinges,
an insolent bluegrass.
Announcing the arrival
of doublewides in every field,
every forest where I first got high,
where I first got hard.

YANG CHU'S POEM 439 - Duane Locke

2008-12-12T12:46:00.002-05:00

A crow hopped from slippery ledge
To slippery ledge in a space where
The waterfall parted and was bleached bright
By the sunlight, the crow was blue.

The crow hopped on the scanty pine
That grew out of a the sparse sand
In a rock crack behind a puff
Of mist, the crow was silver.

I asked the young monk with me,
What is the color of a crow.
I disturbed his concentrated gaze
At his sake in his blue-tinted clay cup,

He annoyed, puzzled, look into
The massive pile of notes he had
Copied from his schooling, he
Said, "A crow is black."

TUNING IN AND OUT - John Grey

2008-12-12T12:46:00.001-05:00

Driving long distance,
I tire of constantly fiddling
with the radio dial,
let the song I don't like anyhow
fade to static, white noise.
Besides, there's a storm
gathering on the horizon,
choking off reception,
and flashes of lightning insist
on broadcasting through
my flapping antennae anyhow.
As tempest FM
bullies the airwaves,
I hum along to humidity,
rolls of thunder, creeping
darkness, shrapnel rain.
The melody, the rhythm,
are as staccato, as scattered,
as violently unstable,
as why I need to drive alone
some days, this many miles
Erratic, my lover calls it.
She says it like a weather forecast.
I hear it like a road map.

No Cups - Pete Richter

2008-12-12T12:45:00.001-05:00

From the bottom step, Hunter
does disagree with distance,
“it was created for the romantics.
everyone comes home in
the same clothes they left in -
Pie in the sky” he said.
So I placed a bowl of lemonade
for him and his biped heart.
I invented him
in the Midwest, balancing
on a curve of chalk
looking down at the valleys.
I attached him
to the river and its flow,
the path home.
I can’t correct the light,
its’ dusk partlets at rest and
I encourage the waltz;
listening to the sprig of the windchimes.
Yellow lenses, I am gradual.
Cedar awning, I am my face.
On the bottom step,
a bowl of lemonade is waiting.
So be home before the windchimes are strings,
grazing the eyebrows of evening.

Twist My Words - Michael Lee Johnson

2008-12-12T12:44:00.000-05:00

I see the spring dance all over your face in green
you were arrogant before you viewed my willow tree
outside my balcony.
Now you wave at me
with green fingers
and lime smiles.
You twist my words,
Harvard collegiate style,
right where you want them to be─
lime green, willow tree, and
dark skinned branches.

Love train with donkey - Harry Calhoun

2008-12-12T12:43:00.000-05:00

Love is like a jackass on a train
how it got there
who bought its ticket
and what it will do next
is anybody’s guess
but if you don’t think
about it too much
it sure is entertaining
and you might not know
where it came from
or where it’s going
but at least it’s going
somewhere

Back in Black - Sandy Hiss

2008-12-12T12:42:00.002-05:00

My brother was sitting on the
porch playing air guitar. His
ears recalling the hard rock of
AC/DC's Back in Black. I always
liked that song but would never
admit it to him.

He would think that he won, this
imaginary battle between metal
and new wave. I begged to differ
as I thought of Duran Duran posing
stylishly on a sailboat in the
caribbean.

They were busy drinking champagne
and eating caviar while his boys
were cavorting in sneakers with
oily hair.

But I couldn't turn away, forget
the power of drums and bass. The
in-your-face lyrics that came in
handy when you were pushed around.
Hands on the ground, trying to
stand up again.

As he finished strumming the last
chord, he looked at me and nodded.
I didn't have to say a word.
He already knew.

Fingernails - Lena Judith Drake

2008-12-12T12:42:00.001-05:00

She has a thumb latched on her hip, mouth turned away.
Cheap makeup smeared, gritty streaks on her face,
her fingers meddle at a scalp and red hair, and she knows—
God exists only in those tendoned movements in this place.
Cheap makeup smeared, gritty streaks; on her face
an inch she rubs at, scratches.
God exists only in those tendoned movements. In this place,
smoke through the inch-open window, broken matches
an inch. She rubs at scratches.
Her fingers meddle at a scalp. And red hair, and. She knows
smoke through the inch-open. Window broken. Matches.
She has a thumb latched on her hip, mouth turned away.

Winter - Julie Yi

2008-12-12T12:41:00.001-05:00

A white sheet unwraps—
Braves the sultry summer and lonely fall.
Its clandestine mask of dark and light,
Seeps like infection through your mind,
Covers the numbing sensitivity of soured thoughts
And acquainted experiences down a list.
When the icicles from your rooftop become ornaments:
The racing thoughts in the atmosphere
Cease its five o’clock traffic and begin to trickle
Like the bored sensations in your brain, or like
Conversation with the one you loved, now lost.
Halt and repair the things you broke and hastily thrown away.
The bitter of cold air: your lids warm your agape eyes,
Starstruck from newfound creations and passing sights.
Brings a natural refrain to the unnatural things,
As your blood is thick, and you resort to the neglected running shoes,
A long-forgotten childhood friend. Take an artless walk,
And feel a genuine breeze.
For running against wind
Under fluorescent streetlights
With the one you think you know
Blinds the eye.

Rock Star - Del Martin

2008-12-12T12:39:00.000-05:00

Shades on, a swagger
As cool as you can be

Strumming your guitar
Singing sweet and slow

Toss your curly hair
Fling the sweat away
Contort, twist the song
Oh the sweet melody

Expressing your soul
Breaking your heart
Out there on the stage
You're all alone inside

A hushed crowd waits
Eyes closed, swaying
The chorus is for them
They sing to touch you

NO, I WILL NOT BE IN ATTENDANCE - Joseph Goosey

2008-12-12T12:35:00.001-05:00

I may or may not be missing

an essential brain component.

I simply could not care less

for the golf tournament taking place

next weekend.

While I do not pray at night

for Tiger's jet to crash,

I wouldn't necessarily

lose my breakfast over it

either.

The traffic that ensues

is unimaginably gruesome.

You're always stopped.

There is always some potbelly in uniform

directed slightly more successful potbellies

into a gravel lot

where I once pretended to be interested

in fireworks.

You just want to get out

of your Camry, walk up to the car

in front of you and say something

about practices in futility.

That, or you just want to get out,

period.

Lo-Fi in the News!

2008-11-11T13:40:00.002-05:00

Lo-Fidelity was in the Rider News!

Check it out here.

More stuff to be posted soon. We thank you for the patience, it has been very busy for us lately.

Corey Meyers - 'Repo'

2008-10-29T15:37:00.004-04:00

I found the Johnny Cash vinyl in the discount bin, sandwiched between an ancient looking Meat Loaf “Bat Out of Hell” and the Soulja Boy remix vinyl. If I wanted to infiltrate a strip club in some backwoods Alabama town and decided to hop on the one’s and two’s, I could easily put those rednecks in a Budweiser-and-tassel induced trance that would result in them either having a little Paradise By The Dashboard Light or the urge to Superman a ho. I took the train into Philly where I read in the paper that a big promoter is throwing a three day festival in Vineland, South Jersey. The brainchild of the same guy who put together Leeds, Reading, Lollapalooza and Austin City Limits festivals is moving to a farm in the ‘docks of Jersey. Blew my mind. It was originally intended for Fairmount Park in Philadelphia. It would have worked at either place, but maybe now South Jersey will get its due. A half suburb half farmland stretch of land that actually has some nice beaches. Over-priced and over-manicured, but you still get the mentality. Peace of mind has a price. Walking up from underground, I have to put on my glasses. Living in a room with no windows really starts to take a toll on the retinas. I made my way past my friends apartment where I usually live on drunk weekends and in between bar crawls in Old City. I’ve slept in the hallway a few nights and I’m not ashamed. I found the record shop on the corner. The thing I love about these used depots, beside the fact that I don’t acknowledge the hundreds of dollars drained into them, is the other audiophiles and nostalgic types. I wish I learned their names. One couple were in this place at least two times a week. Old camo jacket man and his tie-dyed wife. Imagine the husband from Roseanne. Now imagine him in a camo jacket and sweat pant shorts. Finally, throw at least three days worth of facial hair and you got yourself one fine American specimen. His wife looked more like a soccer mom shaman. The kind of lady with the peace sticker on the minivan. I really hope she doesn’t have a “God Bless America” ribbon-magnet on the bumper, but I wouldn’t rule it out. Of what I could gather, they lived in the apartments across the street. They have one son. They also had a soft spot for classic rock and rockabilly vinyl. I’m guessing they had one of those love/hate relationships, only because I would hear his voice rise with his temper, and her trying to quiet him down. Then him getting louder. Her, in turn, finding a rare zeppelin or velvet underground and shoving it in his face. “buy it for me” she would insist.
Why not ask our son to just download it? He would say.
“It’s viiinnyllll, you know it’s different.” Her voice never seemed annoying, kind of flowery if anything. I could see it getting annoying after the first ten years of marriage.
I moved on to the dvd corner. I love the three dollar section. These movies were once in theaters. Agents pulled strings to get their talent on the marquee. The actor’s will tell stories of the Hollywood premiere party when so-and-so got so wasted off mimosa’s she puked orange on the subway on the way back to the apartment. But for now, they’re four for ten dollars
I could hear that the camo guy found the folk section. He pulled up a Dylan “Bringing it all Back Home” album and must have thought back to his at the Vietnam army base coffee shop revolutionary days.
“It’s hard for our son’s generation to see music and artists as an underground political movement. When you had guys like Bob protesting those fascists and singing ‘don’t follow leaders, watch your parking meters’, we would listen and act. With world leaders today acting as crooked as ever, who is going to stand up and speak for the I-pod generation? Damn kids are too scared to”.
I was sorting through movies, but I wasn’t paying attention to the titles. For some reason, I had one band in the back of my mind. Johnny Hobo and the Freight Trains. I could never find his cd’s at any record store or garage sale, but the internet is a force to be reckoned with. The lead singer, Pat the Bunny, hops on trains with his acoustic and plays free shows wherever the tracks take him. He also takes donations, people gotta eat. He’s got the modern day Dylan thing going. He says every good punk is at least part hippy. One line in his song “Jesus Does the Dishes”, says
“And so you're asking me, who does the dishes after the revolution? Well, we do our own dishes now, we'll do our own dishes then. And it's always the ones who don't who ask that fucking question.”
This same guy called Jesus a dirty, homeless, hippy peace activist who said drop out and find God to anybody who would listen.
I wanted to burn that cd and find the camo jacket guy next week and let him know that all hope is not lost. Maybe, just maybe, he would appreciate it. Maybe he would burn it for his son. Maybe his son will stop listening to the radio and actually pay attention to the words. Maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll take the lyrics to heart and hop on the next freight train heading towards California. His parent’s would probably resent me for it. Maybe he’d realize how good he had it back home, so he’d phone his parents and they’d buy him a one way ticket home.
The door opens and a little bell rings, letting people know right away that there is an intruder. A 5’6, 49 year old woman starts coughing dramatically. She then complains about the cigarette smokers outside. The cashier shrugs his shoulders and continues to read his magazine. She asks to speak to the manager, so the cashier points outside to the group of smokers, while one man flicks his butt into the sewer and heads towards the door. I recognized the guy as the manager right away, so I had a front row seat to the show. The woman made a b-line to the back and started looking at the new releases, saving herself further embarrassment. I guess she figured it wasn’t really worth it. I kept flipping through the cd’s.
I dated this girl, she thought she was a poet. She hated my habit. I always had to hear things like “Those cigarettes are just as commercially produced and unoriginal as everything you stand against, yet you find comfort in every prolonged drag, as the smoke wraps around your tongue like the worlds most cancer-ridden security blanket. And don’t get me started on that weed.”
I would just tell her she looked hot when she said stuff like that, and she would roll her eyes. Hey, I wasn’t lying.
So I had a discount funk compilation in one hand and the new Death+Taxes magazine in the other. I headed to the listening section and took a seat. They always have those hair mannequins holding the head phones. Why is it always a woman. Why is the hair always shaved off. It’s not edgy. It’s not controversial.
I was sitting next to a girl in her 20’s. She had short blonde hair. I made a joke about the Madonna album on the wall and she noticed the Guy Ritchie movie next to it. I love a girl who knows her pop culture connections. She was listening to an old Flaming Lips record. I tried to hide what I was listening to. Her mom was next door at the hair salon and she was killing time. The subject of school came up and she found out I went to college. She’s taking time off from school and work and living at home. “It’s so liberating” she said. It sounds like the opposite to me. We talked about the role of teachers versus students. We agreed that most of the police in this town only exist to protect property and meet quotas. We talked about modern authors. Then, like a terrible prophecy, she started talking about holistic medicine, which then, oddly enough, shifted to the Dixie Chicks. She loves the Dixie Chicks. “They’re so brave”. I decided to sabotage this relationship from the get-go. I really don’t like the Dixie Chicks. It wouldn’t have worked out. She’ll want the wedding song to be “Fly”, and if we split up she’d just blast “Goodbye Earl” out of the windows of her Black Jetta, throwing flaming pieces of my mail onto our neighbors lawn.
I needed a good way to end the conversation. She was a partially intelligent waitress taking some “me time”. She worshiped Obama. She had a “Not My President” patch on her hemp backpack. Ladies and Gentlemen, I’ve found my scapegoat. I started talking about my increased involvement with the Republican Headquarters in Trenton and how I really don’t understand the reason behind the Confederate flag being racist.
You should have seen her face.
She started looking around for her things and the once comfortable atmosphere had completely disappeared. Nihilistic is a word often thrown around.
She had to go check on her mom, and I told her I had to get going because my TIVO was broken and there’s a new O’Reilly Factor on.
I was tempted to say Seig Heil and goose step towards the counter, but then I’d blow my cover. Plus, I couldn’t say that shit with a straight face. It cant be hateful if it’s ironic, right?
One thing she said, before the untimely destruction, has stuck with me for a while. Being a student of any kind should make you feel fortunate. Some of the luckiest people are the ones who are able to continually learn, well out of the classroom. They see the world as constantly changing, and work to help others realize their own potential. I appreciated what she was saying, but so many people say that at some point in your life you have to realize how to successfully balance all of your passions and ethics and go to school or get a job and live happily, but more important independently. When she left she hoped in her moms car.
I’m in line behind the camo and tie dye couple and she’s buying the Beach Boy’s “Pet Sounds”. Its on cd though. I’m guessing her excuse is the bonus tracks. I really think she wants to secretly burn it onto her sons computer. Her husband’s choice surprised me. Joy Division’s “Substance” on vinyl. I would love to look at his record collection. Maybe he sells them all. He might actually make a living off of it. Hitting up all the local record stores and selling them at a flea market. My parent’s friend did that throughout college. Made enough money for coffee and cigarettes whenever the mood struck him. No log term goals, sure, but ask him back then if he’d be complaining. I had all these questions and I had to do something. The guy started walking away and the cashier wished him a good night. He stopped and turned to the cashier. He said
“Super perfundo on the early eve of your day”.
This guy was awesome.
“That’s from waking life” I said.
He shot me a smile that reminded me of the time I got a Sega Game Gear one year for Christmas. Like he was expecting someone to pick up on it. The cashier failed his little test. I passed with flying colors.
I threw my bounty on the counter. One Saul Williams cd, a “Funk You Very Much” compilation, and “Old School Soul Party” on VHS. I spent five bucks even. Not bad for a Tuesday afternoon. I threw them all in my backpack and went outside. I saw the couple smoking cigarettes by the trash can, peeling off stickers from their cd’s and whatnot. I introduced myself and we started talking about our collections. His name was George. This here was his wife, Ashley. He invited me over for a drink. It was only three in the afternoon. I told him I had a date down near Penn, but I would smoke one with him. I lit the cigarette and he just jumped right in to it and asked me what I did and what I want to do. I explained my situation to him and what I plan on doing in the next few months, but when it came to years I had no idea. He works for the post office. I asked him if it’s like how Bukowski described it, and he said there’s more alcoholism but not as much isolation. That’s not saying a lot. My cigarette was almost finished. When you hit the ink, you’ve only got a matter of seconds. I knew I had to make an impact on him, so I asked him if he had any advice for the kid working to pay off his school debts and living in the recessed Bush economy with warm Decembers and freak weather storms; and if it’s ok to resent the, as Jeff Rosenstock said it, “Edward Scissorhands village where privileged white kids date rape girls and taunt me in their SUV's”. What he dropped was a knowledge bomb. An egg of smarts right over my dome piece.

I would be expected to say something like “do what makes you happy”, or “look deep inside yourself and you will realize what you enjoy doing most”. But this is bullshit. Ask anyone if they are doing, everyday, what makes them happy. Most of the time, they aren’t. We’re brought up with the mentality or working to live and living to work. We all have debts, bills, and a need for continuous electricity flow. We all have obligations that are greater than our own personal happiness. We all fell incredibly crushed by our own daily obligations. We all have fears of the unknown, just try and explain religion without it. Something like 90% of the people in the world hate their job. Including me. Now ain’t that a shame?
I agreed and asked him if that’s why he seeks out these rare albums and pieces of history - to find an escape. He just nodded. Almost like he was saying “Riiiight, now you get it!” I said I’d probably see him around again and hoped on my bike. I had twenty blocks to go and new music for the ride. Things were looking up. The ride gave me time to think.
Without our need for creativity, or in George’s case his weekly record shop sweeps, we start to lose confidence in the human spirit. The fact that we can create and interact should make us excited! Kinda makes you feel all warm inside, right?
We get caught in the pattern of living for other people. Look at the supposed record shop liberal who darts at the sound of anything controversial. The destruction of our own spirit is only successful in making the shallow people stronger. Simply put: The masses are asses. Don’t read what everyone else tells you to read, or listen to what everyone else is listening to. Don’t speak the same language or have the same outlook. It’s okay to be indifferent. I mean, that‘s how this country was founded, right? But that’s just opening up a whole new can of worms.
I dodged a taxi that was making an illegal left and got my tires stuck in the trolley tracks. The bike stopped, but my body continued moving forward. I landed a few feet away. I was laying on my back looking up, and all I heard was fresh tunes in my headphones. Vitals were good.
Nothing broken.
It was when two people came running out from their row homes to check me out that I realized my mantra. Faith in human kindness is not only genuine, but sensible. Hey, it’s not drastic. It’s not earth-shattering. Wonderful in every sense of the word. Not nice, but hopeful.

Catherine Tassini - 'II'

2008-10-29T15:28:00.001-04:00

And i was shown a simple truth:
The answer lies without.

The whole while i spent inside myself,
looking for more
i never knew
Thant even my freckled, flawed surface holds more truth
than i can grasp
Than the revelation that
the true beauty of this world
Is heard in the divine thunk!
Of random bodies floating through this world
when all at once they clunk! together
And the cacophonic symphony is more than divine

The ocean meets the sky;
Everything is intrinsically united

Catherine Tassini - 'I'

2008-10-29T15:27:00.002-04:00

i lost my idea
But someone else found it.

In the folds of my skin
i stood searching for days and days
Navel gazing
Into the depths i plunged
And into the valley i disappeared
Some people never saw me for lightyears
Did you turn away first or did i?

These accusations do not matter now
in the face of the joy of knowing that
We are gifts to each other.

The immeasureable compassion
Of one hand
Pulling me up to breathe
Finally.

J.R. Pearson - 'Cherry. Cherry. Cross '

2008-10-29T15:24:00.001-04:00

Here, churches have drive-thru's,
prostitutes: business cards with the smell of licorice,
call me! in crimson & a lipstick kiss.

Here, day does not depart,
but dies ostentatiously
clutching it's chest in a casino buffet line,
in jeweled cape pretending to be Elvis,
in a alley behind a strip club
beaten to death in a dumpster.
Here, the moon is a coin
thumbed into the evening slot machine.
When the lever is pulled
it is the gesturing arm of a giant Indian,
the tomahawk celebration of a man,
tux (un)done, in sour sweat-stained frills
and everything coming up desert stars
after champagne uh-huhs.
Here, if the silver he cups in both hands
were splashed on his face
the words he speaks
would be neon.
Phosphorescent holy verse,
a wicked scripture hung next to
breasts boiling
on a billboard,
the Shiva of Las Vegas
that blink/BLINKs
genuflection in fresh eyes of
kneeling
little ones.

David McLean - 'sexy similies'

2008-10-29T15:23:00.000-04:00

and the flesh shall slough away from bone
like love's brittle and fraying lace,
like mist over a morning's mourning lake,
or at any rate like damp diarrhea
a retarded God smeared
over his creation's face

David McLean - 'when you're tired of Stockholm you're tired of death'

2008-10-29T15:20:00.001-04:00

just as autumn falls shall we go
to wherever the ghosts have gone,
nowhere.

we shall be fragments then, just as now
we cannot feel psychosis
in our fingers,

fists, and yet the moon is insane again
tonight, and hangs like a tired
climax in a torrid frozen sky,

in a life dark as the waters
nightmare under ships clutching the brutal
black Baltic, like a body they rape

again. we plow through a tired night
thought like we are tired
of life,

or frightened by time
and darkness and
light

Kate Gurney - 'cycling'

2008-10-29T15:19:00.004-04:00

I know so I am free
at first what is next?
You tell me
never catch a man naked
Nothing closes like fingers
Nothing stretches out as far
as the muscle in your arm
Is that him?
Here he comes
I don't want to be free
But in my head
the door is slamming
and the wolf is undressing
to ask for mother's blessing

Kate Gurney - 'Trip to the City'

2008-10-29T15:19:00.003-04:00

wide eyed under cloud scraped sky
finally half to a whole
We smoked and laughed and circled streets
Withdrew down the platform
No picturesque train scene here
Just grime and hope and hurry
The train tacks sing out a staccato melody
While the fluorescent light show flickers by

You fell asleep in my arms

Kate Gurney - 'Moon'

2008-10-29T15:18:00.002-04:00

On the sidewalk an
Overturned stroller
Like the empty shell
Of a shedding insect
I turn towards what I see
Old traintracks buried in
Pavement still stick up
Like speed bumps
I turn towards what I see
When we are old what do we miss more than skin?
Sun damaged routine
All the songs just for me
You have been, and will sing again
But the moon is new
The moon shines in with pride
In its inconsistency
I see the sun everyday
The moon turns me away

Raul Cortes Jr. - 'Burn'

2008-10-29T15:15:00.002-04:00

fire burns....blue flames within.....

constant explosion.....possible human combustion ready to happen...

on the edge....ready to jump off....like a tossed pin-less hand grenade...

ears bleed from the sound.......as the fire surrounds.....

adrenaline is fed unleaded fuel........a billion gallons.....

the internal humidity puts you to sleep........

oxygen is replaced with clouds of black smoke.....

blood is replaced with ash......

tears turn into blood.......skin starts to bubble.....

hair starts to ignite.......you're in between supernatural strength

or supernatural weakness.....

depends on the fuel....is it pain?......is it anger?.......is it love?.....

the fire is furious & outragous.....out of control......

nothing can stop the growth....except time......

when the fire is in it's prime...

Past Issues

2008-10-23T22:22:00.009-04:00

Issue 1. January 2007. Limited Copies. If you want one, you need to email us.

Issue 2. January 2008. If you want one please contact us.

Issue 3. June 2009. Freshly printed, out now. Get ahold of us for your copy.

Issue 4. August 2009. Featuring work from The Broad Set Writing Collective with special guest Lauren Cerand. Freshly Printed! Get yours now!

B-sides and rarities. November 2007. Out of Print. If you want a copy, we can most likely get one.

Editors

2008-10-23T21:50:00.017-04:00

Head Editor and Founder
Sam was born in the woods along the Northern New Jersey coast in an age of great Darkness: the Reagan years. Surviving the wicked times by eating cast offs from a local pizza shop, Mr. Cicero eventually came into the life of Glen and all was well. Lo-Fidelity came born of the fact that he had little to do during the summer. Since then, he has much less free time.

Fiction/Nonfiction Editor
Andrew Kaspereen detests people who think that writing with no punctuation is anything other than laziness. When asked about himself, Andrew will not shut up, but this quote of his sheds some light: "Once I accidentally ate a firefly that flew into my mouth whilst biting on a 'Nutragious' candy bar." He is from Northwest New Jersey, where plenty, joy, and a little bit of arson can always be in fresh supply. When he grows up, he wants to stop laughing at the word poop. He will be your friend forever unless your name is Glen Binger. If, in fact, your name is Glen Binger, see the first sentence of this biography.

Poetry Editor

Kiley "Keeks" Rummler is from Belmar The Best Place In The Entire World, New Jersey. She enjoys writing poetry but has been dabbling in fiction and non-fiction. She loves the beach, winter clothing (such as hats and scarves), macaroni and cheese, sushi, fall foliage, Sistaa and boys who wear bandana's. She hates lunch meat, the Dallas Cowboys and Sarah Palin.

Fiction/Nonfiction Editor
Glen enjoys Kona coffee and Wawa breakfast sandwiches. Preferably sausage biscuit. He hails from Central Jersey's shore line and attends one of the Garden State's finest college academic establishments. He repz Allenwood General Store's porkroll egg and cheese, canon photography equipment, long hair, lobster knife fights, double clicking the mouse and ride snowboards. His dislikes include mushrooms, Andrew Kaspereen, bennys, seagulls, The New York Ranger's entire franchise, small tubes of spermicidal lube and Florida. Fuck Florida. O yea... he writes stuff, too.

Art Editor
Alex is another epic son the ragged New Jersey coastline, most recently sprawled across Philadelphia and the surrounding counties. He takes solace in large bodies of water, tumbled-down tenements, and long stretches of highway. Favorites include grapefruit juice, neon teal, and magnets.

Submission Guidelines

2008-10-23T21:27:00.006-04:00

Submissions:

Lo-Fidelity accepts fiction, non-fiction and poetry of up to 4000 words. Photos and Art should be as large as possible. There is no limit on the amount of submissions per person, but remember to only send your best and most daring work. We're very open-minded people who are looking for quality, not quantity. Send work by e-mail. We review and try to get back to you as soon as possible.

Documents must be in .doc or .txt files.
Pictures/art must be in .jpeg or .tiff files.

Be sure to label everything. In the subject line please write your name. And make sure you include titles for all of your submissions. (Its okay to be untitled, but let us know.) Make sure you label clearly, too. Don't want to be giving titles to wrong pieces.

Compensation:

We do not currently pay contributors for their work. However, we do provide the author/artist with an advanced copy of the zine. (Due to limited amounts prints and money we can only currently offer one issue. But we're working on it.) And of course, exposure and our everlasting love/thankfulness.

Talk to us:

If you just want to send a shout out - we'd love to hear from you. Any thoughts at all. Good, bad, love, hate. Let us know what we can do. If you want some stickers don't be afraid to ask! We'll mail you some.

Also:

Don't drink soda. It's bad for you.

SEND TO:

lowfidelitysubmit@gmail.com

Welcome to Lo-Fidelity!

2008-10-23T20:08:00.006-04:00

So, what was once in print is now online (much like the rest of the civilized world). So for our fans I have a few things I'd like to explain:

1. Thank you so much for submitting and giving us a lot of encouraging words

2. The reason why we haven't been making zines is complicated. Right before we were set to start the third (and greatest) issue I moved. Since I am a power hungry demon, I had all the stuff. Also, I had most of the printing things with me. When we got to school, I was busier than I thought I'd be, as well as the rest of the crew.

3. So, we will be putting submissions up on here so that we can still showcase all the amazing submissions that we've gotten at this point. There will be a print zine later, but we'll cross that bridge when we get there.

Again, thank you for being so patient with us. It's our first time.

Feel free to check out our MySpace and our Facebook Group as well!

Picture by Lisa Grigouli