01. Writer
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Tylor Sherman

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02. Theme
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Balance

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
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Blue Scholars: Evening Chai

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04. WRITING
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"If you're listening to this, then you're already dead." Joanna tweaks the transformer spool and leans in closer to the lead contact. This is her ninth time talking to the dark empty room and it may be the last time before the packs arrive. She tries again. 

"You're in this room somewhere. I know it." Despite the extraordinary circumstances, this sounds just as stupid on the ninth try as it did the first. "I'm sorry to bother you," she says. "But I need your help."

After what feels like fifteen minutes she unlocks her phone. Three minutes have passed. She fumbles through a stack of paranormal books written by television actors, straining to read in the phone screen light. The static box hums with jumbled radio signals, but there are no voices rolling over the white noise. Those TV shows are bullshit.

"Alright, Mom, where the hell are you?" Joanna's voice shakes with desperation. "You're just as unreliable now as you were when you were here." 

The packs have been seizing north-end neighborhoods for days now, and there's not much resistance up there. Most of those wealthy homes fled before fighting began. Joanna's dorm is in the Blocks, where students can still afford housing. Down there, most of the students stayed. To protest. To move supplies and food around. To fight. 

Joanna's childhood home is between the two worlds, a blurry line between periphery and core. It's far enough to avoid her parents day to day, yet just a two-stop bus ride away. Still, it's been a year since she's been back, and if it wasn't for the insurgency, she probably would've stayed away forever. And she plans to once she gets into that safe. 

Chapter 7 in "Ghost Calls” recommends trigger objects that your dead family members enjoyed or used in everyday life. You want to coax them out, it says. You want to make them comfortable. On the table, she has a jumbled collection of pieces from a sewing kit, no needles. She's seen too many horror movies where the white people invite their own death. Beside the spools of thread she has a nail file buffer block and her mom's favorite cigarettes. There's a mini-golf pencil and a single sheet of lined paper. She worries there's not enough static electricity in the room. She worries she didn't really know her mom that well.

"I'm running out of time Mom," Joanna says impatiently. "You're in here somewhere. You'd never leave this house. This is your chance, let me fucking have it." Chapter 4 discourages provocation. Joanna doesn't care. Two decades of silent treatments and cheap shots was enough. She was happy to let them go, right along with the broken nose and police report. But even in death her mother controls her life, locking Joanna's passport in the safe as ransom just days before the accident.

Now, Joanna has one chance to flee before the insurgents shut down all the airports in the midwest. She's not staying to fight. Who would she fight for? Her roommate said fight for the city, but she hated this city. An education was supposed to help her get out. Now she's relying on junk science and a dead relative to get her back the one affluent possession she owned. She takes a last swig of whiskey, her thumb blistered and warm from rubbing the flask's smooth metal like a worry stone. 

Either fireworks or bullets rattle outside. She pushes away her makeshift microphone and throws the static box against the wall. She closes her eyes and starts to cry but no tears come out. She tries one final death roll before abandoning her dumb idea. 

"Mom. Listen to me. I need you. I am sorry I wasn't who you wanted me to be. Maybe we could've fixed it with time. But we didn’t, okay? I was hurt. I still listen to your voicemails, the mundane ones where you check in or ask me about something you could've just googled. You felt responsible, but this is how you can even it out. Help me, please."

It startles her at first. The sound. The lights. Electronic tones mapped to keypad numbers, lit up in a synchronized dance. 4-5-9-8. Of course.

She hears a click.

The tears finally fill her eyes. 

01. Writer
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Robb Anthony

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02. Theme
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Balance

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
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Cake:
The Distance

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04. WRITING
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I approached the beam and locked eyes with the first guardian. We met in the middle and locked arms. Shoving back and forth I finally bested him when he lost his footing and fell to his death. The second and final guardian stood at the ready, I planted my feet and pushed off. Accelerating at full speed I threw myself at him, taking him with me off of the edge. I was the new king of chicken.

01. Writer
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John Duffy

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02. Theme
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Balance

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
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Alex Cameron:
Politics of Love

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04. WRITING
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White Knight

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

 

Before long children will see
what their parents have hidden in them.

History won’t wait a hundred years to settle accounts,
and the poor will descend on your cities
to satisfy their hungers.

Then I want to see you, amigos of progress.

                                                                                          —Arqueles Morales
                                                                                                                                                                    

CHARACTERS

Michael Marvash - 35
Bill Marvash - Michael’s father, business owner, 65

SCENE— A nondescript restaurant. Downstage center is a table with two chairs. Michael and Bill are enjoying beers.

______

MICHAEL-So any family news?

BILL-Oh, shit. Well, not family news but personal news, I guess. You know that girl I wanted to adopt?

MICHAEL-Yeah, the one whose mom was having trouble?

BILL-Yeah, we were giving the mom propane cause she didn’t have any heat and her trailer park wasn’t doing shit. So, I kinda fudged some info with the county to get her $4000 and we’ve been supplying her with free heat for a while. Anyway, she come in a while back, responding to an ad we placed in the newspaper for the apartment above the office.

MICHAEL-You guys rent that out? I thought it was just like two small rooms and a bathroom?

BILL-Yeah, it is, but we figured, shit, let’s rent it. So this gal come in and I’m like, hey, you’re Heaven’s mom, right? That’s her daughter’s name, Heaven. And she was like yeah, that’s right. I’m here about the room. So we rented it to her and she was up there for probably six months. Anyway— think you know where this is going.

MICHAEL-Oh, god. Lemme guess. Things didn’t work out.

BILL-Well Child Protective Services was on her ass something terrible, so we hooked her up with all sorts of dishes and stuff from Target. Things seemed cool and CPS cooled down, so we figured everything was OK. But then money started going missing downstairs and we were like, shit, Who’s the thief?  Brandon, my yard guy, found out about these cameras that you can use with your phone, so we set one up and sure enough, she was breaking in downstairs in the middle of the night and fuckin stealing everything out of the cash drawer! Shit, we lost a lot of money.

MICHAEL-So, what happened? You kicked her out? So what?

BILL-We kicked her out, but… [beat]I wanted to do everything I could to get her to stay with her daughter. That kid of hers was the sweetest kid. Debbie and I were gonna adopt her, too. Shit, we were actually gonna adopt her and take her home with us so the mom could get herself together and have a stable place. Deb even said it might strengthen our marriage.  You know, help us to refocus or something.

MICHAEL-OK, but what happened after she got kicked out?

BILL-Well, I’ve kinda been supporting her for a while.

MICHAEL-Like, how long?

BILL-A while...

MICHAEL-OK, so where is she now?

BILL-Well, she was living in some other apartment nearby, and things got to be pretty good. I always wondered about her friends—you know, some of them were pretty rough. But she managed to get a car somehow. Someone else musta helped her, and she managed to get some furniture and some of the shit you need when CPS workers come through to make sure that you’ve got a stable place. So they came through and this gal was ready. Everything looked good and she got to keep Heaven.

MICHAEL-If her friends were kinda shady, how did she manage to get a car and furniture for the apartment?

BILL-I dunno...

MICHAEL-OK, you obviously bought it all for her. Why did you do that?

BILL-I may have had something to do with it. But anyway, this gal was in trouble and she needed some serious help. 

MICHAEL- Oh my god, but you—

BILL-You know those funds you see on TV? Give to this place and they’ll help people? That’s all bullshit. Total fucking scam. I figure, just reach out to people individually and help out, you know? Reach them directly. So I helped this gal, and things were looking pretty good.

MICHAEL-So where is she now?

BILL-Well, my buddy who's a Flint cop called a few weeks ago, middle of the night. Ugh! He said, man, I hate to do this to ya, but this gal’s seven months pregnant and she’s sleeping on bare concrete tonight. We picked her up and she needs some help. The apartment’s in your name, so is there anything you can do? I said shit, called my bail bonds guy, got her outta there. Cost me about $1500 bucks.

MICHAEL-Holy shit, what? You bailed this woman out of jail? You have a bail bonds guy?!

BILL-I know. I know! It looks bad, but she’s seven months pregnant and she’s in fuckin jail. I mean, Christ, what are you gonna do? You’re able to help someone, you help ‘em. So she got out, and she settled back into her place. Few months later she had her kid. His name was AJ.

MICHAEL-Was CPS involved? I mean it seems like they would be.

BILL-Well, she had a tough relationship with them. She said she’d never let them come and take her kid and sure enough, she was dropping dirty and they knocked on her door one night. She was fuckin dropping dirty and she’d been droppin dirty for a while. That means she wasn’t passing her drug tests.

MICHAEL-I gathered that, yeah.

BILL-I mean she had to give regular samples to the state and she was dropping dirty, so they came. And before they could get to the point where they were gonna take the kid, she packed her shit up and went to Alabama.

MICHAEL-Wait, what? she just fuckin uprooted everything and moved to fucking Alabama? Does she have family down there or something?

BILL-Family, friends, yeah, I guess. Someone down there was helping her out. It was tough for her. Her son is, eh, Afro-American, and she was trying to get away from the baby daddy as much as CPS, so Alabama seemed like a good bet. But she was only there for a few weeks. On my way home from Florida last week, she called me out of the blue, wanted to know if I wanted to take the long way back to Flint, drive through Alabama and meet up.

MICHAEL-Jesus, I bet you actually did that, too.

BILL-No way, couldn’t take things that far. Anyway, by the time I was loading the truck up to drive back home, she called me again and said she was back in Michigan. Real erratic sounding, too, like something was wrong. I told her we’d meet up when I got back and we set up a time to sort things out. She said she was worried about CPS and that she’d kill anyone who ever took her kids from her. Anyone who even tried to take her kids away, she’d kill em. She said it just like that. That’s when I said, whoa, I don’t know about this program. I gotta get off a this porch, if you know what I mean. So I said we’d meet up in Michigan, but I wasn’t really cool with this new thing about killing people, you know? Something was up.

MICHAEL- So is she back in the apartment now?

BILL- I got a call… [long pause] from a state cop. Monday night. He said the landlord of the apartments called him, said someone had kicked the door in. It was the baby daddy. He’d come by, and… [struggling]

MICHAEL-And what?

BILL-She’s dead.

MICHAEL-Jesus, what!? You just learned about all of this three nights ago?

BILL-[crying now] She’s dead. Guy killed her. Apparently the neighbors heard everything going down. He went in there, evening time, and around 3am someone finally called the cops. Neighbors said they thought it was some kinda fuck fest thing going on, but this guy raped the shit out of her and killed her before taking off. Cops said there was heroin all over the place, stains on the walls, everything.

MICHAEL-Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Do you think—

BILL-So, I called Brandon, got him and his helper buddy Zach to go over there and replace the door. They had to replace some louver doors inside, too. Landlord was real cool about it, didn’t say anything and let us get out of the lease. We still had seven months left on it too, but they were like, just pay us for the rest of the month and get the fuck out of here. I just threw down bills, glad they were willing to work with us. Brandon’s carpentry work was great, but he told his gal friend who just so happens to be Debbie’s sister. Shit! I was like, to Zach when we were at work, I was like Zach, I gotta bone to pick with your boss. How the hell did he tell Debbie’s sister about the apartment? Zach was like, Shit man, Brandon said: Hey, Bill’s got me over at that murdered woman’s apartment changing out doors’ and then she was like, ‘What?’ And then he told her. So that’s how it went. Debbie knew, so it wasn’t like—I mean she knew about this gal, she just didn’t know about the apartment and everything else.

MICHAEL-She knew that you were supporting this person but she didn’t know the extent to which you were supporting her?

BILL-The extent, yeah. She didn’t know, but she’s a very understanding person and she was cool with it. She just said, damn Billy, I just hope that kid of hers doesn’t look like you! Ha! Can you believe it? After all that.

MICHAEL- Eek. So this whole thing just played out over the last few days? Where are her children? Where’s the boyfriend?

BILL-They’re with foster care. The guy’s on the run. [beat] I went over there, to the apartment, when Brandon and Zach were finishing up, and I looked around, looked at how they were living. It was awful. Shit everywhere. They even had bills that they’d rolled up, like, for narcotics and shit. [imitates what he believes is doing narcotics] I took one that was rolled up with a rubber band and I put it in my desk drawer at home—

MICHAEL-Why the hell would you do that!? You touched it? The coke bill? Isn’t that, like, something the police have to catalogue or something?

BILL-I kept it as a reminder. I gotta stop helping people. I gotta stop this shit. I gotta get balanced out. Kill this white knight shit. Kill the horse. Sell the armor. I’m not helping anyone anymore. I can’t do this. Only family.

MICHAEL-Well, I think—

BILL-Only family, everyone else, fuck ‘em. You’re on your own.

MICHAEL-Look, you remember that time that that rock band from California came through town? They were in that RV and they came by because they had a propane leak and another three weeks on the road. Their fridge, cooktop, none of that worked. You remember? You worked underneath that RV for two hours to fix a ruptured hose, you refilled their tank, and you only charged them cost on the propane. It was like six bucks. For better or worse, this is what you do. You help people in trouble.  To give that up because of this whole thing would be a mistake. Plus, no one in your family needs the kind of help you’re talking about. We should be thankful for that, if anything.

BILL-[Lost in thought] A gal came in the other day looking for a storage unit. I was like, OK. She got one. I gave her a deal. Then she said her chimney was collapsing, needed a guy. So I called Brandon, and he went out to her place and said it’d be like five grand. So she came back in and said she needed help moving her furniture. I was like, sorry, honey, I don’t know anyone. Maybe you can call your friends. I mean shit, can you believe it? I can’t help ‘em, man. I can’t help ‘em. None of ‘em.  Next day I told Brandon about her wanting help, and you know what? He congratulated me for saying no. Said if she wanted stuff, she could get a job like the rest of us. Make an honest living, that kind of thing.

MICHAEL-How did that make you feel?

BILL-Good. It was good. I paid him a little extra for his trouble, which he seemed to appreciate. He’s almost done paying off that piece of shit truck I sold him, too. You know I made a grand on that deal? Spiffed it up, sold him the note and he’s making payments. Said I shoulda charged him more! Seriously? Can you believe it? I’m not too concerned, anyway. I’ll get it out of him. I’ll get it out of him.

[Fade out. Curtain falls.]

01. Writer
–

Benjamin Champagne

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02. Theme
–

Balance

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
–

Prefuse 73:
Pagina Dos

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04. WRITING
–

Balance Exposition

Absence Gallons Talons Happens Chaplains Actions Adams Dragons  Wagons Captains Athens Albums Captions Rations Passions Atoms Cannons Saxons Barons Cabins Fashions Mansions Sanctions Fractions Spasms Canyons fathoms stallions phantoms tantrums canons saddens falcons palance vallance counterbalance assassins companions contractions distractions transactions attractions imagines battalions italians examines infractions contraption abandons medallions extractions silence semblance parlance agence larrance orgasms

There it is.
(That’s how we start and end a stream of consciousness)

Do you feel out of sorts?
Is the feeling that maybe, things aren’t right?
Spinning plates.

Looking for a good time call,
Maslow.
Call yr preacher.
Call the alien.
Call inside yourself and answer yourself.
Run your hand along a felt wall.
Run your hand along a thigh.
Answer yourself.
Absence.

I saw the scales of justice without her blindfold
2018 and i’m on the internet.
I have over 25 tabs open and I’m learning so much.
I look into all of their eyes.
Weighing is no longer the concern.
I run my hand along the mouse.
Answer yourself.
I type it in.
Answer yourself.
22,000 results.
The first three are paid for.
Click
Answer yourself.
Time well spent. Everything has been imagined.
Thought of beforehand.
One million pixels. One million queries.
3.2 a second.
Answer yourself, chattering away in your head.
Always looking for a good time,
Answering yourself.
On this side there are infinite options
On the other side is simply a mirror
            That you can reach your hand into
            And answer yourself

01. Writer
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Alexander Nixon

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02. Theme
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Balance

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
–

Howard Shore:
Hope Fails

From the Return of the King soundtrack

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04. WRITING
–

The journey to Avalon

Thus did man fall into delusion His ashes flayed on the barren landscape
Now only a hollow castle of rubble
His soul still haunts the courtyard
A beast still ravages the donjon tower
Eating the flesh of stray adventurers 
A lone mage encounters a group of knights
and is annihilated
A ruinous famine plagues the land
A kingdom in peril from dark aberrations 
A lava vein bursts forth from the back stone wall of a hilltop cathedral
engulfing the high priest in magma before pouring out the gothic entrance and down the steps into the village
A panic stricken population run in terror as the gates to hell open into the various corridors and streets
A lava fissure cracks open the ornate fountain in the town square engulfing many towns folk instantly
Mass hysteria reigns supreme
At night the voices of giant monsters can be heard 
The roads are full of dark omens and shrieking terrors  
Evil men with greed in their eyes murder gentile wayfarers 

View fullsize

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01. Cover Artist
–

David Beuthin

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02. Theme
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Balance

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
–

Protomartyr:
Maidenhead

01. Writer
–

Jason Kotarski

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02. Theme
–

Cells

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
–

The Lillingtons:
Black Hole in My Mind

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04. WRITING
–

He sat at the small desk in the the corner of his bedroom surrounded by crumpled wads of paper with a fresh blank page in front of him. The desk was a hand-me-down from his older brother and it felt too small. When he adjusted himself in the chair he banged his knee hard on the underside of the single drawer in the desk. He sighed, rubbed his knee, and then sharpened his pencil. Again.

The young man couldn’t understand why this was so difficult. He could see the entire story in his mind: the wormhole, the spacecraft spinning out of control, the pilot waking up battered and bruised with stubble on his face from a beard that wasn’t there before the event, the cage he was in, a cell among row after row of other cells, the prison planet, the escape.

It was all there but he couldn’t figure out how to get started. The story wasn’t just about the details and events that occurred, it was about the feeling of being trapped but safe. About feeling alone yet curious. It was about being courageous. He tried and tried to write that opening sentence but every attempt ended up discarded on the floor.

He doubted himself. Maybe what he wanted to say wasn’t worth saying. Who would read it anyway? But then again, maybe it wasn’t for the readers anyway. Maybe it was just for himself.

He looked up from the desk and glanced around his room. The walls were covered with posters from his favorite movies; his favorite comic book characters; his favorite bands. These pictures gave him comfort, a stark contrast from the images on his brother’s walls; athletes and swimsuit models. These walls wore his passions like tattooed skin. He felt mostly out of place in the world. But not here in this space he’d created for himself from reclaimed furniture and pages torn from magazines.

He felt safe in his isolation but he knew that maybe there was something else out there for him. If he could just get his story started then maybe they would understand. Maybe he would understand. But how to begin?

With another look around his room for inspiration his eyes landed on the guitar he got for his last birthday. He wadded up the last piece of paper that was sitting on the desk. He tossed it towards the trash can but missed. He moved across the room. He picked up his guitar. He sat down on the bed.

He had an idea for a song.

01. Writer
–

Edward Dolehanty

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02. Theme
–

Cells

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
–

Postmodern Jukebox feat. Nicole Atkins:
Heroes

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04. WRITING
–

From a crack in the concrete ceiling a light shines through, only a sliver, smaller than my breath, and smaller even still than my body has become. The light fills me with warmth, my skin pulsates in the radiating heat. I stayed awake all night knowing that it may well be the last time I gaze upon the sun, even if indirectly. I am in awe of the splendor, and I think of your smile, unchanged. Be it while basking in the sun, or in the face of fear. As the bullets whizzed above our heads, you clasped your fingers around mine. As smoke filled the air, all I could see was your smile. Your courage felt like victory. Even when we were separated.

Even when I was captured.

If you never meant to save me, know that you still did. That you were my hero. A beacon of stolen time and lasting love that I carried with me through all of this, and that I shall continue to bare, even in the next life.

The sliver of light fades from a crescent to little more than a single ray of heat. I gasp as if the air is thinning and swell with anxiety as I say my goodbye. I feel blessed for this opportunity, to feel human, to bathe in the sun, even if only through a crack. Yet, I feel cursed, because I am certain that I will never see your smile again.

All is dark again, but it does not take long for the sound of the latch followed by the sound of concrete on concrete. Sterile light pours in rancid and fluorescent, it stings my body and assaults my senses. It is as if I can smell the light, and it reeks of death, and I know why. I stand to greet them, but no words are spoken, only a bucket of water thrown to ensure that I am awake. I do not expect to be fed, I know for them there is no point. They have made their perception of my place in this world clear: far beneath their own, far beneath dignity, worthy of only extermination.

You are there with me, the same look upon your face as before, like a constant state of disbelief that mirrors my own. It is like when I was with you the first time, feeling shocked at finally seeing and being seen. Innocently, from the corner of your lips it spread across your glowing reddened cheeks and into your eyes beaming courage and victory. You tell me that it is time, and any fear that I was holding onto dissolves. I hardly even remember that I do not have a choice in the mater.

Still without words I follow them gingerly. They do not point their guns at me, they do not even look at me. We have finally come to an understanding, we can see the finality of our situation, or at least how it is going to end for me, and we have both decided that there is no reason to delay. They cannot see you, but you are walking by my side from windowless corridor to windowless corridor. The walk is shorter than I expected it to be, but I am grateful because even the few steps I am taking are exhausting. When we stop at the steel reinforced door I am nearly out of breath, but you are still with me.

The passage opens, and they shove me through. As if there were a magic barrier the apparition that has comforted me so disappears and I am alone, but it does not last. In the room before me there is only one direction to go, forward onto a wooden scaffold painted black, though chipping. With each step I take the wood creaks beneath my feet as if the floor is already poised to fallout from beneath me. At the edge of the platform I see that I have an audience, men dressed in black. I look out into the crowd, into their eyes one after the other, but I never see their faces. All I can see is you, smiling. I am so glad to see your expression that I do not notice as the rope falls around my neck, or when the floor at last gives out beneath me.    

01. Writer
–

Stephen Wisniewski

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02. Theme
–

Cells

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
–

Prince:
I Wanna Be Your Lover

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04. WRITING
–

Prince died of an accidental overdose of the opioid pain medication fentanyl. He had lived for a long time with severe chronic pain from a double hip replacement that was required as a result of years of performing on stage in high heels. That sounds more pedestrian and mild than it should, but it seems in poor taste to qualify debilitating chronic pain by saying that both the performances and high heels were absolutely fucking magnificent. You can see footage of Prince rehearsing with his band The Revolution in 1984, crafting a stage show, doing the splits, sliding, dancing, earning the shit out of all that pain. Making it beautiful.
It was explained to me as I signed a stack of consent forms that I would be given fentanyl as part of an anesthetic cocktail to induce twilight sedation – a fanciful-sounding term that meant that I would not be fully unconscious, but would be sedate enough to allow the procedure to go smoothly, and allow me to wake up free of any memory of what had happened.
And so the last thing I remember is playing Prince’s “I Wanna Be Your Lover” in my head as they shot fentanyl into my IV.

Not very long ago, I learned that I have a genetic mutation that indicates a high risk for early forms of gastrointestinal cancer. My mother found out she had it by accident, and her diagnosis came with a form letter that would let family members know that such a thing existed, and that they could also be tested for it. I had a 50/50 chance of also containing this malfunctioning gene. And it was easy to discover that I did. And so the only thing to do was to be put under twilight sedation and thoroughly scoped from both ends of my body to see what my cells had been up to. I’d never presented any symptoms and had always been in excellent health, so there was every reason to believe that my cells were behaving. There was every reason to expect they might not find anything.

What they found while I was drifting in twilight were lots of polyps. Lots of little places that my cells had decided that they would experiment with division, for no other reason than the fun of it; no other reason than that they knew all along that they must. They were just following the instructions they were born with.
Doctors removed them on the spot, but there were so many growths that I still need to go back again to get the biggest ones, the ones that were so unexpected that doctors hadn’t safely prepared to address them.
When I woke up, a nice person was there to explain all of this to me. They explained that given my particular genetic glitch, each tiny cellular experiment that they removed came with a 70% chance of becoming cancerous if it wasn’t identified and addressed. I would be doing this once or twice a year now for the rest of my life. And then I made an appointment for my follow-up procedure.

This is not an emergency. Not right now. Right now it’s an inconvenience.
This is nothing like twenty years ago, when I would be regularly shaken out of sleep by my lover’s father to hear that she had spiked a fever in the night, and that we needed to go to the hospital immediately, because her blood might be septic. I was living with them, staying in her sister’s old bedroom that now housed dozens of porcelain dolls made by her grandmother, and now also housed me. She had leukemia, and her blood cells were doing all kinds of dangerous experiments. I’d get shaken awake often, and every time, it would mean that she would live in the hospital for two weeks. We would all watch the same movie on TV over and over again. I’d eat the desserts off her tray that she was too sick to eat anyway. I would help to keep a spiral notebook, recording everything that went into or came out of her, so that we could all imagine that there was some rationality to this insane body horror. I was glad to do what little I could, because we were in love.

Twenty years later, when I emerged from twilight, she was there, as strong as I was sleepy. We are in love. I still had Prince somewhere in my head.

I am fine. But as someone who has been lucky enough to have stayed largely out of hospitals and general anesthesia, to suddenly encounter the thing that might kill me was…strange.
Because it’s not out there – probably not, at least. Not a knife point, or alligator, or airplane debris. The call will come, so to speak, from inside the house. Our cells now continue to do the millions and millions of things that, in aggregate, make us all exist as bodies that walk and talk and take up space in the world. And then, perhaps, some of our cells will decide that it’s time to do some wild thing that was in them to do all along. Divide into infinity. Experiment with destroying each other, or themselves. Follow instructions.

01. Writer
–

Eric Doucette

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02. Theme
–

Cells

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
–

Pedro the Lion:
Slow and Steady Wins the Race

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04. WRITING
–

If the universe is ever-expanding, then what is it expanding into?
Is it a void?
Then what happens to the void?
Is it taken into our universe?
So, is it part of our universe?
Where are we now?

Does it happen along time's path?
Or, over you, does it pass?
Have you been strayed upon this planet?

Is it your attacker in the dark?
Everything evil known for
Misanthropic optimism for your
foreboding situation.

Could it be you?

01. Writer
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Jonathan Diener

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02. Theme
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Cells

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
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Hot Snakes:
Candid Cameras

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04. WRITING
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I don’t know exactly how it happened or honestly when it happened, but it did. It did and it’s terrifying. I don’t know how I’m writing this without them seeing, especially if I’m the one seeing it too. I don’t have much time, so I’ll make this brief: the future is here and we’re all fucked.

The ocular implants were the logical extension of Bluetooth technology. The sweaty monsters at the gym and the runners were sick of wires getting in the way while they listened to music and worked on their god-like physiques. The rest of us—we never asked for it—riding the subway or sitting in coffee shops followed suit. I guess it wasn’t that bad—at least at the time.

Then having to hold your cell phone to look at it instead of pretending to pay attention to your friends, families, clients, bosses, etc. became too daunting of a task for our feeble humanoid forms. When the tech came out to see your phone’s operating system directly through your line of sight… well, I knew it would take off. And so did the investors. Those evil fucks.

We were already paying close to $2,000 for our phones and their plans every few years, but implants were cheap—like, REALLY fucking cheap in comparison. We started seeing the major companies fading out and then Facebook developed FaceFone. While we were laughing at the dumbest name in history, the company was getting ready to take over the world.

Soon YouTube, SnapChat, all of the social media apps weren’t at your fingertips—they were hard-wired to your brain. Worried about a hacker getting a hold of your credit card information? What about your social security number? Now imagine them hacking into your memories, your thoughts, your motor functions. It was about a year into FaceFone when we started hearing about the kids in Russia bombing capital cities. Senior citizens in retirement homes in Florida setting the buildings on fire and locking themselves in. You thought cat videos were annoying? You thought telemarketers were the end of the world? Imagine never being able to turn off advertisements in your own head. We couldn’t do anything to stop it.

They had our information and instead of simply controlling our lives they started taking them one by one. Population control.

Advances in technology gave us electricity, but in the wrong hands, we get a nuke. We’re in the next revolution and it all started with those shitty glass rectangles glued to our hands. They were always filming us, listening to us and tracking everything. Now they know everything about us and we’re defenseless.

Oh god, I don’t think I have much time left. So if you’re listening, please, I need you to know that if you’ve ever had the juicy, cheesy, iconic Big Mac it’s alright if you want to start smaller. The new Mac Jr. is a single patty with no middle bun. Available for a limited time. I’m lovin’ it.

01. Writer
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Chris Thibodeau

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02. Theme
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Cells

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
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Moses Sumney:
Don’t Bother Calling

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04. WRITING
–

I really should put this thing down.

How does something so insignificant have such a stronghold on my downtime?
I check it just before bed and immediately after waking.
On the couch, in the bathroom, right before driving long distances, and after I’ve arrived.
I even check it while my laptop powers up.

Like something important has actually happened in the last 10 minutes.

Do they call it a cell phone because we are imprisoned by them?

I remember when this luxury was not even an option. Utilizing pay phones, collect calls, answering machines, and pagers we communicated just fine, it just took longer.

When I was in drivers training, I would call my mom collect to let her know when to pick me up.

Will you accept a collect call from: “Comegetme”?

Charges declined.

There’s no denying the convenience, but you cannot ignore the potential consequences.

With great power, we ignore our responsibilities.

Endless distraction, instant disconnection.

Is there any hope that we will ever be free? Or, will we become so dependent on this technology that we eventually implant it into our bodies?

True cellular technology.

01. Writer
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Brian Stout

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02. Theme
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Cells

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
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Constantines:
Soon Enough

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04. WRITING
–

“Years from now, they will make water from the reservoirs of our idiot tempers.”

In "Soon Enough" by Constantines, the expectant father paces from room to room, praying for a daughter, because women are winning the tournament of hearts. He is gifted with a son, and he jumps ahead many years to think about this child as a man.

I imagined fatherhood through this song, a highpoint on a beautiful record about the lives most of us lead, quietly remarkable feats like working all the time and loving our families. I never imagined specific characteristics about my hypothetical son, except that maybe he’d look like me or that we might run through the backyard making movies on a Saturday afternoon. Not even what his likes and dislikes might be.

The cells my wife and I shared would make him, and that those cells would make him perfect.

But what do you do when cells don’t act right, when they don’t cooperate?

News of my wife’s pregnancy came at the end of a year-long struggle of tests, treatments, and monthly disappointments, the day after we had our initial consult for IVF. In our thirties, we felt the clock ticking, despite the headlines on Us magazine and others assuring us that we had at least 20 more years of prime baby-making ahead of us.

My wife sent me a text of a pregnancy test. “Pregnant,” it read. I immediately packed up my things and headed home to celebrate. From visions glimpsed during prayers, we were certain we were going to have a little girl. It’s what we knew. Our hearts told us. We thought God told us.

Expectant parents only want to hear one thing: Your baby is healthy. Nothing to worry about. Your cells and his cells got along fine and now you’ve made this little being who will change at least two lives forever, likely more.

On the morning of my wife’s first ultrasound, we were surprised to learn four things.

1.     The little girl we had seen in our dreams was going to be a little boy.

2.     Our little boy would have Down syndrome, which we knew next to nothing about.

3.     A condition called a hygroma was threatening his precious little life. The next few weeks would be critical, but there wasn’t much that could be done to increase the odds of his survival.

4.     The hospital staff expected that we would decide to end the pregnancy.  

Our cells made something unexpected. Something scary and anxiety-inducing. We were angry and terrified rather than elated and excited. This after all those tests, all those medications, all those tears.

Other couples spent their days painting nurseries and collecting gifts. My wife spent a month counting kicks in her stomach while we tried to come up with a name for our little boy. We wondered if we should carry on with the baby shower plans, if we should pick out a name. We also began our research on Down syndrome. We had nearly all the joy of expecting a child sucked from our lives. The life the song made me imagine seemed to be gone.

Thankfully, the hygroma shrunk by the end of the summer, and we were able to look forward to the birth of Noah again. We made it through the worst part. We would be able to call his name and hold him. And that was enough at that point. We had his whole life to learn about Down syndrome.

On October 24, 2013, Noah Grey entered the world smiling. He has many of the expected struggles for an individual with Down syndrome, but he also has remarkable health and an indomitable spirit.

He brings joy every day. He loves dinosaurs, music (anything from “Uptown Funk” to Chance the Rapper), and Up. He drives his little sister crazy. He has impeccable manners. He gives the most amazing hugs. He’s learning to swim and playing t-ball.

Soon enough, work and love will make a man out of him. I’ll get to have those conversations. I’ll get to be there for his firsts. The cells that initially made our world come crashing down found another way forward. And it’s a beautiful path.

01. Writer
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Sam Moore

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02. Theme
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Cells

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
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They Might Be Giants:
Cells

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04. WRITING
–

I was heating up a cup of ramen noodles when another version of myself popped out of a wormhole in the trash can of my kitchen. The trash can had started shaking as if a small critter had stumbled into it and was rifling through for scraps. More curious than scared, I removed the lid and looked inside. There was no trash bag full of trash, just a layer of undulating space/time that had filled it like liquid. It was bright and swirling, a celestial bucket of weird soup. The portal glowed and lit up the kitchen in a strange, green light. Then, a hand reached out from beneath the layer of swirling mass and out climbed myself.

“Oh, hey. What’s up?” Other Self said after tearing through the fabric of reality and climbing out of my garbage. Other Self looked a lot like me, except his skin was a pallid blue and his eyes lacked pupils. Other than those minor differences, it was pretty close. He wore a black shirt with a skull on it like a real badass.

“Not much,” I said. “Just making some ramen. You’re me, right? Are you from another reality or something?”

Other Self scratched his chin in contemplation. “No, that’s not exactly right. You’re not far off, though. I am you, in a sense. In order to accurately explain what’s going on here, I will have to ask you two questions. One, are you familiar with the concept of cellular death and regeneration? And two, can I scoop a bite of them noodles?”

The microwave beeped and I removed my 39 cent cup of noodles. Steam was rising out of the paper cup. I blew on it to cool it down and considered Other Self’s question. It was kind of a weird thing to ask me after showing up out of nowhere. I handed over the paper cup of cheap noodles to Other Self, which he graciously accepted.

“No, I can’t say I know too much about cells. What does that have to do with anything, though?”

Other Self swirled up a chunk of noodles onto his fork. He took a bite before they had properly cooled, burning the hell out of his mouth. The noodles dribbled out of his scalding mouth and down his chin back into the cup like a cascading waterfall of worms. He yelled “shit” very loudly several times before answering my question.

“It’s like this,” Other Self finally said after letting his tongue cool down. “The idea is that every seven years, all of your cells gradually die and are subsequently replaced by new ones. In theory, this would mean that the you you are now isn’t the you you were in the past. Cell for cell, strand for strand, a different creation altogether. At least, that’s the common belief. It’s sort of an urban legend. It’s not exactly true, but it’s close. Not all of your cells die and get replaced every seven years. Most of them do, but never all, and not in seven years. Still, the idea is pretty interesting, don’t you think? You’re basically an entirely new being every several years.”

I leaned back against the kitchen counter and took a good look at Other Self. “I think I follow. But what does this have to do with you popping out of a wormhole in my trash?”

Other Self blew on a forkful of cheap-ass noodles and shoveled them, successfully this time, into his mouth. “Cause that’s what I am,” he said with his cheeks full, pointing the fork back at himself. “I’m a version of you that is made up of old, dead, replaceable cells. All of those cells die and go to a realm where we form into Other Self’s of You. I’m an amalgamation of a bunch of your Past Self. A blended up, mix-matched, schmorgesborg of old cells that took this form.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” I said.

“Dumb stuff is cool,” Other Self said with a straight face. “But you’re missing the point. I teleported through your garbage to deliver a message to you. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”

“Alright. If it’s so important, and you traveled all this way, I will hear you out.”

Other Self opened our fridge and stuck his head in. He certainly liked to make himself at home. I heard some items being shuffled around recklessly as he searched for whatever it was he needed so badly. Other Self emerged with a can of beer in each hand. He cracked one open, letting it fizzle loudly before taking a large, slow glug. He emptied the first can in one go and let out an exaggerated sigh like the cheap piss-water he just downed was the most refreshing cup of life-giving nectar he had ever tasted. Then he moved onto the second can.

“You’ve forgotten something important,” he said, leaning against the fridge. “You remember me very well, actually. You remember all the little, stupid, embarrassing things I’ve done. You remember the mistakes. Those random memories of wholly insignificant moments that drive you nuts when they wash up on your cognitive shore like trash. You remember the confusion, and trying to figure out who you were. Who you are. But you’ve forgotten this: you’re not me. You can learn from me, from those mistakes, but you’re not me. You’re literally a different being altogether, remember? And if I have to show up every now and then to remind you of this, I will.”

I stared back blankly, my mind scavenging around for the appropriate response. Other Self waited patiently while I processed everything that had happened in these past few minutes, trying to find the right words.

“Give me that beer” is what I landed on.

Other Self handed it over and I took a swig, letting its icy coldness burn my throat. It tasted like acid rain that traveled through city gutters directly into a metal can.

“Why do we even drink this?” I asked Other Self.

“Because a 30-rack costs like five bucks and we’re broke,” he responded, burying his head back into the fridge to grab more. He was right.

“I’m glad you showed up,” I said. “I think I needed to hear that.”

“Of course you did. That’s why I showed up. You know, like I already explained.”

I downed the rest of the alcoholic gutter water and put the empty can next to growing collection on the kitchen counter. “So what are you gonna do now? Just head back to whatever dimension of Past Selves you came from?”

Other Self shrugged. “Nah, I think I’m gonna stick around for a while. You wanna get drunk and play video games?”

“Obviously,” I said.

01. Writer
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Michelle Lukezic

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02. Theme
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Cells

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
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Chon:
Perfect Pillow

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04. WRITING
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Mind the partition.
Alone in a cavity bounded by space.
Converting your energy into my electricity.
Autonomous and self-replicating. 
A quiet unfilled rectangle in a messy spreadsheet.
I own a section of our geography,
where atmosphere behaves as one.
A defined existence.

01. Writer
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Robb Anthony

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02. Theme
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Cells

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
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Man Man:
Van Helsing Boombox

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04. WRITING
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trapped and betrayed
slapped in cuffs
left in this cave

no sight, no sound
like a dog in a pound
about to be put down 

life and the like are all gone
look to the walls and the marks I’ve drawn
and what you’ll see is its less than three

01. Writer
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George Lukezic

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02. Theme
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Cells

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
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U2:
Beautiful Day

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04. WRITING
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What it is Worth

I am just a niche

A portion

A part of

Without me the Greater Mass goes on

But with me things could change

Just by one action in my life that is all

In the end we all end up in a tomb

A vault

A chamber

But maybe my life meant something to the Greater Mass

01. Writer
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Bill Cleveland

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02. Theme
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Cells

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
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Clown Core:
Google Your Own Death

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04. WRITING
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We have been given
A ruined and fetid world,
Yet beauty still grows.

View fullsize

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01. Cover Artist
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Bryce Mata

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02. Theme
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Cells

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
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Radical Face:
Welcome Home

01. Writer
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Carl Mizell

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02. Theme
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Disappear

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
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The Dismemberment Plan: 
The Face of the Earth

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04. WRITING
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I have an awful confession to make.

I have been with my wife for ten years, and in that time, we have managed to create a clear channel of communication. There is nothing we cannot tell each other. Well, almost nothing. I’ve never told her that I also have a girlfriend that I’ve been together with for almost twenty years.

At least, I think I have a girlfriend.

I know what you’re thinking: “Is this guy as handsome as I am currently imagining him?” Sadly, I am not, but now that we’ve cleared that up we can move on to your second question: “How can one not know if they have a girlfriend?” Honestly, I’ve been wondering that for two decades, but I’ll do my best to explain.

This whole mess started in the summer of 1999. I was twenty-one, and to say I was aimless is…charitable. I had fallen ass-backwards into my first full-time job at a group home. Since this group home was in Oakland County, I had to spend two weeks at the vaguely-named Macomb/Oakland Regional Center to become “certified” to work in said nursing home. (I liberally applied quotation marks there because I never actually received any actual certificate. I am still salty about this.) While at this training, I met a young woman I’ll call Emma. (You can call her whatever you like, but it’ll help you follow along if you stick with the fake name that I picked.) Emma was painfully shy, and she only spoke to me when we ended up in a training group together. Despite her reticence and my general awkwardness, it was clear that there was an attraction between us. Eventually, we overcame our inherent social deficiencies and began dating. It was…okay. Seriously. It was a perfectly average relationship for two people aged 18-24 to have. We hung out, watched the first half of movies, made out during the second half, and occasionally slept together. Her aforementioned shyness kept us from going out too often, but she did come see my band play once, which was nice. It was the only time that a girl I was dating ever saw my band play. (She wasn’t a fan, but don’t feel too bad about that. No one was.)

I sense you getting antsy. Well, “sense” is a tad disingenuous. Actually, I’m watching you read this now, and I can see you shifting uncomfortably. Okay, okay…I’ll get to the good stuff.  Our relationship carried on for a few months, with nothing of note happening. Like I said, it was a perfectly standard relationship, save for one seemingly minor detail: I couldn’t call her. She lived with her father, and he forbade her from receiving phone calls. She could make calls, but she couldn’t receive them. (Yes, this is odd. No, it didn’t seem odd to me at the time.) If I wanted to speak to her, I had to page her. Now, I realize that some of you aren’t familiar with how this process worked, so let me diagram it for you:

1) I called her pager number, and when prompted, I punched in my number.
2) Her pager notified her of who was requesting a call back.
3) She’d call me back.

Too easy. If I wanted to see her, all I had to do was add a simple step to the process. This went on without fail, until one day, when it didn’t. We had made plans to go to the Renaissance Faire, and the day of our trip I paged her to verify whether I would be meeting her there, or if she needed a ride. I paged her in the morning, and then…nothing. And that was it. I never saw her again.

To this day, I have absolutely no idea what happened to her. She never called me back, and life moved on. For a while I joked with my friends that I was cheating on her with whichever girl I was dating at the time, but those jokes quickly grew stale. It wasn’t until I was much older that I gave any serious thought to what happened. I mean, what if the battery in her pager died and she missed the page? She replaces the battery, but my page got lost in the ether. Maybe her father suddenly decided that she could neither make nor receive calls...maybe she saw the future and knew that pagers were a dying technology, so she threw it in a river and immediately bought a Nokia phone that she still uses to this day. I often wonder if she thinks about me, and if she thinks that I’m the one who disappeared. I would love to find out what really happened, but I know that I never will. Even with the internet at my disposal, I could never do it. Even if I could remember her last name (or any identifying information for that matter), I think it would be too creepy. “Hey, remember me? The guy you dated for about four months in 1999 and then ghosted. So yeah…what the heck happened, eh?” If I were her, I’d respond to that message, just so I could ghost me again.

Maybe we’ll cross paths one day, and there will be a spark of recognition. We’ll start to speak, but the fear of being awkward to a stranger will keep us from saying anything. So, we’ll move along, and the memory will fade just a little bit more.

Seriously though…what the hell happened?