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Dear Reader,
As Locution grows, its staff continues to nd new ways to improve the magazine. Two major changeswill be apparent since our previous edition. Our rst action was to restructure the editorial board; by
clearly dening each editors responsibility, we did away with much of the havoc and stress of the last issue.
In other words, weve managed to gain the professionalism required to work effectively, without losing the
sense of community that holds us together. The second change is more striking: although Katherine did
an amazing job on the layout of our rst two issues, visual design remained a eld in which Locution was
lacking. So we welcomed Jeffrey Jang to our staff - his air for design has, quite literally, transformed the
face of Locution.
Yes, Locution is alive. Growth is crawling up through the cracks and crannies of our community. Ourmembers are passionate, talented, and diverse. Our staff is diligent and enthusiastic. Were ecstatic, more
than ever, to be a part of this publication.
The decision to make this a staff issue was a natural result of our excitement. What better way to show
our appreciation than to show our readers how much we enjoy our craft? Transforming concepts into a
reality, however, is no easy process, and this issue was no exception. But we feel the hectic deadlines and
late nights are a natural consequence of wanting to present our best to the world.
This issue is our best and we dedicate it to you, reader. We have toiled silently, writing and editing,
to produce a magazine that rises above our own standards. The effort of our long nights and endlessproofreading culminates in this issue - enjoy, and join us again.
Yours Truly,
James Zhao
Editor-in-Chief
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All rights reserved. This publication may be freely distributed
only in its entirety and without modication, and only for privateuse. It may not be sold for prot. Excerpts may only be repro-
duced and distributed with permission from the copyright own-
ers, except in the case of brief quotations used for book reviews
and interviews. The creative works published in Locution do not
necessarily represent the views and opinions of its editors, staff,
or members of its online community.
Locution Press 2009
locutionissue 3, autumn 2009
www.locution-zine.com
Editor-in-Chief
Community Manager
Head Copy Editor
Webmaster
Columnist
Submissions Review Board
Copy Editors
Design
Special Thanks to
James Zhao
Drew Reed
Bart Graafmans
Aarin Edwards
Jeffrey Vales Kennedy
Anna Clare
Christopher Foster
Amy Hawley
David Leuenberger
Visalakshi Ramachandran
Katherine Arrandale
Jeffrey Jang
Michelle Baker
Joonas Lipping
Dylan Mounts
Sara Williams
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Letter from the Editor
The Importance of a Solid Opening
David Leuenberger
article
West
Jeffrey Vales Kennedy
poem
On the Impenetrable, the Inescapable,
and the InsightDylan Mounts
short story
Shock and Awe
Anna Clare
short story
Water RisingPhil Amy Wright
short story
The Motorcycle Black Madonna
Dylan Mounts
poem
In the MiddleMichelle Baker
poem
Cartesian Coffee
James Zhao
short story
Rushmore ShruggedJames John Simakas
short story
All Children, Except One
Katherine Arrandale
short story
Untitled
Visalakshi Ramachandran
poem
The Rebirth of Baroque
Bart Graafmans
article
Contributors
iii
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9
10
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14
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21
22
24
26
28
29
32
Contents
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Time is sparse. Hence, a good opening will
as often as not decide whether a story is read or
forever put on the high shelf. The trick is to write an
engaging opening, but the difculty lies in knowing
what it can look like. This is especially daunting as
there is no simple formula.
It is a good idea to look at introductorysentences from established authors. Analysing what
worked and did not work for them can help a writer
come up with his or her own openings.
Stephen Kings Dark Tower series starts as
follows:
The man in black ed through the desert and the
gunslinger followed.
This is a strong opening for several reasons. It is
short, snappy, and puts you right in the middle of the
action. It is evocative and mysterious at the same
time.
Short and snappy is important. Short sentences
stick out. Long sentences evoke a slow pace and
tend to be confusing. At a time in which innumerabletexts vie for the readers attention it seems futile to
start at a slow pace. Hook the reader right away;
grab him or her at full speed, without a chance to
object. Then, well down the road, the reader will
be curious enough to keep on reading through both
racy and slow passages.
One of the tricks in Kings opening is that it
gives and withholds information: King establishes
antagonist and protagonist, location and plot. In
this sense, the reader is told everything he needs to
empathise with the key characters.
However, Kings brevity also evokes a lot of
questions that pique the readers interest. Where
exactly is that desert? Why does the man in black
ee? And why does the gunslinger follow? Thesequestions are important because they form a hook;
they create the readers engagement with the story.
As an extreme measure, let us compare the
previous opening with Edward Bulwer-Lyttons
famous opening line from Paul Clifford:
It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in
torrents, except at occasional intervals, whenit was checked by a violent gust of wind which
swept up the streets (for it is in London that
our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and
ercely agitating the scanty ame of the lamps
that struggled against the darkness.
What has gone wrong here? This is a very long and
convoluted sentence. Read out loud, it challenges thehuman lung capacity. There is a lot of information in
this sentence, but unlike the previous example it is
not relevant. This is merely a passive description of
scenery; it does not accomplish anything story-wise.
It neither introduces a character nor does it raise a
question. Of course, the author may have been world-
building, but with the dosage of a sledgehammer.
Telling a story is a form of communication between
The Importance of a Solid Opening
Why bother reading?David Leuenberger
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the author and his audience. The author, however,
needs to choose which information is pertinent at
the moment.
If we simplify there are three different kinds
of information: setting, character, and plot. While
these three elements should remain balancedthroughout any given story, an opening works best
if it concentrates on character and plot.
The character is the link between reader and
story. Let us go back to Bulwer-Lyttons example.
Apart from the convoluted structure, its biggest
problem lies in the absence of a character. The
addition of a character in this sentence could
function as a hook to make the reader care. Wecould imagine the following opening:
Clifford had no choice. He ventured out into the
dark and stormy night. Torrents of rain soaked
him and the gusts of wind cutting his face made
him wonder if nature itself was against him.
While I by no means presume this to be a awless
opening, it does have one solid advantage over
the original passage: The reader experiences this
display of nature through the eyes of Paul Clifford,
the eponymous protagonist. The audience will
empathise and wonder: Who is he and why does
he go out into this terrible storm in the rst place?
Empathy and curiosity are key.
Setting too can lead the way into a novel. Often,
authors create an allegory with their setting. This
means that the setting works as a mirror image of
the hardships that the protagonist will have to go
through. But caution is necessary. The use of setting
is not without risk: the audience may or may not
like your setting. A protagonist can always redeem
himself in the course of a novel, but settings can
rarely change.
I would gladly provide a foolproof formula forthe formidable opening, but it does not exist. What
works for writing works for openings especially: It
should be fresh and original, and free from clichs.
It should serve a purpose, ideally that of introducing
a character central to your story and it should be
vigorous and concise.
For that reason aspiring writers should develop a
deep affection for reading. People who read critically
often acquire a certain afnity over time for excellent
writing. Every book begins somewhere, somehow.
Next time you pick up a novel (or article), linger on
the rst sentence. Ask yourself whether it works
and why. This helps you, as a writer, to developa feeling for solid openings. In turn, writing them
should be, well, not easy. But easier than before.
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The morning window shows static grey:
a program in my head
tuned by clouds and rain
to a solemn show of coastal towns
huddled in a corner, tightly hugging
evergrey peaks lost in a low-lying blanket,
the horizon a haze of white noise dropping and
everywhere, everywall, everyone a face and
a clutch of rain sliding through my mind
up down left right, slipping through the innite
grey; the green pointed pines
stretching to dene their revolution.
And lost in this chill memory lies a phantom warmth
for which my shuttered eyes shudder --my sheets drawn close, I hope,
might shield me from this grey ghost.
WestJeffrey Vales Kennedy
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I dont believe in you, she said. This was
inside my apartment, the rent three weeks overdue,
the couch too familiar with the imprint of her ass.
She was talking and I knew she was talking, but I
was busy watching a cockroach crawl across the
carpeting. Soon it would make its way to her foot,
stop, think about going left, then right, and nallyscurry over her ratty-ass Converses with the knee
high striped socks, me just looking and watching,
sometimes even listening. She never stopped talking.
She never even looked down. I dont think she felt
the cockroach; I think her words were enough
all those empty consonants and vowels dribbling
down her chin and staining her shirt. The cockroach
turned and crawled under the couch. I looked up ather mouth.
I guess I dont believe in me either. I prodded
at the ashtray. It almost spilled off the armrest. But
then I never really believed in you.
Once the words settled in their places there
wasnt much left between the two of us. Maybe
a little awkward eye contact, some half-hearted
hugs and smiles. I remember once with my sisterId asked, How come our parents spend so much
time arguing with each other? She shrugged, I
shrugged, and eventually we graduated and moved
away. Now its pretty obvious. The alternative is this
overwhelming silence.
Let me walk you to your car. Its dark out
there.
I took the train, she said. To save money. I
didnt have to ask for what. She got up to leave.
Listen, I said. About tomorrow. She
stopped, turned. Its got nothing to do with you
or your book. Really. I just have to go back home.
Fine, she said. Okay. Fine.
The door shut and the cockroach came out from
under the couch. I watched it and it stared back atme, waving its antennas like tiny sts, threatening
and dangerous. Youre insensitive, it was saying,
and arrogant and nave. Enjoy your Missouri with
its caves and cows. Im staying right here.
I walked to the kitchen, found the bug spray.
Like hell you are.
I wrapped him in a napkin and ushed him down
the toilet.The next morning I woke up and walked down
Michigan Avenue. There is no better place to lose
yourself than the sidewalks of Michigan Avenue.
Something about the writhing mass of tourists is
warm and invitinghow they stop at street corners
and take pictures with their arms wrapped around
each other, all wearing I Heart Chicago! T-shirts
and smiling for the camera. Theres one man whocovers himself in silver body paint with silver pants
and even a silver hat, and he stands on the street
all day long with a bucket of change in front of him.
If you drop money in his bucket he starts to move,
dance, hell even pose with you for pictures. The
tourists love him. Ive seen him there every day of the
week, even when its 80 degrees outside and theres
no breeze blowing out from the lake. Everyone is
On the Impenetrable, the Inescapable, and the InsightDylan Mounts
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drenched in sweat, holding those lanyards with the
little electric fans on them, but the silver man still
stands like a statue, coated in full body paint and
clothes. Ive never met someone who loved their
job so much.
Farther up north, past Clark and Belmont,theres a hole in the wall with a door and a couple
of windows and a sign so small you can hardly read
it from across the street. It says Billys Hookah
Bar, and its run by a big black man by the name of
Billy Washington. When you walk in he gives you a
menu and for ve bucks a bowl you can have every
avor you might want. Theres Sex on the Peach
and Homemade Apple Pie andmy favoriteStrawberry Kool-Aide. There is nothing in the
world like smoking strawberry Kool-Aide.
I walked in that morning and Billy Washington
looked up from the counter.
Hi Billy.
Hey man, he said. I thought you were leaving.
I am. Flight leaves in a few hours. Just wanted
to drop by, see how things were going. You know.
He raised his eyebrow. I never knew how he
did thatraising just one eyebrow and giving me a
look that could only mean one thing. Its something
youre born with, I guess. Like rolling your tongue
or going to church. Either you can do it or you cant.
You tell that Amelia girl yet?
Yeah. Last night. Its not what I wanted to do.
He sighed. Alright. Sit down. Ill load you a
bowl.
Underneath Billys counter was a glass window
with all types of paraphernalia on display. Glass pipes
and four foot bongsBilly blows them all himself
by hand, a skill he claimed to have learned from a
beggar he met on the streets. They were beautiful,
whether you smoked or not; you couldnt deny they
were gorgeous. Its amazing the things you can learn
from the hungry and homeless.No, its okay, I cant stay long. I just wanted to
ask you something. A favor.
Billy didnt look at me, but his nostrils ared a
little and I knew he was listening. I often wonder if
he used his ears at all, or if he could smell words and
sounds with his nose, sort of how snakes do when
theyre icking their tongues. Its not something I
can explainnot really. But when you see his nose
moving around and twitching like that, youd swear
the man was deaf.
I want you to read this for me. I want you to tell
me what you think. I handed him a blue composition
notebook like the kind you see in Harriet the Spy.The movie version, with Rosie ODonnell. The rst
twelve pages were lled with writing; the rest were
blank. He ipped through the pages.
What is this?
Its just a letter, I said. Or a story or something.
I want you to read it, and if Amelia comes in, do you
think you could give it to her?
Sure man, he said. No problem.I stood at the door for a minute, looking around
the bar. On one wall Billy had a map of the El routes,
one hed stolen from the train some midnight, years
and years ago. It was so old it didnt show the Pink
Line or the Greens Ashwood stops. When people
asked hed say he kept it for himself: in case he ever
got lostif he wasnt sure where he was goinghe
could look up at the wall, and there was Chicago all
laid out in front of him. Hed even marked where the
Red Line hits Belmont with a Sharpie. Hed written,
You are right here.
Hes the smartest man Ive ever known.
Billy, I said.
Yeah? he said.
Ive gotta go, I said.
He nodded.
Ill see you later, I said.
He raised an eyebrow. I turned and shut the
door. On the plane ride home I tried not to think
about it.
It was June in Springeld, a week before the
Fourth of July, when I found an envelope in the
mailbox with my name on the front and a Chicago
return address. I opened it. Inside were pages andpages of the manuscript Id writtenthe one that
Id given to Billy Washington. I thought at rst shed
sent it back like it was something contagious
something blighted. I thought shed been afraid
to keep it: that the only way to purge me was to
purge my words. By returning them, maybe then she
thought I wouldnt come back.
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It was all ller. When I gave it to Billy theyd
seemed important, like some opus for my end of
Chicago. But reading it now, all those pages were
empty, taking up space just for the sake of it.
Then I saw she stapled two pages at the end.
The rst Id forgotten Id written. The second shewrote herself. They were letterslittle pieces of
thoughts that were simple, ugly, beautifuland I
think the entire point.
Dear Amelia Mallory,
The squeak of the straw drowns out every
sound in the world. Sitting at Steak n Shake just
before sunrise with to-go cups and milkshakes,
theres no trafc or morning birds, no rustling
leaves and no nearby car alarmsits just me and
my straw rubbing against the plastic lid, and you and
your hands with the ngernails that were perfectly
trimmed every goddamn time. I always chewed my
own, sometimes so much Id just be biting esh. But
that was still satisfying and Id keep going until my
nger was bleeding right underneath the nail, and it
would hurt to type for almost a week.
Thats the kind of thing Im thinking about,
sitting at Steak n Shake by a beautiful girl. Theres
the sun beginning to peak over Wal-Mart to the east
and that rst light hitting the puddles in the parking
lot just right so they look like mirrors radiating all
around us, but for me its only the ngernails and
the straw squeaking like a chew toy lodged in beside
my eardrum. Then you open your mouth, and you
talk so loud I taste the words in the air with mytongue. Its not enough to know what you said, but
I do know it sounded like warm wafes with syrup
right after waking up, or late at night when everyone
else is asleep. And for that I smile, and nod, and hold
your hand in mine, so I can see our ngernails side
by side.
The last page was in her handwriting.
Dear Lucas Persinger:The edges of your consonants carve initials
in the walls of public restrooms. As if you didnt
have much more left than empty letters, hardly read
through the stench of last nights romantic dinner.
I dont believe in you, Id said, which was easy in
the days of Santa Claus and Jesus, but the vowels
all slurred together into harmless melodramatics.
About all I had leftan atheist praying in a plastic
confessional stall, your grafti scratched like
scripture just beneath a phone number that claims
Jenny sucks cockall capped by the most glorious
predicate to grace Christs porcelain altar.
You can wipe your ass with the Bible, Lucas.But Ill write that number on my hand.
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We sat next to each other on the green hill and
shared a annel blanket, me and my friend. Below
us was the city, half awake in the chilly spring night.
The sky was clear, perfect for viewing the meteor
shower we had come to watch, away from the
glaring lights of the city. Look, said my friend, there
is the North Star. Thats Cassiopeias Chair, andthats Orion, the hunter. Also, there is the Great
Bear and the Little Bear, and the Pleiades, the seven
sisters of the night. Its strange, isnt it? That many
of the stars were seeing could be dead, and we are
only gazing at their ghosts.
Yes, I murmured, very strange.
Sometimes I dream of planets, he continued.
They are indescribably enormous and Im in spacewatching them circle the sun. Or Im on earth and
they hang silently in the sky, close enough to touch,
beautiful colors and rings, but all dead. And none
of them as enormous as the loneliness I feel. Their
enormity spoke to my loneliness, and amplied it
until I could hardly stand it.
Ive had dreams like that. Dreams where Im lost
in a crowd, and every face is the face of a stranger.The more people there are in the dream, the
more lost and lonely I feel. I am always looking for
someone I know: my mother, perhaps, or you. But I
never nd anything familiar. Even the place Im at is
a place Ive never been.
Ive had dreams where I am invisible to everyone
but myself. People and objects pass through me as if
I was nothing but air. In one dream, my hand passed
right through everyone I touched, until I came to
you. I touched you on the shoulder, and you turned
and saw me. It was as if that one look from you
conrmed my existence. As if, prior to that, I didnt
exist except in my own mind.
I once dreamed that I was looking for you
because I wanted very badly to embrace someone.It was odd. I was so desperate for affectionate
human contact I felt I would die if I couldnt nd
you. And I did nd you, at last, but I couldnt reach
you. Something held me back, and something pulled
you away from me.
At this he took my hand and said: Nothing will
ever pull me away from you.
I felt a dove apping its wings in my chest.I settled in close to him and laid my head on his
shoulder. Look, I said, the stars are falling.
And they were. They rained down upon the city
below us, ery blazes of white-hot light, destroying
buildings, killing people that ran like insects through
the streets. Great craters and cracks appeared from
the impacts, and the earth yawned, swallowing cars
and people whole. Soon the entire city was in ames,and even from where we were sitting we could hear
the anguished screams of the dying. But since it was
not happening to us, we sat back and enjoyed the
sudden warmth in the air and the fabulous show of
lights.
Shock and AweAnna Clare
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In front of our town university there was a
strip of gardens where I liked to sit and read in the
summer. The strip was populated by oaks that had
been growing there for hundreds of years. Usually
this means there are tall, regal trees; however, in
the eighteenth century, the duke of those parts had
ordered the tall, regal ones to be cut down and tobuild ships out of them (which he subsequently lost
while demonstrating his naval might). The oaks that
were left to grow were gnarly, bent onestheir
demeanor less regal and more senile, somewhat
decrepit, tooeyeing you from under their green
hoods with one good eye. I rather thought it gave
them character, and usually occupied the shade of
the gnarliest, most crooked of them. In those rarecases that someone had taken the spot before me,
I sat in the sun (being a sore loser), and consoled
myself by making faces in the usurpers direction
while they werent looking. On this particular day
I was sitting in the shadow of that oak, reading The
Theory of Poker, dreaming of getting rich without all
the effort.
As it is an established purpose of river banksto house all the modern art thats ugly enough for
people not to want to live next to it, but made by
someone famous enough that the city doesnt want
to hurt their feelings by throwing it away, an artistic
explosion of chrome had been diplomatically shoved
in the middle of the cobbled plaza on the other side.
Normally I tried to avoid looking at it as much as I
could, but I happened to glance up from my book
at it then and couldnt help doing a double take, as
my attention was drawn by the river surface, which
looked to be ruminating on the statues concrete
pedestal.
There were two old ladies sitting on a bench,
agreeing furiously about something, and a couple
with a small child having a picnic. None of them hadnoted this new development, so I reexively acted
in the manner of a child who realizes that he has left
the bathroom faucet open with the plug in ve or so
minutes ago: I quickly and covertly removed myself
from the area. The nearest exit was the university
front entrance, which I promptly made use of.
Luckily, I was wearing jeans, a Pac-Man T-shirt
and (as of recent events) a vaguely confusedexpression, and therefore blended into the crowd
perfectly. I didnt have a fully outlined plan yet,
at that point, but generally I intended on passing
through doors as much as I could, for the symbolic
assurance of advancement as much as anything. Many
of them were locked (which could also have been
interpreted symbolically), but after encountering
one or two dead ends I found my way into theuniversitys courtyard.
Judging by the commotion, the rest of the
riverside was waking up and smelling the coffee, or
the unexpected high tide, anyway. The university,
having been established in an old cotton factory, had
a twenty-foot brick wall going around the side of
the courtyard that faced the street. From the gate
I could see people eeing towards higher ground.
Water RisingPhil Amy Wright
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I eyed my surroundings: the highest point in my
vicinity looked to be the tall chimney, so I headed
for the maintenance ladder.
It was one of those ladders theyd installed a steel
safety frame around, so that if you lose your grip and
fall, you have a chance to hit your head immediately,without needing to wait through the tedious tumble
to the asphalt. I stopped for a breather about two
thirds of the way up and leaned against the frame,
looking at the pandemonium below. The water had
overtaken about one half of my reading tree, as it
lay quite low on the gentle slope of the garden strip.
I was on the wrong side of the building to see for
sure, but it seemed like the river was enrolling in the
university. In the distance, the statue was already
immersed, and the heavy doors of the church by
the bridge were completely underwater as well. I
continued my climb.
The top of the chimney had a nominal railing
that seemed to offer mostly emotional support for
the acrophobic. Nevertheless I tried not to look
down too much, at least until I had anchored myself
to something solid. Edging along, I accidentally
kicked a pigeons nest into the chimney; the resident
pigeon, whod been standing around on the railing,
made offended noises, then appreciated me on the
shoulder.
Soon the water was reaching the third-oor
windows of the university. Students and other
fugitive citizens were starting to ood onto the
tin roof. A group survival effort in one of theclassrooms shattered a window, then found to its
dismay that tables do not oat and as such make
poor rafts. Meanwhile, as the water overtook the
lower buildings, the people atop them had to crowd
in tighter and tighter, until the people closest to the
edge began to domino in. An upside-down rubber
raft oated in from somewhere in the near suburbs.
What had been a river was swiftly becoming a sea.When it reached the university roof, most of the
others were long submerged, and some of the more
athletic people were swimming along, either towards
some higher point or just to stay aoat. Bit by bit I
watched the university buildings getting overtaken.
In a little while more, the only spots of high
ground left were my chimney, another one in the far
distance, and the church tower. The water inched
closer to me with more and more condence, now
fteen feet away, now ten. By now there wasnt a
soul in sight. I suddenly felt quite alone.
At the last moment before the water reached the
chimneys edge, I realized the startling importanceof gripping on to the railing. I did, then, and had to
hold on with all my might as the chimney submerged
and the water gushed in to ll the black void of the
chimney, bringing up decades of collected grime,
muck and appreciation. I had no other option at
that point than to surrender myself to the waters
will, so I lay myself spread-eagled and let the current
oat me off.
I silently panicked, my left hand twitching, my
right gripping the Theory of Poker like a talisman,
and oated for a minute or two before I bonked
into something. I steered myself sideways to it, then
bonked it again by accident, so that it oated a bit
further away. It was the rubber raft from before;
I made for it in awkward movements. I grabbed a
handle on the side with my left hand and dragged
myself up onto the upended thing. It took a bit of
effort to balance on it, but I managed it, and carefully
lay myself on my back, so as not to upset it again.
It was a beautiful day, with the sun shining down
from a cloudless sky, but it did nothing to improve
my mood. What the sun did do was make me
drowsy, and the gentle rocking of the raft lulled me
to sleep.
When I awoke the sky was tinted slightly red.My head hurt tremendously. I collected myself, then
made an effort to sit up. The rst time around it
just brought me close to vomiting. The second time
I actually made it, though it didnt help my nausea.
The sun was close to the horizon, I saw. In front of
me, the endless ocean rippled and rose into a liquid
relief of a male human face.
Salutations, it said.What the fuck are you? I returned the greeting.
The face rippled, gagged, then spoke. I am
ocean.
I looked around myself; all that could be seen in
any direction was the curve of the earth, far away in
the distance. You did this?
It looked uncertain for a moment. Then, Yes.
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I hate it. Stop it. I hate you.
Really? Ocean furrowed its liquid brow, then
closed its eyes. Ill think about it. Then it sank back
into the water.
I was all the more befuddled. I thought about
lying down again, but decided against it, since sittingup had been such hard work. At the same time I
wondered if anyone else had survived, if there
was someone else sitting on a raft somewhere,
wondering what the hell just happened. What if they
didnt nd me until I was dead?
A wave of nausea hit and I ipped onto my back
with eyes closed, and groaned. My thoughts danced
around me like will o the wisps, my brain dazed.
I came to a conclusion. I rolled myself onto my
stomach. There was a pencil in my pocket; I shed
it out, and started writing, from foggy piecemeal
recollection, onto the pages ofThe Theory of Poker.
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No.1
I am knocking at the gateway of the Midwest and running
away from the door before they have time to come answer,
escaping through elds of corn and cattle, past children
playing Tag and mistaking me for part of their gameso they tag me as It and I have no time to explain
Jumping fences and cutting through backyards until I
slice my leg on the chain link and slip in my own blood.
Im nursed to strength by strangers and cigarillos smoked
on backyard porch swings until Im healthy again
with a touch of bronchitis
And sent on my way like a Puritan on pilgrimage who gets
to ride Amtrak instead of the fucking Mayower but still
isnt all that thrilled about this smelly old fat man
hes forced to share an armrest with.
I am deposited at the corner of Michigan and Congress lost
and carrying my luggage through public parks where
all the homeless sing opera and even though itsnot my taste in music I applaud the effort and
ask for directions.
One says to just go towards the nearest four walls I
can nd and wants to know which school Im coming from.
Oh yeah? he says, I graduated from there years and
years ago, he says, and then he sells me a hot dog
deep-fried on a stick.
I am building a sanctuary in the Art Institute with Lego pieces
and words colored Purple and Parsley, until the curator
comes along and says I cant be doing that here. Sir,
I respond, I stepped on one of the Christmas lights
you had strewn across the oor.
I am so very sorry.
The Motorcycle Black Madonna
(Two-wheeled Gypsy Queen)
Dylan Mounts
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I am forcibly removed from the premises and placed inside the
four walls of Plymouth without Indian sh for food but on
holidays Im sent care packages complete with a Halloween
beach ball and all the comforts of home.
I am wandering the streets of Sandusky in search of Cedar Point--
home of Americas most roller coasters--and counting the
corner bakeries advertising 50 cent pieces of pie to
an entire town asleep by eleven except for the taxi driver
whose cab smells of cigarettes, sex, and stale Pepsi.
He tells stories of kings and concubines, past glories
of a people nurtured on the industry of adrenaline, with
words so rehearsed its more a hypnotists patter and
a handshake so rm when I leave the car that I
dont much mind he stole my watch.
I am the simple audience behind the stage left to watch what happens.
I am the lack of judgment and I am the bright eyed design
falling in on itself. I am the remnants of self-destruction
and the ruins of potential, but I am no Howard Roark.
And as I am walking to the end of the pier I turn around
to see the tops of tall buildings pretending to be small
in the distance. But I cant nd any details from far away
so I walk home and I play the role
Of local tourist, purchasing pizza and pretzels from a street
vendor who sells Bears sports memorabilia. As I walk past he
taps my shoulder and says, Put a hat on your Head!
Walk around like a Champion! and I mumble, Excuse mesir, because I am already late for my train.
No.2
This is the one-year anniversary of the morning I woke up dead
from aspirating on Happy Valentines Day! text messages--lodged
sideways inside my throat and going down slimy as a state fair
goldsh swallowed on a bet. You did not really just do that, I
said, but the circus songs coming from the carousel clogged upall the words
And I choked to death on my own damned sentences. No one knew if to
hold the funeral here in Camdenton or some other left-wing liberal
university, so they consulted God and he said, Dudes, Ill handle
this one. And reaching down with his right hand he takes my corpse
and icks it
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Halfway across the country, where it lands smack dab in California
next to the Worlds Largest Ball of Yarn and its Matching Largest Thimble.
I wont know this being dead and all, but theres actually another
ball of yarn just down the road in Mr. Freedmans garage. Its larger
than this one, but there arent nearly as many people who go to see it.
Mr. Freedman doesnt know why but from what God tells me
This is because he lacks a Thimble. Now its Christmas again--Valentines
religious older brother--and Im walking into my dorm room to nd
a three foot stuffed dog guarding me from climbing into my own bed.
It wears a bright red nose and festive jingling antlers, and it is
snarling at me--which conveniently no one else seems to see
With bits of foam and drool dangling in drops from its jowls. Clearly,
this dog must be my roommates. I say, Down boy! Down! Down! Where is
your Christmas spirit? and the dog takes a moment to think about this
before he begrudgingly goes back to sleep in my roommates study corner.
Jesus Christ, I say. Where the fuck do you buy something like that?
This is made in China, Jesus responds, which I thought was very considerate
of him, but I bet we could make better here in the old US of A--
These are all the words Im building, all the stories Im telling to
my fellow railroad riders and even also the common pedestrianjust to remind myself that
This is not your satisfaction.
This is the science of mutual attraction followed closely by the jam sessions
of late night train rides where two genuine black men engage
in impromptu rap battles upon greeting each other and laying down
Phat Beats with their lips.
This is hard to ignore for anyone else riding the train back home, but me
I stood up and said, Yo! Yo! Yo! Yo! and began to lay down my own
Sick Rhymes. The black men seemed to think this was some kind of
joke and said, Sir, we would rather you didnt do that, if its
all the same to you, and I deboarded the train at the next stop.
Here Im at Belmont and Clark street and the sky is falling in afairy-tale of feathers to coat the city with tufts of white, like
snow but larger than any akes Ive ever seen. It looks more like
a cloud somewhere in the sky exploded into a million tiny cloud-puffs
falling to cover the people all below, and I spent the walk home
picking out shapes in the crowds.
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This is the forgotten basement bathroom carpeted by cigarette butts where
I lost my virginity to a Mexican Mole Man and smudged up mirror;
I wasnt nervous so much as I spent the entire time wondering
why one of them seemed so familiar and why no one was there
to clean the other.
Then its Easter and Im screaming words in the mouths of babes
so theyll grow up strong before I send them out on their annual
First Baptist Easter Egg Hunt. They bring back eggs colored in
melted wax with portraits and landscapes--ones the Chicago skyline
and anothers Miss Sylvia Plath--and I tell them, Good job Kids,
and to keep up the good work.
Their eggs are sitting in a basket now on my kitchen table rotting
in a purple stench and Miss Sylvia Plath seems as dead as she always
wanted. But Chicago looks just the same as before, only now it is
nighttime and the buildings stand a little less straight, and when I
look closely enough there is the El shooting sparks from its wheels
across the tracks still covered in snow.
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At night I hear echoes of my footsteps.Im afraid to turn around and see myself
coming, or worst of all, going.
I dont know when I left, but
A turn to see my entrails dripping;
ambulatory over my shoulder
and I realize Ive lost my appetite.
I think Id been hemorrhaging for a while.A symptom of sound bouncing
from the hollow cavity; keening out
in a bandaged trickle. I can only say
that when it was all inside,
the scariest thing around was me.
In the MiddleMichelle Baker
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1
The studio walls were colored with grafti
and not the decorative kind plastered on my bass
case. Snotty phrases about how the man is trying to
take us down, pithy generalities proclaiming fuck
the government. Someones had smattered these
in desperate blacks, yellows, and greens, hoping,almost, their luminescence would make them
permanent, would stop them from fading with each
torrential downpour.
For a while, I stood in front of the sandstone
bricks, wondering what color could differentiate my
phrase from the rest. Plaster-of-Paris white would
have to do. I unzipped my backpack and pulled out
the thick work gloves she had given to me for mybirthday.
Gifts should be practical. Youre an artist. I got
you gloves. Saves you washing your hands every time.
The gloves were without ornamentation, sparse like
her words. Efcient, she said. Unsentimental, I
replied.
A few minutes later, I nished leaving my mark
on the world. Or, at the very least, the studio wall.
The man wouldnt be after you if you didnt draw
on his damn walls. I packed up my belongings. My
watch fell into view as my zipper closed, reading a
neat and tidy 4:05. Time for practice. Bass in hand, I
opened the studio door and walked on the set.
She was strumming her guitar when I walked in.
Her posture was perfect: back straight, legs set close
to each other on the stool. Her hair was tied back
in the most unattractive fashion, but she claimed
it prevented her locks from falling into her eyes.
Calculated, precise, efcient. She spoke without
looking up.
Practice starts at 4:05. I sighed, set down my
bass, and answered.
Well, Im here. She turned her eyes up andbeckoned me closer with a nod of her head.
4:05 means youre ready to play by then. She
slipped my arm under hers, using her left hand to
nger up and down the veins of my forearm as if it
were a fret board.
So why am I the only one who gets harped on?
No one else is here. Why do I get the scoldings?
She tapped out chords and riffs on my arms frommy elbow to my wrist. Her ngers dangled across
my palm, then locked with my ngers like perfectly
aligned gears.
Because you, sir, are dating me. She turned
around on the stool to face me, hands clasped
tightly. Now lets play.
2
I dipped my brush into a palette of blues and
greens, glanced at her, and decided that painting her
dress would be too difcult.
I think, I said, I think Ill paint your pearls.
She had one of those necklaces that was supposed
to mean something. She told me the story months
ago. Something about her grandmother working
arduously to get a decent education. I didnt listen.
Cartesian CoffeeJames Zhao
I b d h d ff
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Im bored, she pouted
Pointing out the obvious again?
Tell me a story, then, she whined.
I dont have any.
Tell me about your family, she begged. The
conversation wasnt getting anywhere. She jittered
her leg, shifted her shoulders, did everything possible
to ruin the portrait. I stole a look upwards from my
easel to see her face scrunched up in one of those
girly, irresistible pouts.
Alright, alright. Have I told you about Uncle
Stern? Her face relaxed; her smile returned.
Uncle Stern was a nice guy. Im using nice in the
most liberal of terms, of course. He was nice in the
sense that as long as you didnt breathe on him, he
wouldnt shatter into pieces. Another dip into my
palette, and a few more strokes. I continued talking,
more to myself than to her.
But Uncle Stern wasnt really that bad a guy. He
gifted well, at least to the children. I shrugged my
shoulders, frowned at my picture, and continued. I
got money from him every Christmas. A hundred
dollars or so. Of course, I was never any good atsaving, so it all went to waste. The lighting was
ruining the shadows that dened her nose, so I
improvised. And then, one day, Uncle Stern bit
a bullet. Well, his brain did, at least. Something
wasnt right about the way her lips curved, so I made
them darker to hide the effect.
He left a note, though. A big, red manifesto on
the kitchen wall. He spread out all of his thoughtsand let them soak in. Two weeks after the funeral,
we forgot how nice he was. I nished the last
speckles of green on her dress, smacked my lips,
and told her I was done.
She just stared at me for a while. Im sorry to
hear that.
Hear what?
About your uncle.I smirked. Dont be. I made it up. A pause.
Stop gaping. Lets get some coffee.
3
We started with coffee at the thirteenth hour.
Three creams, no sugar.
That isnt coffee anymore. And that is denitely
not a mans coffee.
She clicked her tongue against the roof of her
mouth, enveloped her hands around the coffee
mugs, and walked into the living room. Her hips
swayed in the slightest manner as she cut across the
room. Click, click, click. Her shoes tapped with the
usual briskness and vivacity. Another step forward,
precise, measured, calculated. The next step, and
the next step, and the next step. She drew up in
front of me and set down the pink coffee mug.
First, you give me coffee with three creams too
many. And now, you give me a pink coffee mug? A
pink one? She silenced any further protest with a
slender nger over my lips.
The mug is not pink. It is a warm salmon-
colored coffee mug. And as for the creams in the
coffee? She leaned in; our noses touched. Dont
expect me to kiss you if your breath is black coffee.
And with that, she kissed me for one second. Precise,
measured, calculated.
R h Sh d
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The party was in full swing, full lilting jazzy swing
as musicians staggered from bar to musical bar and
keg to keg. An impromptu band had grown in one
corner upon a drum set, like mold, and was busily
leaping and jumping through winding undisciplined
solos. A musicians party this was, all sound and fury
signifying a damn great many things, most of themneurotic.
Through the wandering horde of drunken
merrymakers I espied my friend Alex, making way
towards me in his usual boisterous fashion. Bottles
of Sam Adams hoisted high, he weaved and ducked
and outright barreled through the throng with the
adroit arrogance of a true trumpet player.
And why, pray tell, he began, thrusting thecold bottle towards me with authority, is my best
broseph, my vocalist extraordinaire, lurking in the
corner of the room?
Deceit failed me. That escapes me, my good
man.
Alex gestured towards the patio door with
his beer. Then away we go! Lead on, Sir Adams!
Bottle thrust forward like a rapier, Alex parted the
crowd as we proceeded to the patio, where the
party was rolling on as merrily as inside. The warm
summer night air breathed life over the scene and
lent me its animation.
My pocket buzzed, and I withdrew my cell
phone, icking it open with the deftness of a
switchblade draw. I read the text missive thereupon
and sniggered.
Aha! Alex declared with an air of discovery.
So this is what made into your pocket with such
dispatch pon my approach! he accused, robbing
Shakespeare with the same casual ease he borrowed
from Frankie Hubbard and Louis Armstrong. He
pried the lid off his beer and proffered the bottle
opener to me. I accepted.He glanced at my phone.
Cindy again, is it?
You know how it is, I muttered. Evil
stepsisters make voice conversations troublesome.
My my, Alex mused, lurking in the corner of
a truly horrorshow party and simply texting your
time away. He pondered this and worried his beer.
I opened mine.I seem to recall, Alex rejoined, a certain
somebody texting incessantly with a girl who was
herself in the middle of a party, only last week.
Yes, I said, heading him off, I am vaguely
aware of the irony-.
Aware! Alex exclaimed. Do you hear this
people, he is aware! He thrust his bottle at me
accusingly. Then I am to take it that your continued
apathy is the result ofblatant cowardice? What, pray
tell, stays your hand?
A sigh, as my eyes appealed my case to the
heavens.
My self-preservation instinct, I replied.
Where to begin this sketch, Alex? She chases
shooting stars, and here I am standing on Earth.
She waits for Adonis to step down from his marble
Rushmore ShruggedJames John Simakas
plinth and yet if he did shed throw him down the
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plinth, and yet if he did she d throw him down the
Parthenon steps, because she fears attraction. She
reaches for stars but fears to gain them, for she is
sure shell burn like the other sinners. Two forces
creating a gravitational riptide and woe betide the
man who falls into that event horizon!
My gaze fell from the starry sky and back to
earth.
She tries to avoid it by taking her love and
her lust in different places, pure sources, as if such
vampirism is acceptable, or tolerable. Shes laid her
rails in revolving obsessive circles and along them
that engine roars wild; she stokes the re with
kerosene and I refuse to be aboard when it nally
blows.
Alex read the declaration etched in my stony
countenance, the slashing signature of my mouth.
Youre madly in love with her.
I turned towards the yard and nished my beer.
All Children Except One
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All children, except one, grow up.
The thought comes to me as I stand at the
sink, up to my elbows in suds. I let go of the pot
I am scrubbing; it slowly sinks to the bottom, and
I look up. The day is overcast and dreary, and rain
spots the window, but Margaret sits on the grass
and plays with her bucket and spade, oblivious. Ismile, watching her grasp the spades handle and
deliberately tip some dirt into the bucket. She
moves with the endearing clumsiness of all young
children, though it seems like only yesterday that
she was learning to stand.
I resign myself to my pots and pans again, but
movement at the end of the garden catches my eye.
I let my gaze wander lazily over the owerbeds,
taking a winding path before coming to rest on the
pale face that is peering over the stone wall. It is as
if my thoughts have called herperhaps they have.
She blinks solemnly and is gone.
Margaret comes through the door like a train,
shoes clattering on the stone oor. She is dripping
mud everywhere, and I school my face into a mock
frown.
Margaret Agatha Piers, just what have you been
doing?
She squirms and giggles. Digging!
Digging? Digging? I bend over and advance
upon her as she continues to giggle. In my garden?
Thats it young ladyits bath-time for you! I grab
her in my arms and she pretends to ght me off.
Mummy, not a bath! I had one yesterday!
My grubby Margaret pouts. Perhaps she was
not entirely pretending. I tickle her tummy and am
rewarded with a grudging smile.
All diggers get regular baths, silly, I tell her. I
pick her up, sitting her on my hip, and turn to the
stairs. I feel eyes watching my back, but I dont look
over my shoulder.I try not to, these days.
That night I awake to the wail of sirens.
Bolting upright, I throw back the covers and
dash for the door. My hand is on the doorknob and
my mouth forming Annies name when I realize it
is quiet. I freeze, and only the sounds of my frantic
breathing and the rain pattering on the roof reach
my ears.
The air raid was only in my dream.
I dont know whether to laugh or cry. I totter
back to my bed, legs suddenly weak, and collapse
on its edge. I am conscious of the way the mattress
sinks under me, and the cold oorboards that press
against the soles of my feet. I wonder if they are
uneven and the bed is at an angle, or if it is me that
is off-kilter.
Concentrating on the rains soft rhythm I lie back
down and pull the covers over my body. They are
cool from my absence, and I shiver. I close my eyes,
and suddenly it is as if I am watching a newsreel, my
memories the projector and my eyelids the screen.
Smoke billows and thins, and I cannot look away
from the scene that ickers in the light of the ames.
All Children, Except OneKatherine Arrandale
A pale hand clutches a doll amidst the rubble of a havent seen her and set my basket on the grass.
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A pale hand clutches a doll amidst the rubble of a
house.
My eyes snap open and I stare at the ceiling. The
rain slowly fades away, and I am still staring when
the dawn light splashes across the wooden beams
and milk bottles clink on the front step.
I walk along the lane that leads into the village.
Margaret is at her Nanas for the day, thank God. I
dont think I could manage her today as well as the
ladies in the village shop. Already I can imagine their
thinly-disguised glances.
Poor dear, look how tired she is.
Well, its no wonder, living on her own as she does.
And with her mother so close byhardly proper
The lane wavers before my eyes and I blink
furiously. It blurs into focus, but I cannot stop the
yawn that follows. It is so wide that my jaw pops
loudly in my ears. I frown and step up my pace.
I am not tired because I cannot raise my daughter
properly. I am not tired because I no longer have my
husband to take care of me. I am tired becauseIshy away from the thought. No sense in haunting my
days with night-timeghosts.
Rounding a bend, I glimpse rooftops in the
distance. I slow, shifting my basket from one hand
to the other. Now that I am almost there, I am not
certain that I can bear to be pitied today.
I come to a gate that opens onto a pasture.
Giving myself no time to think twice, I hoist my skirtand clamber over. The cloth catches on a nail and
tears, and I suddenly wonder why I did not think to
open the gate instead.
I did not know what I was doing at rst, but now
that I stand in the empty pasture I decide to look
for Annie. Once made, the decision feels so right I
cannot remember why I had wanted to go into the
village. Last night was a sign.Striding out into the pasture, I cast my gaze all
around. If she is anywhere she is here, outside. In
the years since the war I have not once seen her
indoors. She is always peering in the window, or
looking through the keyhole.
Therea ash of grey ahead. I catch her in the
corner of my eye and keep her there. I pretend I
haven t seen her and set my basket on the grass.
I kneel beside it and smooth my skirt absently,
ngering the tear.
Annie appears in front of me in the way that she
does, not there and then suddenly there, as if she
has sidled up from a place I cannot see. I look at her
directly, and for once she does not disappear. She
stands with her hands clasped behind her back, and
I take in her downturnedmouth, her golden curls.
She is exactly as I remember her, and I feel a lump
forming in my throat.
Annie.
She tilts her head and holds out her hand. In
it is her doll, as limp as her hand after the air raid.
Fingers shaking, I reach towards her and close themaround her hand. They slide through her as if she
is nothing more than mist, cold and wet, but the
doll itself is solid. I take it, and my Annie smiles for
the rst time. The brightness in her eyes knocks me
breathless, and I cannot help but smile through my
tears.
I cradle the doll in my palm and stroke its cloth
face. There is a sudden wind, cold on the tracks ofmy tears, and when I look up again Annie is gone. I
gently place the doll in my basket and return to the
lane, unlatching the gate and closing it behind me.
The weather is calm once more, and I let the cool
air ll my lungs.
I set off towards the village, and I feel no eyes
watching me leave.
Untitled
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Grey.Is that all youre good for?
Messenger of indifferent, cloudy skies,
you lie, swathed in a shawl of dust and grime,
hang, lazily, on heavy eyelids,
doze in hearts that beat too slowly.
Some would say you aim to depress-
ButIn the blackness of night I see
shadows who leer -conniving little beasts- And
the worlds trolls and madmen
devour feasts of my fears -of those who see too little but think
too much of empty space- And
the burbling, creaking creatures of the
darkness
turn to pounce-my mind shrieks
until
Grey Dawn, crystalline goddess of the morning,
creeps through my window,
toes dancing across the ceiling,
banishes all demons with the utter of a nger;
replaces the nights chill with her cool hand.
Before the pink sky or his golden sons care to rise,
She stands, guardian of the moment
when all that is good of the darkness,
and all that is sweet in the day entwine.
Who would entrust that serenity to a braggart of a color?
UntitledVisalakshi Ramachandran
The Rebirth of Baroque
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All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the
truest sentence you know.
Ernest Hemingway
Philosophy of writing has changed drastically
since the rise of modernism in the early twentieth
century. Hemingways famous words becamethe base guideline in creative-writing classes for
many generations to come. They are reminiscent
of the theories of Ludwig Wittgensteinone of
Hemingways contemporariesfamous for his
Tractato Logico-Philosophicus. In this remarkably short
tractate, Wittgenstein argues that speculative and
prescriptive utterances ought to be removed from
language because they are void. Surely, it has to
be noted that Hemingways pragmatic advice is far
less rigid than Wittgensteins proposals. However,
they are comparable in that they both advocate the
removal of unnecessary words from language. The
other end of the spectrum would be baroque, a
genre that has lost much of its popularity in favour
of modernism. In fact, few proponents of this school
of thought remain in existence today and then,
most are found in the corner of interior design,
rather than literature. Why did the once so popular
linguistic frills fall from grace, and is there some
hope for literary baroque just yet?
The call for simplicity and brevity in writing
coincided with an increase in literacy among the
lower social-economic classes. This is not surprising;
a wider range of people were able to appreciate
literature, but their respective levels of education
were still quite diverse. Inexperienced readers
would not want to struggle through unnecessary
verbiage. Under these circumstances one would
expect literary movement to have diverted into
different branches, ranging from simple to complex.
The reverse appeared true, however. In line with thecapitalist credo time is money, brevity in writing
became ever more popular among the higher classes
as well. Indeed, as nobilitys place was taken over
by businessmen, literary culture became ever more
business-like. A no-nonsense approach to writing
prevailed during the twentieth century: accurate, to
the point and devoid of redundancy.
In his articleAim for Brevity, which was published
in Locutions previous issue, James Zhao argued
that good writing reects this efciency. This is not
necessarily true; surely, it cannot be denied that
the current fashion in literary culture is concision
and brevity. However, this has not always been
the case, as has been shown, and will most likely
not continue to be the case until the end of times.
Georg Hegel, another great philosopher, formulated
compelling theories about the evolution of thinking.
This so-called dialectical method postulates that
a school of thought will inherently be followed by
an antithesis until the merits of both are ultimately
combined into what Hegel named the synthesis.
Going by this theory, a logical next step in writing
would be a genre that combines the brief and to-the-
point style of modernism with the stylistic methods
The Rebirth of BaroqueBart Graafmans
of baroque. world and the deity who originated evil. It needs
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Modern culture already shows symptoms
of this synthesis; society is redeveloping a taste
for decorations. Even such practical appliances
as laptops and cellular phones are made to look
aesthetically pleasing nowadays. The consensus is
thatjust because its practical, doesnt mean it cant be
pretty. And although what was once called baroque
is now labelled design, the idea remains the same.
As design becomes ever more important, the
approach to literature is likely change soon as well.
One author who deserves special mention in this
evolution is William Boyd, who incorporated a form
of modern baroque in his novelArmadillo.
Prometheus and Pandora. Prometheus, a titan
and a demiurge, also known as the great trickster,
and a culture-hero. Bringer of re to earth and man.
Stealer of re from Zeus. Prometheus, restealer,
rebringer.
Zeus, determined to counterbalance this
benecence, created a woman, Pandora, endowing
her with fabulous beauty and instinctive cunning, andsent her to earth with a jar containing all manner of
miseries and evils. Pandora duly lifted the lid from
the jar and all these torments ew out to punish and
distress mankind forever. So, Prometheus brings the
blessing of re, and Zeus sends Pandora with her
malign jar. There is too much of Prometheus and
Pandora in my life at the moment. But I am consoled
by the coda of the legend. Hope was in Pandorasjar, but Pandora closed the lid before Hope could
escape. But Hope lurks somewhere, she must have
squeezed out of Pandoras jar by now. Prometheus
and Pandora, my kind of gods.
This excerpt is particularly tting because it
references Greek mythology, which was extremely
popular during the baroque era. But there is more; forone, the word choice is remarkably exotic, but also
remarkably tting. Demiurge, for example, is a very
conscious choice. Etymologically, it means worker
for the people. In Greek mythology, Prometheus
created mankind, which inherently made him the
greatest worker for the people. However, the most
prominent denitions today are articer of the
no further explanation, then, how tting the word
demiurge is in this context.
Moreover, the quote shows an abundance of
descriptive adverbs and adjectives; a phrase such as
fabulous beauty and instinctive cunning goes against
everything Hemingway stood for. Yet it goes great
lengths to describe Pandora without digressing too
much. Had Boyd chosen to adhere to the famous
mantra show, dont tell, he would not have been
able to incorporate this wonderful analogy without
dedicating several pages to it. This is a display of
the functionality and beauty of baroque styles at its
nest.
I hope to read more novels that feature this inthe future: decorations that do not distract from
the message. Hemingways ideas were necessary
to return to efcient communication, which is the
core goal of writing. However, sticking with those
theories too rigidly would be a shameful disregard
of the stylistic instruments language does possess.
Modernism has made us lose sight of the second
goal of literature, artistry. It is time to regain that.
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Contributors
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Katherine Arrandale is a student and an aspiring
writer, although until recently this involved much
more aspiration than actual writing. College and
the occasional forum contest keep her writing evenin the face of procrastination, while reading and
sporadic attempts at knitting keep her sane.
Michelle Bakeris exceptionally gifted at doing very
little for hours on end. In spite of copious hours of
practice, she still manages to write for work and
scribble a little on the side. She is also enslaved to a
meowing creature named Oreo.
Anna Clare is an unpublished writer and amateur
photographer who has tried, in her way, to be free.
She lives in the United States.
Bart Graafmans is a Dutch student of English
at the Radboud University in Nijmegen. He has
long since abandoned the dream of becoming aprofessional writer and hopes to make a career in
international politics instead. In lieu of any actual
political prospects, however, his current expertises
are teaching and translating.
David Leuenbergeris a teacher trainee for English
as a Second Language in Luxembourg. He likes to
write both poetry and prose, though he prefers
the latter. He has a penchant for cyberpunk and is
convinced that professionalism dies in the face of
boobs.
Dylan Mounts was an editor for issue two of
Locution and is a Creative Writing major at Missouri
State University. In lieu of other interesting facts, you
can rearrange the letters in his name to spell manly
donuts. He spends most of his time not writing.
Visalakshi Ramachandran lives in Florida and is
currently an undergraduate student whose major will
likely change twice in the time it took to compose
this sentence. In her free hours she sometimespretends to write, mostly bad poetry, and hopes to
one day rock the world.
James John Simakas is a Journalism major who
writes science ction, fantasy, and historical ction
when hes not raving about the Man from the
safely ignored depths of the Opinion pages. He is
considered a controlled substance in thirteen states.
Jeffrey Vales Kennedy is currently a student (of
English and Philosophy) and sometimes a waiter. He
resides in many places, but will be making Edinburgh
his home for the next year. His prose was featured
in the rst issue of Locution. In his free time he
writes, reads, and wanders through his own mind
searching for doors to others.
Phil Amy Wright is a student currently living in
Finland. He makes his home in songs, in poetry and
prose, and in between graphite lines on paper. He
would be glad to offer you a cup of peppermint tea
at any time of the day.
James Zhao is a guy. Presumably, he writes, but
most of the time he just pretends to. He likes eating,
sleeping, and rolling down hills in a potato sack. He
thinks kittens are delicious.
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