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and ironic t-shirt hands you this handy little pamphlet that says “Litmag” on it. So you’re thinking: why is everyone at my school such a flipping hipster? And also what is this Litmag business? Well I don’t know about the first question but maybe I should start by actually talking about Litmag. *gasp*

Litmag is Litmagnificient. Litmag is the soup and the nuts and an annoying Fight Club reference all in a day’s work. Litmag is what you should have eaten for breakfast. You know when something really incredible happens and you just have this feeling in your gut that you want to write it down and just make some freaking beautiful poetry that wins every award known to man? That’s not Litmag. Litmag is when you actually do it. Litmag is when you work up the cajones and send your metaphorical baby Moses into the reeds and hope your pen-strokes or paint-strokes find their proper place in the universe. Litmag is putting yourself out there and risking rejection. (Yes, we’re selective). Because of you, in Litmag, the words “student work” aren’t an asterisk. Because of you, every year this little bugger tiptoes toward Pulitzer Prize material. Because of you, Litmag is, according to the most senior experts on the subject, funketty fresh.

It’s anything any student can write or capture or design that fits on a seven by ten piece of paper, given to you in a convenient and colorful paper taco.

No teachers fingerprints. And free.

So really, hipster jokes aside, the least you could do is Read itKeep itAnd SubmitYour shit(Next time around)

The theme of the ‘zine is Project Mayhem, if you hadn’t figured that out already. It’s a reference to the epically swank movie Fight Club, but really our goal was in creating a place to showcase the unconventional, the quirky, the deeply personal, and the reaction-evoking. By the way, if you haven’t seen the movie Fight Club you should probably go do that right now. I’ll just wait here until you’ve finished....

Back? Fantastic. Now you’ll get my sassy references. Moving forward, on behalf of Litmag, I’d like to welcome to you to Litmag.

Some kid with an oversized beanie

Welcome to Project Mayhem.

Rachel Monk, Editor in Chief of Litmag

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On a more serious note, this has been a labor of love, and I’d like to thank everyone who helped on this project. Thank you to our advisor Mr. Gaughen for advising so well. Thank you to all who helped with layout, specifically to my indentured servants, the photog kids. Thank you to every one who doodled hard to make the most memorable margins ever—conservatory children, the yearbook class, Maia Ferdman, etc. Thank you to all the Art and English teachers for your continual support. And lastly, thank you artists. You are amazing. Did I forget anyone? The academy! Ah yes. I’d like to thank the Academy—Canyon Crest Academy, that is.

;] SASSY4LYF

If you are interested in working on the Litmag next year, email us at litmag@ccayearbooks.com. If you are not interested, you should be.

Welcome to Project Mayhem.

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Squeaky Clean

5

chicky chicky Pam Pam

Jason Al-Taan

Squeaky Clean

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Father’s Epiphany Aboard A Metropolitan Elevator

Cold chills your thoughtsas your head hits the bar;and the turnstile you passed throughon the way to your carstole the sweet summer scentoff your breast -- I know not thefeeling. For I am still young:I’ve much dying to do.

I still speak in loud voices‘round campfires, andstill do I spend hours amongstthe golden pine i’ the night;And even so do I find myselfin contemplation, of the essenceof life and exuberance of youth,upon the warmth of the sunbakedsidewalk, stretched out on the curb.

I’ve a mind to rip forth thenutrients from that fruit ofknowledge -- scalp the resistantcasing and savor the sweetnourishment it would provide,a security against life’s maladies.

I’ve a mind to --But, if you’ll excuse me a moment,I must be off for a drink –So that I too may hang my head at the bar.

Zack Brown

Jason Al-Taan

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Love Song of Zack J. Brown

I glance at my watch,Hoping there is alcohol enoughin my BloodTo propel me to her Doorstep.

I am at her doorstep.But no, I cannot dothis. I mustn’t. Staringupside her bedroom windowHours, Seconds, Minutespass. I glance at my watch.

One hand chases th’other. Ithink, perhaps,she thinksOf me. I amcertain she doesNot.

Visions of over--sized bicyclesandof tuneful hummingand of canes top hatsMonoclesand Modernist life-assuringpoetries plague my mind.

I glance at my watch.Time.It has passed: spring,summer, autumn, andsoon Winter. Ispent it all. Spentit all thinking.Just thinking.

This stone, in my handAll The While,I shall finally toss it.Toss it.

Finally.Toss it.And if it be that which ensnaresLuciferAnd brings him down with us.

So be it.So be it.So be it.

But Please,fall down with meif only a momentbefore your Wings are born andYou Must Leave Me.

Stay. Stay and Kiss me.If only for a moment,Please. Stay and Kiss me.

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Onto Others

Jimmy Cao

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Runtao Yang

Onto Others The Impossibility of Eve in a Logical Setting

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Hari Kari, Amen.Sunset dreams take me by the handAnd fly me to a place where the mustangs run.Where cranberry chap stick paints lips blue with heatAnd humidifiers on cold nights rain rooms dark red.

Pill bottles line up like prisoners to the gallowsAnd cat ears twitch with bodies melting like candies in the sun.A red debutant dress swirls around the dance floorWhile stage productions mimic lives gone by.

What is this place, where dolphins play?Where USB cords connect humming purple hearts?Alarm clocks scream crude lullabies in my ear,And like so many thoughtless days,I use scissors to cut out paper dolls for friends.

So here I am, trembling,While track-ball mice run races through my muscles.Like a puzzle piece never finding a place to call homeThese burgundy daisies call memories sanctuary,Having headbands hold thoughts in while split ends are cut away.

This is where I dance,where black-light rays hold in silent repose.Shall inhalers huff breath into dying lungs,In vain, while salt-flecked breezes clutter them up?What a place, where keyboards spell playing cards...Where I plunge over glacier-melt falls into my coffin of CD songs.

Nail polish shall clean off memories of cologne scented days,With hairpin sutures in my heart and mint candies burning down my throat.

But here I find that this is where I belong…

Hari Kari,Amen.

Erin Osterland

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Gas

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Gas Still Life

Christine Mi

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Hem

You hem the dress quickly now,Hands strutting a storm billowingsheets forgetting accord,not the Honda but a distant discord ribboning up, disonance closing in -

(You thin the thread quickly now,Rush spill black across the floor Currant joy is blistered fruit)

Then hem the dress at fever pitch now,Hold the lace taffeta-full beneath half-dollar cuticles

And remember why the sun refuses to setIn a time like this, you may hem the dress and take theWorld at full value, full momentum, full friction, fullGravity splattering toThe ground at exactly four hundred, one-four point zero Four decameters a millisecond.

Because in the end you are the cloud and I amLonely, so we hold the organza lacing end-for-endand (to) explain why nothing glued together(‘cept calico the plain the cotton)lasts a half a time a life or the reason to hold onto the wax when Life lights the candle (and you are only burning)

It is just a matter of hemming the dress in May wearingThe dress and springing around, hem of calicorganzavelvetaffeta

In a fit of May Hem.

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This Is [Not] Laziness

You are in perpetual motion because Leonardo da Vinci forbade it. See: legs, flaying over the flip-flap of scattered books; white cords, trailing from your ears. Hear: it on all night, tomorrow’s worries splayed all over the bed, your fingers numb as you peek at imaginary tic-tac-toe boards.

Your toes tickle the ends of your bed, dangle just above the floorboards dangerously. See: the rim-rammed yellow of yesterday’s responsibilities. Around the spine are shavings; flapping about nervously, as if afraid this something won’t be perpetual.

On your side stand is a half full, half empty glass of orange juice. You clutch at its neck - tip the cup against your lips – and let a single drop slam against your tonsils. The cup lurches from your grip. There is no why, not even a “just because”, only the shattered remnants of silent orange looking up at you from the carpeting.

You think: Perhaps you should sweep up the crystalline mess - and soon, before Mother slams in, shrilling for you to cleanitup, her every syllable amphibious, sidling into the next.

For a few moments, you are a sitting sophist. The cycle of perpetual motion – but never perpetual notions – is broken, except perhaps in the tips of your toes. Something has been decided.

With lips conceived of butter, you proclaim to yourself, “This is not laziness.”

This is Saturday morning. For now, run-of-the-mill mayhem will have to suffice.

Stephanie Guo

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Aftermath

Panchito Lopez

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Aftermath Chaos Theory

Matt AllenPanchito Lopez

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02/24/10

[Possible title: Graphing Calculator]

desiring romances in math classscheming ideals in my headlove is where it touches.I’m on an axis of happy anxietyTo use my words,and stroke fingernails backs across skin.

Clamp a pen in my lips – melancholyChomp a pencil in my teethJoy!

Laughter is only a pairof usawayordered or not

Laughter, comfortable and reliable,And measured in memoriesReal and irrational

A sense of answerspictures and valuesLaughter

Click it in,Fingernails on paper orTapping on keysSolutions:none,or rational,or not,or imaginary

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05/30/095/12/106/12/10

Two Souls and Seinfeld

I want to wake up in the middle of the morning,like 3 a.m.darker than it was when I fell asleep alone,and see myself silently glowing from the flickering television screen.Only, I will know the soft light comes from having you beside me.I want the fuzzy white noise from the muted setto be the radiance of your smile,waiting for me to blink open(without the use of any loud noises).You will be warmer than the blanket that we’ll cuddle under anyway

discovering a mutual delight in the shockof frigid toes against each other’s ankles.Temperatures will slideto equilibrium

as we broadcast a togetherness so warm

defying the freezing loneliness of an empty house.

Our couch in the TV room is an island in time. Without a word we bear witness. We are alivein an hour of the past and the dead. Here is our favorite channel and we’ve never watched it. Here is the meaning of life in a cycle of reruns.

You will un-mute the set.Both we and the silence become deeper.We will breathe steadily and will never sleep. Not while these angels sing and we shine golden in the black-and-white dark.

Sarah Scherk

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Michael Nash

title 1

Food Chain

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Unfortunate Ascension

Michael Nash

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Palate Wind, Quaint Gluttony

A Collaborative Word by Word Drama

Once there wasn’t anything in. But then Neverland exploded and everyone imploded. Then I happened to explode. Dude, it wasn’t fair. Yo. Years ago, in Afghanistan, there wasn’t a queen in Afghanistan. At the mausoleum, things got out and in. Suddenly, interest displayed my cunning to Afghanistan as I built staircases that exploded. Period wait for me baby. On my last pedestal. Infinite time became decimation on a crab with lasers. Sadly, love won’t be enough to damn it to hell. We believed fairyland portrayed no exuberance by making quarters flat and inscrutable. When narcotics stimulated our only epidermis layer in the lair zone, torment disturbed disturbance. Magically sweet architecture incepted subtely. Retribution roared violently over the rainbow. Therefore, four forwarded doors implored hasty implosions on foundations. Magnetism lined how rules should curve magically, millions mourned mornings because moorings, more than you, must market meerkats...Ruptured change with intervention and narcotics until ways turned ugly traditions into trees with no knees. Why is your stupid hard playing harpy player’s plays joyfully? Look! A drumroll is inevitable today because everything wants crustaceans gone. Troubles plunges Gyrados into the paint of things. She held shrunkens made of bones, whoa. Dude. Yo. Where da heck happened??! Tired gaskets’ pudding tasted immeasurably monotonous, like dinner in Bagdad. With Naples gone, happiness came again but your death is dead.

Mindy Kral,Brian DeLuca, Michael Kinney, Leonardo Jappelli

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Insomnia/Narcolepsy

Your shadow flails before mineLike ten hundred vinaigrettesYour twisted, bold vignetteTore my eyes to smithereens, butphew. I swore I knew, but youdecieved me. And I couldn’t close my eyes For fear of waking up after theDance, dance, revolution. My planetarium has tripped me too manytoo many timesbut I’m not bitter at the astrologists,you see, plutocratic silhouettes boogying in my mindMy narcolepsy got the better of me.

Ode to The Shins’ lyrics Some slightly nonsensical,Whimsical, songSeemed wittyEnough to labelAs a wildly serendipitousMusical psychoanalysis of my subconscious. I wished it wereBut my wants were shushedAs I realized itWas just a maze ofRadio-active,Hyperbolic, Pseudo-symbolicMadlibs And my mind, half oxymoron.

“The editor wrote this... and with a clearly unbiased mind, she published herself.”

--The Great Rachel Monk

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title 1

Ashley Butler

Sin

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Carneval

Kat Anear

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“Dear Incandescent Unity, We’re HOME” Eternal Cosmic Sea

I believe that Godis every Consciousness combined,and I believe these “Devils” are Liesconceived by free-thinking Minds in the small Cells of nightdue to no more – and no less – than our Eyes...but first: an aside.Because what’s Felt is what’s Feared and what’s Feared is then Hated,Often in the name of an “all Loving” CreatorWho we: kill for, wage wars for, but worst of all Speak for, as if the Maker of so manyMouths had only oneVoice with which to give gospel.So try, if just once, to Trust this Truth instead. This feeling of Love and Peace of information. Because the Science we’ve made also Speaks, and it tells us thatDarkness – on this Planet – does not even Existand rather that it isjust a State of Perception,just another Human imperfection,just our Eyes, too Blind to See thatelectromagnetically, Everything is what It is...Energy.Vibrating. Shaking. Closed-Eyed but Consciously. Smiling. Blissfully.[Remind You of Anything?]“Oh please,” if just once, just relax – get to know each other – because weare much more than mere brothers, sisters, lovers, and friends; yes, weare Connected, Together not only from our awkward, messy Entrancestill our respective (and often disrespected) Ends – but afterwards too – in theVastness Expanding, the “Cosmos” or “Chaos” or whichever you Choose,becauseWords are just Words andWe are just Bodies of LightExisting within a MultiverseBrighter than we could ever Imagine...So is this Separation, this Vessel, this Flesh, is it Reason enough to reject and detest,to oppress and regress back to Monsters we made in our Minds?It’s insane.We’re obsessed –with the Thoughts of our Selves. Apart from the Rest.“Special.” “The Best.”Well, the Best at Deception – at least of said Selves – and in standing Apart,We construct our own Hells.Because these Eyes that we prize and gaze into with Love, which display all our woes, cannot See all the Light that’s Above and Below, so in the Darkest of nights we feeloh, so Alone, when in Truth...There is no such thing.

Now envision the Dance of two Stars through Deep Space.

Elliott Wobler

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“Dear Incandescent Unity, We’re HOME” Eternal Cosmic Sea

I believe that Godis every Consciousness combined,and I believe these “Devils” are Liesconceived by free-thinking Minds in the small Cells of nightdue to no more – and no less – than our Eyes...but first: an aside.Because what’s Felt is what’s Feared and what’s Feared is then Hated,Often in the name of an “all Loving” CreatorWho we: kill for, wage wars for, but worst of all Speak for, as if the Maker of so manyMouths had only oneVoice with which to give gospel.So try, if just once, to Trust this Truth instead. This feeling of Love and Peace of information. Because the Science we’ve made also Speaks, and it tells us thatDarkness – on this Planet – does not even Existand rather that it isjust a State of Perception,just another Human imperfection,just our Eyes, too Blind to See thatelectromagnetically, Everything is what It is...Energy.Vibrating. Shaking. Closed-Eyed but Consciously. Smiling. Blissfully.[Remind You of Anything?]“Oh please,” if just once, just relax – get to know each other – because weare much more than mere brothers, sisters, lovers, and friends; yes, weare Connected, Together not only from our awkward, messy Entrancestill our respective (and often disrespected) Ends – but afterwards too – in theVastness Expanding, the “Cosmos” or “Chaos” or whichever you Choose,becauseWords are just Words andWe are just Bodies of LightExisting within a MultiverseBrighter than we could ever Imagine...So is this Separation, this Vessel, this Flesh, is it Reason enough to reject and detest,to oppress and regress back to Monsters we made in our Minds?It’s insane.We’re obsessed –with the Thoughts of our Selves. Apart from the Rest.“Special.” “The Best.”Well, the Best at Deception – at least of said Selves – and in standing Apart,We construct our own Hells.Because these Eyes that we prize and gaze into with Love, which display all our woes, cannot See all the Light that’s Above and Below, so in the Darkest of nights we feeloh, so Alone, when in Truth...There is no such thing.

Now envision the Dance of two Stars through Deep Space.

Elliott Wobler

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I didn’t have no gator trap on hand, but this here is the best I could do on such short notice.

Sander Dufour

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Rotten Eggs

Sean Hnedak

I didn’t have no gator trap on hand, but this here is the best I could do on such short notice.

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Cycles

The horizon lineThe setting sun into oblivionIn a melt of cloudy pastelIs a farse:Transitions and divisionsAre merely partOf the turning wheelChange is continuousThe sun is risingAnd setting constantly inA place that isn’t here—But is here somewhereThe rain, the pitter andThe patterThe drain sucking it down inBubbly muddy gurglesIs connected to the waves byRivers, forever crashingOne recedingSimultaneously with anotherReturning to shore.The mother will give birthAnd suddenlyShe is eternalAnd she always wasThe family treeRoots intertwineThe bees pollinateNot creating but continuing into A neverending bookIts pages turning into foreverLimits don’t existGraphs and their points are ambiguousMeasures of infinityPeripheral vision can’t be capturedOn camera and neither can the airNor can loveYou cut your hair

More waits patiently to grow

There is no endThe earth holds no bounds No cornersYou can’t count starsOr frecklesOr antsAnd you can’t kill them all eitherSuch is the universeWhen you walk you push the atmosphere forwardAnd move it back to fill your placeAir is recycledAnd so is your bloodIt always wasAnd will be

Maia Ferdman

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February 16, 2011

Milestones… pass.Small moments… pass.Blank hours… pass.Coming-of-age comes.

No more lure,No more pure, ecstatic anticipation,No more charisma,Or passionate search for information.Only consistency, dull beat,Droning hum, minor conundrum,Poignant grace and spirit and charm.

Crystal Long

Untitled

You’ve locked yourself inside this room,clawing and etching.Four walls a reminder of something never changing.And with your fingernails and teeth you toilto carve the story of a broken manand the blood and tears you collectare only yours to reflect upon in this isolated room. Reaching out, retreating backin fear we’ll douse and burn you,in lies and broken promises,then simply sit and watch you.So instead you curl up in defense,with only memories to haunt you.While clinging lies you can’t recognize the walls you’ve built cannot protect you.

Brittney Meredith

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Venus

Jack Kahn

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Nim

By Fearghal Casey

Wither rubbed his eyelids with his gloved hands, darkened with grime from substances he did not know. His fingers trailed down his cheeks, and as they peeled away, the frigid blue streaming from the monitors in front of him flooded across his face.

He returned to his labor, twisting knobs, adjusting numbers on the screens by touching them, sometimes softly, sometimes firmly. Occasionally he shifted his body on the metal platform which held up his rubber-shrouded mass. Hours roiled past him, and his body grew stiff, and his mind went numb, but he did not complain. The computers leaked onto his hands, and from time to time broke outright, but his gloves weathered the blows, his fists reoriented parts within the machinery.

The very largest screen before him portrayed an ovular area, full up with dozens of white, round objects, which distended into a tube and a glowing line at the other end of the screen. One of the objects jerked away from the cluster and moved toward the tube. It stopped before its edge and displayed numbers for Wither.

Twenty of One Hundred Forty, Batch 5.

He tapped the object twice in acknowledgement, and it continued down the tube.

The white thing first understood itself as a function of that bladder, and then as Wai-eet. Crimson fluids and spongy tubes pulled White along the passageway. Pressure mired its vision, and the fluid tore its sense of hearing apart and filled its head with a rush and a flow. It felt oppressed something it did not know…more tubes, perhaps…more of them within the bladder it had just passed through on its way toward the tube’s blank end, its pure end, blank like White’s skin.

Symbols adorned the exit, a straight line with two right-pointed curves, followed by a circle, followed by a slanted line with another slanted line jabbing out at the circle. A surge pulsated along White’s skin as it passed through the exit and the rushing and the squishy pulling disappeared.

Light seared through White’s eyes and it turned to writhe back up into the exit but would not be admitted.

For the first(?)time, White noticed that there was a hulking mass attached to it. It did not fully understand this, this moving lump with tubes—limbs—shuddering out at both ends. As White thought, the limbs reacted and twisted and jerked, and, at their smacking against the surface beneath White, the feelings tingled along the limbs, and White understood that these things, these limbs, belonged to it.

White turned what it had thought to be itself, but now recognized as part of itself, down toward the surface. Two black orbs pasted on a pale background stared back at White. The image, too, shared White’s hair, sleek and black,

its limbs, its torso, and in very basic terms, White came to a realization.

This body was It. This form, this reflection, represented White. It reached a tentative

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limb-end, a hand, toward the image, and it responded. White twisted its torso upwards, and part of the image disappeared. Now only its legs and hips appeared on the surface. It looked around, above, below itself. The walls and ceiling all shared the same material as the surface White now sat on, and these encompassed all of the surrounding except for the exit.

Or exits, rather. A strange sinking grew in White’s gut as it realized the number of sequential exits, all equally as blank as the one that birthed itself.

The room had a definite end, and White registered this, but it was distant, far down the line of exits. The ceiling too gaped before White’s feasting, black eyes.

White turned his gaze downward: Bodies lined the back wall in a cluster, many of them bizarre, cold colors, but some of them coated in the same pasty skin as White’s own. It twisted its mouth and scrunched its eyes, and it let out a low hiss. Some of the bodies registered this, and gazed at him, pawed at his body with their beady eyes.

“Batch Five’s new member doesn’t seem to be adjusting,” Wither muttered as he stared at the camera feed from the growth room. It showed a single person, pasty white, black-haired, just sitting on the floor. His partner,

towering above and behind his grey hair, nodded her blonde head.

“Some of them will do that. It’s the danger of the system, you run the risk of mutations you didn’t expect,” she stated. Her rubberized hands clamped a round, blue shell around her head, twisted and latched it into place on her outfit. The top sloped downwards into an edge and a number of lenses popped forward with a lurch.

Wither nodded, without looking at her. “That part of the official line now, Mags?”

His partner – Mags – tilted her helmet side-to-side. “Nobody cares. We sell the result, not the bodies.”

“They’re supposed to be social creatures, though,” he tapped the screen. “Can’t that be sign of bad stock?”

“Only in large numbers,” she picked up a long tool from her desk and headed outward, “I’m headin’ into Batch Four’s room for a two-seventeen.”

Wither gave a limp wave and she disappeared through the door

White curled its legs inward and hissed again. Some of the humanoid shapes curled back this time with

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their wide black eyes fully trained toward it. White matched their stares, and unknowingly bared its teeth. When they drew back further, it buried its head into its knees.

A figure, matte purple, slid forward with jerky steps. It knelt next to White and crossed its arms over its knees, then groped outward with a single finger. White’s legs jerked in reaction and it fell over. The stranger opened its mouth wide and laughed; White’s eyes widened further as its heart began to race. The mauve newcomer reached for a second time toward White, who judged the extended hand with all the reason and sound nature deserved of a frightened animal.

Mauve gestured again with its hand. White smacked it with its own hand, and Mauve giggled again. It placed its hand cautiously into White’s curled palm, and the two hands’ fingers wove themselves together. Mauve gave a slight tug, pulled White up onto its trembling legs. It then patted White on each shoulder, ran a hand through its hair and inhaled sharply.

Wither leaned close to the screen and watched as Mauve and White interacted. His brows furrowed, mouth clenched as he thought over what he now witnessed. Steadily, he raised one gloved hand and counted off various ideas on each fingertip, curling the digit in if he thought something ridiculous.

A notice appeared on the adjacent monitor.

Batch 5, 2-17.

The old man groaned, double-tapped the notice, opened a program with another two taps. A keyboard and entry bar popped up, and he typed in, ‘randInt (1,20).’ The machine processed for five seconds, then read out the result.

Number one.

The door behind him slid open. Out trundled Mags with an enormous bag slung over her shoulder, black rubberized coat smeared with something dark.

“Back,” she cried, apparently happy with her deed, although he couldn’t tell with that helmet wrapped around her head. Wither waved her over, and she resumed the position she left a half hour earlier, directly behind him.

“How do they dictate seniority, Mags?”

“Seniority?” She shifted the bag’s weight around, “it’s incredibly variable. Most do it on strength. Some do it on age. Others, who knows? I’ve seen batches that determined it based on skin color. Why?”

“This purple one,” Wither jabbed at the figure on the screen.

“Batch Five, number one?”

“Sure. It’s the only one taking the initiative about the new guy.” He wriggled in discomfort. “You said they were social creatures--”

“YOU said they were social creatures. But yes, I did tell you that.”

“-- So why is the purple one the only one of them greeting the newcomer?”

Mags stared at the screen for a good thirty seconds, then muttered, “I

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sort of doubt that’s their leader. Number one just has more experience sorting the environment out than the other ones, so it takes care of the matter.” She gave his shoulder a pat, “Anyways, I’m hauling this thing to the freezer.”

Wither gave another weak wave as she trundled off toward the door on the other side of the wall. Something leaked out of the bag and sloshed across the floor. Mags paid this no heed, but Wither’s head jerked toward the noise.

A pool of black liquid laid on the floor. He looked away at breakneck speed. His body shook and his mind reeled.

“I’ll focus on the screens,” he told himself. “I’ll focus on the screens.”

Mauve locked its eyes with White’s and exhaled, breath carrying a light cry as it whisked across White’s face. It shrunk back from the breeze and held its breath. Mauve stared at it. Those eyes exerted a pressure on White’s mind, a desire, a

want, a need, to imitate the other creature’s actions.

It did so. White gasped and emitted a terse cry that sounded across the room. The figures in the distance shrunk back from it, but Mauve stood

firm, its mouth curved upwards, eyes gleaming. It let out an equally-loud cry. White pulled away again, but this time Mauve pulled back and placed their

foreheads together. Warm sensations flushed up through White’s body into its face at the contact, its brain filled with a buzzing sensation and a great resolve not to flee.

Mauve began to hum, lightly, softly, and rocked both itself and White from side to side. Behind them, in the distance, the other figures imitated the motion,

slowly at first before matching the tempo and the cadence. The hums resonated throughout the chamber and vibrated White’s head, and soon it joined the melody as well, straining its newborn vocal cords to match the tone.

The group held the noise, and Mauve pulled the synchronized White toward the mob of like-faced, like-bodied figures. Its legs wobbled at first, soon found themselves, eagerly followed as Mauve dragged on its arm. Hands jutted outward from the mob and bumped and felt along its skin, firing new sensations up its spine at every impact and stroke. The pair flung themselves further and further inward, hands still entwined, and the mob grew louder, and the sensations increased, and hands felt all across every single individual. White stretched its free hand out

and it met dozens more through the feel, and the writhing, and the lashing of bodies, only not lashing, but hugging, and fervent joy at each others’ presence. Each new feeling resounded like an explosive

pressure wave throughout the entire group, and the joy of knowing wrapped and twined and wove throughout each single figure.

And just as quickly as they began, all the sensations stopped. White and Mauve sat at the middle of the mob, hands yet interlaced.

The screen undulated with bodies. Wither watched, fidgeted, wiped his brow, crossed his eyes. He again counted off possibilities, but as

he arrived at his last finger he still could not figure out what on earth had just happened before his eyes.

Mags returned, glorious, victorious, removed her helmet, and with a brick-

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like thud, dropped herself and her helmet into her desk.

“Well,” she said, sighing as she kicked her booted feet onto the table, “I’ve earned my wages today. Guy was a fighter, almost took a chunk outta my arm.”

Wither nodded without looking and kept his eyes on the screen. The mob had ceased its humming; now the white, new one, and the purple,

original one, stood at the circle-mob’s center.

The notice from before re-emerged onto his second screen. Batch Five, two-seventeen. It now also vividly displayed the number he had selected. Wither stared again at the camera feed and focused on the purple figure.

Number one.

“Hey, Mags? You feel up to harvest another?”

She snorted, “Hell no. You gotta earn your own pay today, man. I’m done. Batch Four had a real thrasher.”

Wither paused. “Can I at least borrow your helmet?”

“Where’s yours?”

“Left it at home,” he lied.

She snorted. “Sure. Whatever, take it,” she tossed it to him and he grabbed it out of the air. “Make it quick, is my advice. Ain’t you done two-seventeens before?”

Wither paid her no mind as he carried himself, and his instrument, out the door.

White and Mauve hummed. They hummed and hummed and the other bodies in the crowd simply closed their big black eyes and listened. White

had no notion of why they hummed. White had no notion why it felt so magnificent within the mob or to hold Mauve’s hand. It had no sense for the cameras watching them, nor a name or idea for those cameras, nor a name for anything that happened to it or would happen.

But it knew the sensation. The sensation which now permeated its whole being and thought. It enjoyed the sensation.

A hole, a door that none of the creatures had seen—how could they have known what to look for?—split open on

the rear wall. Wither slogged out, with his head bowed low under the helmet, and his instrument clutched in his sweaty, but gloved, hand.

He took a step toward the crowd. Immediately the two in the middle stopped humming and

stared.

Another step. Now the whole crowd faced him. He reached a hand out and pushed one of the bodies

39

aside, and the mass parted. He turned toward Mauve.

A third step. White moved his other arm around Mauve and inhaled. Mauve made no movement.

A fourth step. Mauve disentwined its hand from White’s clutched fist and took a step toward Wither.

They then stood within arm’s length of one another. Wither stared at the bulge-eyed, purple face a foot below his own, steadied his breath, cautiously raised his instrument.

He swiped it across the creature’s face. It jerked to the left violently as the crack sounded out and deep crimson spattered across the mob of bodies. It tilted its face back up toward Wither, its face now adorned with a red flesh pocket on its forehead, eyes watered with questions it could not voice.

Wither brought the instrument back across its face. It fell to the floor with a wet smack as the red liquid flew out again.

The crowd stared on, confused, disconcerted, perhaps even for the first time experiencing dread as they stared at the two who remained standing: White, draped in Mauve’s blood, Wither, drenched in his own sweat

under rubber layers.

Wither stooped onto one knee, slung Mauve’s body over his shoulder with his free arm. He turned and tread back the way he arrived. The helmet sat too tight against his eyes and his vision fogged.

“It’s just a problem with the helmet,” he told himself. The door shut behind him.

The mob moved back in around White. Their eyes, too, bubbled with questions, nameless queries. White did not acknowledge them. It glared at the door, glaring. It glared until its eyes grew dry,

then turned back toward the mob.

White took a walk around the group. It met each pair of eyes with its own, and as they followed its reddened form, touched each shoulder of each human.

It returned to the center of the group, sat on its haunches, and cried.

The End.

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The past two years of my life have been spent in pursuitVying for one who abused and refusedShe left me confused to keep her amusedAnd it stayed just like that

To offer my love I wrote her a songShe conquered my mindIt comprised her a poemI reached out my handShe left me aloneAnd I stayed just like that

When the ending came close I beckoned to herSaid something about all the time we had sharedAnd the little that’s leftThe thinning of airOpened my heart to the spear of despairAnd it came

As the last winter drew near the feelings appearedCame out of the shell and into the clearHow joyous it felt to hold one so dearAnd I wished it to stay just like that

But moments are fleeting and time has its wayShe chokes on the passionGags, blocks out my faceRuns outward so blindly leaving no steps nor traceThe woman I love, she treats me like wasteAnd she fancies that

To ease attached thoughts I wrestled the mindSought to rid it of longings etched dark over timeFought battles angst-riddenMuffled urges so loudBecame one with the oceanFound life in the clouds

Reconciled with a loverA chance one must takeI’m made out as a foolShe makes out with mistakeI will not berate her, though suffocate her I mayFall from the oneness in this month of MayBut I’ll still strive for retention

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For all of us humans aren’t trapped in this placeMerely halted by blocks put up in our mindSo act on the feelings no matter the caseFor in you is the truth, the sweetest of tastesThe love is eternal, infectious and strangeWidespread all knowing, we’re all the sameSo no matter the outcome it’s better to sayConvey love to the beloved, don’t lead them astray

The woman I love she wants nothing of meShe’s weighed down by anchors as she drowns in the seaBut I’m still here waiting, arms outstretched to herExpecting no more than the wind in returnYou can offer your heartYou can be oh so kindBut you can’t make one love youUntil it is time

Dylan Richards

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2012 --An Excerpt

WellI hate to admit itBut for a little bit itI thought 2012 was the last time we would live it

But I’ve come to terms with the truthAnd I am figuring that we’ll hold up. We can’t just all go poof.

Who would reproduce?Who would speak their mindsWho would be the youth,Would write the news about the things we have to lose?

Who would we find the timeTo enjoy their livesAnd not divorce their wives

If we were all wiped out?

We all are slowly blindTo the fact that we are being lied to lying Not you not me but that other guyCan’t you see that other guy hidden up behind the booth?He is pulling strings like a dentist pulling a tooth.

So don’t listen to the other guyFind your own opinions.By now all the Mayans have died.

Jason Segal

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Ode to Romanticism

We walked down 12th Street, Del Mar as the salty air turned our sweaters gritty and our brown hair heavy.

We reached a dead end at a cliff, a misty sprinkler over grass, and a fistbumping broWho we laughed off, assuming he was intoxicated, too (just in a different way)

And she turned to me and said:“I think we’re romantics.”And I smiled, convinced, initiating my inner eargasm:

Oh Whimsy! Oh Felicity! How e. e. cummings makes me…Come to terms with My Romanticism.

Here, Her anthem:

My Romanticism is not drenched in roses,Bedded in cheap silk and singing in tune to Toni Braxton’s greatest hits.Nor is she an odd ode (I only ever wanted to call Keats Kates for consistency’s sake).

No—My Romanticism’s implication is a denotation, Conceptualized in bare bones,Leaving something wantingWanting,InTheMostDegradingSenseOfTheWord.

Crystal Long

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MOUTH Jamie Franks

45

Art Anonymous.

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In these next few pages, we have collected the work of those who inspire invisibly. Each piece of art--save a few--is by a different“Anonymous.” We salute them, for they are projecting true Mayhem.

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The Boogie Woogie Bourgeoisie

48

Kid

Eulogy‘Elliot Raines was a troubled young man...’

A simple sentence, a blind consensusWhen deconstructed and left defenselessIs nothing but a useful euphemism:“Kid was fucked in the head.”

********************************************I snapped shut my brown, leather journal and stared, fixated on the rustic surface. I had never actually noticed how worn it was. It must have been over a year since its liberation from my local Barnes & Noble. At first I felt the notion that I don’t write as much as I should, however it was quickly overcome by a whim of companionship and sentimentality toward my seasoned friend. I frowned. The familiar feeling of isolation and angst-driven cynicism (as recently expressed in my mediocre poetry), crept back down my spine and into the pit of my stomach. My best friend is a book? So be it. I lit up a cigarette, got up off the asphalt, and continued my careless course through a cloudy day in suburbia.

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Just

65, rolling by the see, we sea, the sun, bright, peaking from under a low cloud canal, the sky a cliche clementine. suddenly a trail of trees obstructs our view. not knowing why, we speed to catch up with the setting day. a break in the foliage. the sea, we see, has swallowed the sunset. damn. we missed it.

Over-eager

I saw a little candle in a deep glass cup,A little candle with a little hypnotizing flame,And when I reached to touch it,Hoping to singe the tips of my fingers off,It went out.

A Poem About You

I saw you around today.The sky turned from gray to a nice sunny day.

And then I fell down the stairs,And tore a gash in the tar,And as I drove home, thereWas a truck, its two doors cut ajar,And its entrails spilled out,And I wanted to shout:

“This is how a poem about you sounds now!”

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I found this bunny in my neighbor ‘s pool on Easter. It had drowned.

White Trash, part 2

51CCA Flash Mob 2010

White Trash, part 1

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Oasis--I love her aesthetically, eternally-- Your eyes are bright blue greenLike two small oceansI am tired, thirsty, dry; I want to swim in their eternityEternally.An oasis: so close but so far awayYou- it-they are almost a hallucinationless than a dream My mind is a desert until youBut I fear the discovery of just another MirageRejection is like salt water to a parched tongue.

An Ode to Nights Awake

Begone the joys of day!And its garish laser rays!That shriek: “come out and play!”So shamelessly, no taste, no mystery,No intrigue behind faux-seductive pleas.

No, night is right where I’m at home.Just make me a coffee and throw me a bone.The sun rises and sets in the same six-by-sixty sets.Nothing to look forward to, not a thing to expect.

At 4 am, I begin to see shades of blue,And I’m still awake,But my memory isn’t slurred,And my head doesn’t ache.

I’m content, I’m complete,With no drastic feats.I’m simply happy to makeIt through the whole night awake.

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Hung Up On A Dream (Confession of a Dreamless Sleeper)

I think of you, but only when my eyes are openAnd then again, half closed, in those three hours in bed before I can sleep. (You elevate my insomnia. I lose count of the sheep.)How do I know you’re buried deep in my subconscious, spelunking my id? I just do. (Or is it because you’re my De Ja Vu?)And I know it’s not very romantic butI dream of you when my eyes are open, If you can call it dreaming.(You are an opaque ghost and you haunt me wonderful, unknowingly.)

Martin Luther King never said I have a daydreamAnd no one ever told me to follow my tranceAnd Disney never brainwashed me into thinking that a hallucination is a wish your heart makesBut I’m okay with that.Partially because I can’t love unanswered, And partially because you are blind and we are two black sheep in the dark(Or better: two perfectly parallel lines that can never cross.)(Or better: two people singing the same song,

But not to each other.)

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Pride

$3>< on Fire (4D)

55 Milk

A Day in the Life of a Mouse

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Table of Contents2......Squeaky Clean ................................................... Jason Al-Taan3......chicky chicky Pam Pam.........................................................4......Father’s Epiphany Aboard A Metropolitan Elevator................... Zack Brown5......Love Song of Zack J. Brown....................................................6......Onto Others.......................................................... Jimmy Cao7......The Impossibility of Eve in a Logical Setting...................... Runtao Yang8-9....Hari Kari, Amen................................................. Erin Osterland10.....Gas............................................................... Christine Mi11.....Still Life....................................................................12.....Hem.............................................................. Stephanie Guo13.....This is [Not] Laziness........................................................14.....Aftermath....................................................... Panchito Lopez15.....Chaos Theory........................................................ Matt Allen16.....[Possible title: Graphing Calculator]............................. Sarah Scherk17.....Two Souls and Seinfeld........................................................18.....Food Chain........................................................ Michael Nash19.....Unfortunate Ascension.........................................................20.....Palate Wind, Quaint Gluttony..........................Mindy Kral,Brian DeLuca, Michael Kinney, Leonardo Jappell.....................................................21.....Insomnia/Narcolepsy................................................ Rachel Monk.......(Ode to The Shins’ lyrics)...................................................22.....Sin.............................................................. Ashley Butler23.....Carneval............................................................. Kat Anear24-25..Dear Incandescent Unity, We’re HOME............................ Elliott Wobler26..... I didn’t have no gator trap on hand, but this here is the best I could do on such short notice....................................................... Sander Dufour27.....Rotten Eggs........................................................ Sean Hnedak28.....Cycles............................................................ Maia Ferdman29.....February 16, 2011................................................. Crystal Long.......Untitled..................................................... Brittney Meredith30-31..Venus................................................................ Jack Kahn32-37..Nim............................................................. Fearghal Casey38-39..Untitled........................................................ Dylan Richards40.....2012............................................................... Jason Segal41.....Ode to Romanticism................................................ Crystal Long42.....Mouth............................................................. Jamie Franks43.....Art Anonymous................................................................ .44-45................................................... The Boogie Woogie Bourgeoisie46................................................................................ Kid47............................................................................... Just.......................................................................... .Over-eager.................................................................... .A Poem About You48.............. .I found this bunny in my neighbor’s pool on Easter. It had drowned................................................................... .White Trash Part 249................................................................ .White Trash Part 1.................................................................. .CCA Flash Mob 201050............................................................................. .Oasis .............................................................. .An Ode to Nights Awake51............................. Hung Up On A Dream (Confession of a Dreamless Sleeper)52............................................................................. .Pride................................................................... .$3>< on Fire (4D)53...................................................... .A Day in the Life of a Mouse................................................................................. Milk