THE CREW

Editor in Chief

Editor/Design Aaron Rosenberg

Ian Adams

Commander Illustrator

Master Illustrator

Head Photographer

Lawrence Alfred

Mauricio Bustamante

Frankie Concha

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Press Relations Jazmin Lucero.........................................................................................

Interim Photographer Vivian Ortega.........................................................................

Interim Photographer Eian Siddiqui.......................................................................

Editor Jason Khieu..................................................................................................................

TABLE CONTENTSOF

Glass Walls - Jake Newland

Corrupted - Ian Adams

Review: The Story of a Cactus - Gregory Poblete

Review: The Story of a Stress Monster - Gregory Poblete

Queer Punk Fest - Carissa Alvarez

Writing by the Masses - Aaron Rosenberg

Poetry - Various Poets

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Letters to Modern Corsair 43

If you’re one of the regular Modern Corsair readers and or subscribers welcome to another issue, but before the party starts- we need to talk.

No, you did nothing wrong. We want you to know that we are looking to bring on a new bunch of writers into the fold. Now if you’re a creative sort you may be wondering what took us so long to invite you. Sorry about that. It got lost in the mail. We thought we mentioned it at the thing your sister held. Regardless we want you. We want submissions from you, and here’s how this can work: do you write fiction, poetry, essays, non-fiction, reviews, or have you ever in general organized words so that on lookers might drive meaning from these shapes? If so

you can submit work to:

themoderncorsair@gmail.com

and we’ll get back to you about if and when you can expect to see your labor of love in our magazine. You can also feel free to send us comments or questions any time. Just put what you’re submitting in the ‘subject’ line of the e-mail. You can also contact or keep up with Modern Corsair goodies on are Facebook, Tum-blr and Twitter accounts. We’ll be posting the next month’s themes and deadlines

along with prompts. We hope to hear from a lot of you.

You may now continue with the normal entertainment.

Hey Buddy! Yeah, you.

GLASS WALLSJake Newland

Up ahead, a nose protruded from the floor. The nose of a giant, it seemed, triangular and shimmering. It was a holy nose, and he was on his way to see it. Around the object, the wrinkled floor took on the appearance of an ash tray. Gray dust and debris peppered the earth as they swirled about on spectral winds. Coming closer into view, he noticed it would make an excellent pyramid for a pygmy Pharaoh. Flecks of dirt were carried off by a westerly draft that nipped at his heels, slowing down to a stop at the crest of an odd hill. Rather than push the earth outward, this one pulled the dirt back up, as if it’d wanted a place to sit. Thaddeus neared the Holy Nose with the utmost caution, fearing and admir-ing the object in the same breath. He knelt beside the hill, its altar, breathing quietly for fear of waking the sleeping giant. The pyramid was a semi-opaque shell with a glowing center. Colors mixed and dis-appeared at its heart, only to return milliseconds later. It held the appearance of having no color and every color at the same time. Thad fell in love instantly. His hands scurried like wild tarantulas, and fixed themselves to the sides. Photons bombarded his brain, which was now open to the energy via dilated pupils stretching to the point of enveloping the whites of his eyes. Momentarily shaking, Thad’s arms ceased to be his own. Holy Nose hummed a melody reminiscent of spring times long ago, when flowers bloomed in the forsaken fields of his birthplace. The dirt replied by dancing, its iron filament exposed at the surface. His things, most notably an axe made of bone and scrap metal, gravitated to-wards the rainbow eye inside the glass fixture. It pulled and pulled and pulled, tiny hands grasping at the trinkets stapled to his ears. A nose ring tugged his face forward, an angu-lar, youthful shape the color of coffee. His thin, dry, hungry lips pursed together in oppo-sition to the visceral wine leaking from his jewelry. The strap of his axe stung his spine. Thin hands, fixed to the Nose, only wished they could remove the weapon. Electric fire shot through those hands, first as bright blue, then fading into deep red near his wrists. The hum became a rattling, of everything in him. Organs shook loose from their shelves, and light flew off like fireflies, in all the directions leading away from his eyes. He tried to scream but his lungs fell through his esophagus and turned his ears inside out. Boot-clad feet kicked through the opening, backwards and misshapen. The Holy Nose detonated into a screaming, banshee rainbow, disappearing with the gazelle-boy into the absolute-ness of nothing. Lightning scarred the sky to announce their departure. Superimposing pink blossomed into the perception of a flower caked in pollen dust,

which caught the falling traveler and dispersed with his actualization. The room filled with fragrant, yellow ash, which settled among the oblong, granitic blocks jutting out of the milky, marble floor. Their tops were uneven and ragged as if they were once pillars, torn asunder by hands of unfathomable size and dexterity. In comparison, the outer edges looked freshly carved with the most delicate mastery of a chisel. Complementing stalactite blocks hung down from the ceiling and were more or less the same length and composi-tion as those that held to the ground. Patterns on the broken pillars immigrated between the concordant pairs. Starting off simple, as shapes and symbols, they metamorphosed into planes, parabola, and eventually became an eddy of tantalizing fractal lines that swarmed and sizzled their way down. Further off in the distance stood completed pillars, around which a rosy, glass casing wrapped itself about. Cherry hues lit the copious arena of rock, emulating a primeval sunset. Thaddeus shook alert with a violent sneeze that rattled his young bones. His dis-tressed hands clamped themselves to the rim of the mysterious flower that bloomed to break his fall. Tense and pointedly aware, he slid out. Bootlaces clicking against hard mar-ble, he cautiously erected his spine and spun around in awe of the sheer size of the place.

It was clean, which made him nervous. Clean always meant someone had enough time amidst the daily struggle of survival to make order of their things. Clean was dangerous. Thad broke into a full sprint, weaving around the pillars with a graceful flick of his heels. Instinct pulled his axe loose, and made it available to fend off any cannibalistic preda-tor-men that could be lurking in the serene fixture of the gallery. His fleeting footsteps echoed and screeched at the edge of a steep crag. Black, abysmal space howled at him with a threatening maw that only belonged to the night. The cavern had a frosty air, sanitized and pure. His heart jumped around like a hyperventilating rabbit, smacking against the in-side of his chest. Just barely managing control, he slowed his breath and steadied himself.A ghastly voice ushered a raspy caveat behind his ear. “I wouldn’t if I were you, dear.” He nearly fell from the jolt of the sudden utterance. The voice was soft, and yet harsh at the same time. Tone was indiscernible. “Who are you?” Thad asked meekly, clutching at the hilt of the axe. Wordlessly and swiftly, by the same magic that a city busker exacts tips from pass-ersby, the boy was swept into the air on unseen strings. His dark legs swung as if to test the veracity of what was going on, kicking against one of the pillars. Wide eyes scanned his surroundings as he was spun to face an object not much larger than his palpitating heart. Its scintillating violet crystals sparked with life at each thought, surrounded by a mesh of strange energies that held the levitating amethyst in place. “I am Vodos, caretaker of this place.” “A-and what is this place?! Let me down! I don’t want to be here!” “This is the Museum.” “Museum…of what?!” His arms struggled against that which was not there. “This is the Museum of Forgotten Civilizations. Mankind has a terrible memory for its own past!” Thaddeus pursed his lips in astonishment. “So you collect-“ “We collect the relics, artifacts and monuments of every civilized society on the planet shortly before they fall and house them here in chrono-stasis.” “So what about the civilization we’re in now?” “That’s exactly why I brought you here! You’re going to help us out with something.” Vodos smiled if ever such a thing could smile. “Will you guys let me leave if I help you?” He cut through straightaway. “Yes, if you want to leave after we are done here, you’re free to do so.” “Okay, so what do I have to do?” “It’s simple; you get your people to finalize the destruction of the planet so we can consider our collection complete.”

“So you want me to basically kill my own species so you guys can show off your tro-phies? Is there a fuck no option?” “There is, but I’m afraid that option would involve being teleported back to the same infernal slum pit from which you originated.” “I’ll consider it?” he shrugged and was lowered to the floor. The room decided to change scenery, sprouting ancient trees and monuments un-like he’d ever seen. Wooden totems sprung from the ground, now earthen and peppered with plant debris. Soft, rounded boulders arranged themselves in an elliptical formation. A man, or perhaps manikin, sat cross legged on the largest of the rocks, letting his jade robes hang over the edge. A vivid sun and moon overtook the dull concave of the dome. Thad reattached the

axe to his back, finding the being sitting before him to be much akin to his grandpa in mannerism and weight. Bounding forth exuberantly, he approached the robed figure with interest. “Watch.” It spoke in a whisper. People of caramel colored skin took sudden form, their heads bald and their arms long. Along with them marched gargantuan mechanoid constructs, with dazzling, mul-ticolored eyes. Thick iron legs hissed, shaking the earth underneath with each successive impact. The titans carried tree trunks in their entirety, to a spot where human contractors directed them in setting up a building. More of those buildings phased into being and soon became a great city with two temples on either end. One was topped with the statue of a man reaching his hand out as if to grasp something and the other was that of a me-

chanical servant holding a large tree limb that caught fire. Contrary to expectation, the men and women prayed to the servant altar, and the machines hummed their engines at full tilt as they kneeled before the statue of man. “This,” the robed figure hissed the last consonant, “is the world as it once was, long before the exploits of the Roman empire, or of Egypt, or of Sumeria. It is a time whence man and machine became as one to end the cold and corporate servitude of the monetary world. They lived in peace for ten thousand years, my child, longer than your books can record.” “Why’d they die off then?” “A plague, a scourge of nanoscopic insects ravaged the mechanical peoples of the world, and slowly, the disease spread to the men of that race, though other human species survived the catastrophe.” “And that was the end of them?” “Yes. There is no more evidence of their being, except that which exists in this place. They would have been lost entirely if it weren’t for our intervention at the end. An elder of the eldest tribe helped us to compile a record of their exploits.” “And who are-“ “The Archivist, my child, and assistant to Vodos.” The rock dematerialized and he floated over to Thad. If Thad was afraid of him, he gave no notice. The boy stared into the void of space that should have housed eyes with determination. “Your eyes,” spoke the Archivist with interest, “are green! I remember that muta-tion.” “You’re sure I’m the one that’s mutated here?” Came his retort. “I’m afraid so! Now, let’s move on to our next little civilization.” Wooden totems became stone columns and pillars that raced to the sky. Sweeping verandas, overlooking vast quandaries of Sapphire Ocean, spread from underneath his feet. A platinum sun rolled off the precipice in front of him, slipping into the waters. Miles below, behemoth whales flopped like silly fish. Stringed instruments strummed away the airy afternoon breeze with promises of meat cooked with generous handfuls of salt. Birds gossiped about, parting ways at the sight of a villager, for fear that they might learn their secrets. The people wore mostly leather here, simple clothes that didn’t attract a whole lot of attention. They weren’t much for decoration. “What fine sportsmanship!” A large, potbellied man exclaimed to an oddly muscu-lar child cavorting around the stage with the carcass of a large, dead boar in tow. “Thank you, father-sir.” He bowed his head in respect and dragged the boar along, a streamer of iodine red running behind him. Thad felt more at liberty to move in this display. It didn’t feel as rigid or pre-deter-

mined as the scene in the lost forest. There was a distinct vitality to this place. Moving into the bustling crowd that gathered around fire-pits and ate the butchered remains of wild beasts, he was reminded of his own time, except that his village was slightly less wealthy when it came to matters of food. Food was a scarce thing, not something you clopped over the ground or hung above roasting furnaces. No, food was a thing you kept to yourself, almost like a family secret. It wasn’t something you shared with you neighbors. As the mouths churned and the roasted wafts of air swam up his nose, Thaddeus found himself salivating over simulation. He reached out, and passed through a cow torn asunder, send-ing skittering beetles of amplified hologram racing away from their source. His stomach howled in protest. He wanted it to be real. A disparaging mote of sympathy passed through the Archivist. Beauteous marble village women, lips red as roses, turned to face the specter as he made way into the scene. They bowed in his presence, metallic eyes fixed on a shapeless skeleton. Gallantly hovering above the barest hint of floor, he came before Thaddeus. “Dearest child,” he spoke, “you hunger do you not?” “Yes,” Thad hesitated, “but your food is an apparition. It won’t fill me!” “Then let’s go where the meals are a little more solid, shall we?” He led Thad away from the crowd of filtered light. “But what happened to these people?” The specter drew in an ethereal breath, “War.” Smoky fingers crawled up the horizon, cutting paths across the sun and scratching beyond the scope of their simulated sky. Other claw marks fell closer and closer to the shore. Earthquakes began to rattle the ground, and people clambered over each other in desperation. Eventually the veranda itself stuttered and cracked in half, making peace with the bottom of the sea. Walking no more than a few steps, the Archivist and Thad stood before a table of golden skin and avante garde artistry. Its lion pawed legs sat flat and comfortable on the dusty warehouse-like floor of the museum. High padded chairs sat erect in rigid, regal posture and seemed to sigh when Thaddeus made acquaintance with them. He felt about ten feet too short for the chairs. They were massive, unlike any furniture he had ever seen, even if that list wasn’t very long. Careful script crawled along the edges of the table, in a language that seemed all too familiar, yet distant as the moon itself. There was something clearly human about this place. With his arms dangling from the arms of the chair, Thad noticed the formation of new somethings on the table top. Concave structures of blue and white fanned out like bellowing frogs on a hot summer’s eve, stopping once they reached half a sphere in shape. Other somethings were taller and elongated, pulling themselves up in curiosity to look over their golden horizon with inquisitive necks. Flat somethings yawned and stretched out as far as their destiny carried them before cessation. Then, just

as mysteriously, their surfaces rattled with the addition of new weight as food grew from motley piles of organic matter, sprouting up like congested fountains. Surging, sickly green mass became grapes and striated pink sinews became glazed ham. Exotic foods of varied color and size materialized before him; things Thad never could have dreamed up. The titillating spice of foreign perfumes engulfed his nostrils in an overwhelming surge of pas-sion, a race to be the first to excite his deprived olfaction. Saliva welled in response as the last of the mysterious foods came to be. That night, Thad ate, and he ate well.

The night came and went, slipping by like a devious raccoon. Thad didn’t remember going to sleep, but he awoke in the embrace of bleached sheets and a simple, but sturdy bed. Everything in the room around him held the aroma of fine linen and cleaning sol-vent, a smell with which he was not familiar. Comforting light warmed the room in an angelic glare as it sifted between the slits of plastic blind. Motes of dust danced in the mys-terious rays, as Thad sat upright on the mattress. “We pulled it out of a dream you had. It is what initially lead us to you.” “I was meaning to ask you that,” Thad spoke, no longer perturbed by the sudden drone of Vodos inside his head, “why me?” “Ask the Archivist. He chose you, not me.” And with that, the room returned to its former gray glory of columns and crystalline structures. Thad was standing on a tall pillar, near the center of the room. “I want to show you one last thing. If you still don’t want to aid us, we will let the human race perish or prosper as it otherwise would and make you believe this place was nothing more than an intense dream.” The Archivist spoke from behind him, though Thad didn’t turn around. Images jumped into his foray of consciousness, as if a video reel poured through his optic nerve. “This is the twenty first century, the era your grandfather was raised in. It was an era of great innovation and triumph for all of mankind. Disease was being eliminated left and right, technology burst forth like wildfire. Surely, everyone then thought it would be the golden era of man. But it wasn’t so,” the display switched to the lavish luxury homes of celebrities long since consumed by the angry Earth, “the elite class wouldn’t have it. They imposed taxes upon their lower counterparts, making certain they wouldn’t climb to the top so easily. They pulled and pulled wealth up to the top, trying to control it all, trying to have it all to themselves. They waged unnecessary wars with this wealth, causing the deaths of millions across the globe.” “And what happened?” Thad interjected, ecstatic from the flood of light and sound and memory. “COLLAPSE! Collapse on a massive scale! The world brought itself to chaos and ran

into the ground.” The Archivist seemed to pant, though it was apparent he lacked any real lungs. “But why destroy it?” “Child…there have been more civilized societies than you can even imagine. And every last one of them has managed to run face first into oblivion. Mankind is a futile ges-ture; a failed animal whose very existence threatens harmonious life.” “No.” “What do you mean?” “Man is not a failed animal.” “Have you not seen-“ “What I’ve seen is the most determined animal. One that does not lie down and die just because the odds aren’t in its favor. I will not help you destroy the human race.” “I hoped you would say that.” “You wha-“ “Run, Thaddeus! You’ll understand later!” Out of mist and shadow, formed Vodos, screaming like banshee winds. The pillars all around it shattered like glass as it approached the Archivist. “You said you would bring me the end to this world.” Its calm voice managed to scrape above the howling gale. “Which I did. He is the end to this world, and the beginning of another.” The Ar-chivist began to laugh, having distracted Vodos from the fleeing gazelle, Thad. A portal opened before him and he was returned to the barren plane from which he originated. A fog seemed to blind his vision at first, the hush of murmured voices around him growing louder at his awakening. Air rushed into his body as if he held his breath for the past couple days. He looked up to see the faces of startled villagers staring back at him. There, in his hand, was the device used to bring him to the Museum. Immediately sur-rounding him, there was life, ancient vegetation sprouting up from the horrid decay of the ground.

“And the point of that was?” Growled Vodos, a pink core glowing in its center. “To give the human race a chance to learn from their past. All of it.” “What right do they have to such information?” “I believe they have more right to it, than we have to seclude it from them.”

CORRUPTEDIan Adams

Entering pubescence with trembling steps and a cracking voice I anticipated official teendom in a few months. Little else in my life served to fill me with such positivity then. Private education lends no relief to the terrors of that tumultuous period. For one bookish asthmatic Jew in Calvary’s Christian Academy gym class brought every nightmarish fear to flesh and mortar, this reality a hell, worthy of delirious visions. Blue cement floors and cinderblock walls held the academic warmth of that building, meaning that as Halloween approached inevitably every surface would come as near to absolute zero as science would allow. Among burgundy lockers slamming open and closed Coach Lyn emerged from his adjacent office between the students changing area and the showers. Sliding on burgundy shorts I stared with dread at the cavernous tiled room with shower spigots. We boys dreaded public showering in the locker room. How unpleasant? Your first taste of public nudity when first you realize a deep shame for your body (and for adolescent boys) the involuntary acts it carried out. I personally didn’t mind after a while. As finding what and who liked (in that was musicians from the 1960’s and English films always went on about) went well along with the whole system. And then stranger events came for those same boys, who on the “prayer retreat” or week to winter camp they had no apprehension. No. rather, in the mountains, in showers with less separation and closer confines, these same students dashed eagerly together to wash up. How did that make it better? Or any different? Coach Lyn, a stout man with bottle blond hair parted down the middle waddled ahead of us blaring his whistle. One at a time, he ‘encouraged’ us to perform. “Vasquez, pick up those knees! Look like a cripple fighting off polio. Malinson, you’re as limp as your wrists! Adams, keep your goddamn back straight.” Marathon lunging from the lockers to the gymnasium, we could feel the sickly sensation on cold air gusts flattening down our backs saturated in hot sweat. By the folded bleachers cheerleaders practiced their routines. Prettiest of the girls, Susan Hunter wears a showgirl smile. Beside her, the girl who came second in tryouts, athleticism, and looks Valery Lopez shimmied. How strange I found it. My academy had taught rigorously, hours of monologues I was required to agree with, on the failings of ABC sexual education. Popular at the time, it stated an STI-free life came from Abstinence, Being Faithful, and Condoms used correctly. I was told contraception was unreliable and a sin, self-stimula-tion was unnatural as those deviants, who were so despised by staff and faculty that they

rarely said gay (as I recall when it was said ‘homosexual’ was the term, as it is medical and one apologist teacher of mine explained that’s the crux of it. Homosexuals are a medical disorder, and abominable. So that helped me sit on some feelings for a few years more.) I say this in that I and my fellow sport boys watched those girls in short skirts, and under-sized tops, prance at the sidelines to cheer rimes of ‘love of Jesus’ and ‘victory means us’. The school seemed to be running conflicting messages to our collective hormone addled minds. The distractions from my burning lungs were always short lived. Coach Lyn barked “I want you sissy little bitches to climb that rope. Climb ‘er, tap the beam, come down. Read me?” Weak arms only got me so far. Three fourths up my body went on strike and my fingers demanded sabbatical. “Adams, you get there or I’ll set you with the girls all practice.” “Would that be a punishment?” His eyes slit. Quivering jowls he sent me to laps. When I asked how many, sliding down the hemp equipment, he said he would decide when I had finished. Jogging around the room, the east wall had a quote from Philippians 4:13 “I can do all things through Christ which strengthened me.” And on the western wall the more militant biblical quote of Deuteronomy 11:28 “…and the curse, if you do not listen to the commandments of the LORD your God, but turn aside from the way which I am commanding you today, by following other gods which you have not known.” I knew also from my education (it could have been math class) that pretty much anything can be another god, apparently. Those whose first and last thoughts aren’t on the realm of the divine clearly worship some idol in life. I wondered as I ran, little else to do when running alone so long, “Why are gym teach-ers so fat? Is it some joke on us?” as I nearly ejected my guts on the waxed hardwood from the strain. I think Susan and Valery were laughing when tunnel vision came. Rehydrating, once finished throwing up, Coach Lyn shepherded us to the showers. That’s what we were sheep. Not even implicitly. Weekly sermon reinforced that we as faithful children were sheep to God and elders. As children Christian students, there was little autonomy lent to us. The shouting and whistle trills that came with these dull eyed people recalled photos from a book of my own cultural history, toward the shower. I was twelve and that thought was hyperbole, but I still thought it then. Coach Lyn said “Strip,” and when we hesitated he tagged on, “No queers in here. Strip down. See, Vasquez has the idea. A man’s man.” Cold water on my face, I steeped in a wrathful longing. My two ideas were to either cut his brakes, or throw a virus on his computer. I did not know how to cut a brake line- or really desire to kill Coach Lyn, though he would have gained grand momentum. Enlisting a friend and fellow victim Nate Vasquez as an intrepid explorer of the

world wide web in setting a virus, we slipped in the locker room with the footballers after school. His office smelt of lunch meats and old gym sweat. We inserted a floppy into his drive. The next week Coach Lyn did not come. He disappeared for a month- a delight-ful month I won’t lie. Not wheezing in the gym while Susan Hunter, put on a show for the raving adolescent boys without the company of her second best gal-pal. No one thought of that thought. No one considered much at all. Not when perfect Susan could dazzle the kids with her moves, and the faculty with grades or her father on the school board. Look-ing back I find more inevitabilities at the death of my faith. There Miss. Hunter’s high sta-tus, by nepotism drew a conclusion from me. She knew people, was born lucky, pretty and rich. She would not worry at any point for anything. All things could happen through her, as the LORD strengthened her. We in God’s eye are said to be equal, yet some get more equality than others. More everything. And some of us are in the middle, between a rock and a hard place, Jewish asthmatic in a world of Christians (who are just a bit more Amer-ican, wealthy, smart, normal) than you. And then some people will be Valery Lopez, such an afterthought that even when the worst happens, no one remembers. That month later we learned, not from a faculty member who all had apparent-ly been told to stay quiet by Mr. Hunter, for fear of student removal removing the tuition money, what went on. Nate via his hacking skills learned that Coach Lyn had been arrest-ed and fired. When complaining of a virus, the Academy sent a IT guy to fix the issue. The staff found IM’s and photos proving Lyn had cheated on his wife with second best cheer-leader, thirteen year old Valery Lopez. Statutory rape put him on a list and out of my life. Nate more upsettingly discovered when hunting through the digital record that the school board members sat on the information for days before reporting it. Before the children, who disrobed and washed by his door, before the girl’s safety and health, or her family’s wright to know, Mr. Hunter thought ‘how will this effect cash flow and this institutions prestige.’ And even through that I went on years before seeing that I am not abominable, or evil, or anything of the sort. Did I ever think I deserved less respect than that odious rapist? I can’t say I thought of it in those terms. One boy mentioned defensively of his coach “It was consensual,” he said how that pitiful thing was so dejected at being a nothing she warmed to an old man’s advanc-es. How he might have done a kindness, making her feel so special, despite nothing being significant about her. When he finished theorizing I asked. And I still do. “How does that make it better?”

CRYSTAL FAIRY AND THE MAGICAL CACTUS

REVIEWS:

THE STORY OF A CACTUSGregory Poblete

First of all, I would like to apologize for my previous review of “Get Rich or Die Tryin’” and essentially shooting down any possible credibility that I may have in actually being a movie critic. I am aware that reviewing a more popular and critically acclaimed movie like “12 Years a Slave” would have been the better route to take for my first round of reviewing movies, but whatever. If you can get past my obscure choice of movies to review, then let’s continue. George-Michael Bluth, Scott Pil-grim, Paulie Bleeker, that dude that looks like Jesse Eisenberg; no matter where you know him from, Michael Cera is everyone’s favorite awkward actor to love (or hate.) However, Cera tries to dip his toes in the big kids pool of serious acting in the 2013 film, “Crystal Fairy and the Magical Cac-tus.” Directed by Sebastián Silva, “Crystal Fairy and the Magical Cactus” follows a group of travelers in Chile trying to find a hallucinogenic cactus called San Pedro. Yes, a hallucinogenic cactus. Jamie, played by Cera, is the only American of the ini-tial group taking this quest to find the Holy Grail of cacti until he accidentally invites a gypsy woman that goes by the name, Crys-tal Fairy (played by Gaby Hoffmann.) At first, Jamie is repulsed with the fact that Crystal Fairy is on this very intimate drug-trip with a bunch of people she doesn’t

even know and he desperately tries to ditch her at any opportunity he finds. However, Jamie eventually comes around to appreciate Crystal Fairy’s presence after he takes his psychedelic trip from the San Pedro cactus, which brings them all together through the power of drugs. I can attempt to stretch out the plot of this film by saying that this group of travelers wanting to find this mythic plant goes on a number of rigorous tasks until they actually receive their glorified treasure, but in all honesty, they simply just steal the plant from a nice woman and that’s that. The major conflict within the movie is the struggle between Michael Cera’s character, Jamie, and Crystal Fairy. Although they are the only two American characters in the movie, they are both vastly different in many ways. Jamie is only focused on his desire of obtaining the San Pedro cactus and he is in a rush to do so, while Crystal Fairy is very “chill” and likes to enjoy life at a slower pace. Crystal Fairy is very much

the opposite of Jamie in the sense that she enjoys the natural beauty of life rather than needing to find an escape through drugs or hallucinogens like Jamie does. It isn’t until after Jamie partakes in the San Pedro cactus that he realizes the value of Crystal Fairy’s presence and that her way of living is actually what he was looking for all along. “Crystal Fairy and the Magical Cactus” can easily tie into the theme of transcendentalism by focusing on how this mysteriously mescaline-infused cactus can bring out the best of a human just by drinking the water inside of it. This cactus, originally from nature, stolen by these desperate travelers, and then

partaken on a beach in a very natural and organic setting, displays how a tiny piece of nature can change the mindset of a human and find some eternal truth because of it. With Jamie’s character, he showcases the most change out of all the characters within the movie because at first, he is very close-minded to having Crystal Fairy come along with his friends on this journey to find the San Pedro cactus, however, after he drinks the San Pedro cactus water, he discovers that Crystal Fairy is actually quite enjoyable to be around. It isn’t until Jamie is sur-rounded by nature that he begins to open up his mind and actually appreciate the natural aura of Crystal Fairy and the positive vibes that she displays. This movie tells the old cliché that a book should never be judged by its’ cover and that there is more to a person than what is seen on the outside. Just like a cactus, the outside is covered with hundreds of thorns that may hurt, but when you finally get to the core of the cactus, you will find a refreshing and possibly a hallucinogenic drink. To finish off this review, I would like to give my overall opinion on this film. Let me start by saying that this is an indie film, meaning that there aren’t any car chases, explosions, superhero battles, sex scenes, laugh-out-loud comedy; it is just an indie film. So if you decide to take a gander at this film, don’t go into it expecting much because you will be severely disappointed. However, this film does show some heart through Gaby Hoffmann’s performance of the extremely charming, Crystal Fairy. Overall, this movie is pretty slow throughout and might be difficult to stay awake during if you are watching it at 2AM trying to take notes for a movie review. With that being said, my overall verdict is 3 magical cacti out of 5 because I am an avid fan of Michael Cera no matter what he is in.

BAD MILOTHE STORY OF A STRESS MONSTER

Gregory Poblete

Have you ever seen a movie so bad that it was actually quite enjoyable? Despite the over-exaggerated acting, the cheesy visual effects, the terrible plot, the subpar camera angles, and the unrealistic dialogue, the movie was actually watchable. Take for example “Sharknado” or “Gremlins 2: The New Batch” and see how these extremely terrible mov-ies snuck their way into many people’s hearts for being so bad it was good. This is exactly what Jacob Vaughan’s comedy / horror film “Bad Milo!” is meant to do. “Bad Milo!” follows an extremely stressful man. Duncan, played by Ken Marino (“In a World” / “Role Models”) who finds himself in a very unique situation when his stress induced lifestyle due to work, relationship problems, and family issues, begins to increase to the point where he cannot stand it anymore. Always been known to have stomach is-sues, Duncan and his wife, Sarah, played by Gillian Jacobs (“Community” #RIPCommuni-ty #SixSeasonsAndAMovie) believe that Duncan’s most recent stomach pains were due to

stress, however, they have never been more wrong. Before I tell you what exactly is causing these stomach problems, I want you to Google image search the movie poster for “Bad Milo!” to see the wonderful, 80’s influenced posters. Awesome, right? Now that you have that image in your mind, that little monster is from Duncan’s ass. Yeah, that little thing is a monster living inside Duncan’s intestines and causing him stomach problems. Alright, a movie about a butt-monster, that doesn’t sound too bad. Well, this puny, little creature living in the place where Duncan disposes of feces is deadly and attempts to kill every person who causes any stress to Duncan. Given the name Milo by Duncan, this creature becomes one with Duncan and they even grow a fondness towards one anoth-er. Seeing this relationship grow is definitely weird, but it’s also cute(?). As the film goes on, Milo keeps attacking more people from Duncan’s life who are causing him stress and Duncan realizes that he needs to end this killing spree right away before Milo actually goes after someone whom Duncan loves. No, this film does not have any connection to transcendentalism if you were won-dering. But(t) there is a prominent theme self-control by seeing that there is a little mon-ster inside all of us desperately wanting to break free, but we have to learn to control it and take on the responsibilities of life in civilized way. Overall, I found this nanar of a film to be surprisingly entertaining throughout. If you enjoy seeing ridiculous movies with a ridiculous plot then this movies is right up your alley (no pun intended.) This movie is not meant to be taken seriously, so do not go into it critiquing every little flaw you see because they were most likely put in the movie on pur-pose. My final verdict of “Bad Milo!” is 3 poop-face emojis out of 5. This is the sentence where I attempt to try a cool sign-off line: let’s get a movie smoothie. (Nailed it.)

In a spacious but humid room with high ceilings, covered wall to wall in layers of graffi-ti, a group of twenty or so peo-ple in their twenties (or so), in all manners of mundane and gen-der-bending attire, sat attentively in a crooked semi-circle around the young presenter dressed com-fortably in shorts and a cut-off tee, casually holding his notes in his hands, while talking enthu-siastically about the history of

queer-oppressive ideology. This was just one of the many vibrant and charming scenes that could be found at the first annual Queer Punk Fest, held at Chuco’s Justice Center in Inglewood, Los Ange-les--a youth and community re-source center which also offers it-self as a recreational space.

The event took place over Friday May 9th, 2014 and Saturday May 10th. Friday’s date included

QUEER PUNK FEST Carissa Alvarez

Done with the help of Interpol’s Antics, and a special thanks to Renaldo for all her insight. I couldn’t have done it without you.

a screening of the film “Paris is Burning” (a wonderful documen-tary chronicling the ball culture of New York City in the mid-late 1980s which can be found on Net-flix - watch it!), food and DJs (open this day only to Queer and Trans people only). I had been planning for some time to attend Saturday’s date, having been intrigued by the mission statement of an “intersec-tional, trans-inclusive, decolonial extravaganza”.

Saturday’s event began in the morning with a condom-filled cop pinata (which, much to my dismay, I missed, having arrived at the event after this had taken place). The event space itself was filled with tables and art installa-tions. In exploring the tables, one could find merchandise such as patches and handbags, as well as

zines a-plenty (from Fuck the Po-lice to La Alzada: Two Interviews with Chile’s Anarchafeminists).

During the workshop in that graffiti-clad hall, (Queer Im-perialism and Homonationalism) Eurocentric ideals were discussed, and the fact that in our current system, the establishment of a bi-nary system came from Europe. In this Eurocentric system, peo-ple of color were thought of as needing salvation, and thusly the imposition of a Christian/binary/monogamous ideal on sexuality/gender. It was discussed as well the label of “LGBT” as being a box in which not everyone can find connection, one in which not ev-eryone is defined. Alongside this discussion, portrayal in the me-dia was also discussed, such as the fact that within the media (mov-

ies and television), it is difficult to find portrayal beyond white, gay, males (think: Modern Family, Shameless, Mean Girls). The over-all message of the workshop was in creating your own space, and to seek to self-define oneself.

Based on the audience of the workshop, it seems as if the pre-senter was extremely welcoming and open to any questions on the topic throughout and following the workshop. To find out more related to the topic and to join the discussion, check out the Face-book group created following the workshop “Seeking Self Defini-tion”.

Despite the fact that I only had the opportunity to attend the one workshop, the event did not end

with my departure. After sever-al more workshops (including “Consent and Queer Bodies” and “Queering Spaces), and activities (spoken word and performances), the closing bands played. These bands included: Tomber Lever, The Lost Years, and Apostasis, all of whose Facebook pages can be found, perused, and enjoyed.

The first annual Queer Punk Fest was a well-organized event which (in this author’s opinion) achieved its mission statement of creating “alternative spaces free from oppression and social hier-archies”. Four for you, Queer Punk Fest. See you next year.

WRITING BY THE MASSESAaron Rosenberg

Johnny B Truant appears to be a writer who has the business side of his craft figured out. His history as a novelist stands out as something unique: in 1999 Truant wrote one book, 2012: two books, and in 2013 he teamed up with writer Sean Platt and together they wrote over 50 books. Together, they created a sys-tem for their writing- something that worked for them so well that they decided to begin teaching it. Truant, Platt, and fellow writer David Wright began teaching their system though the Self-Publishing Podcast togeth-er over two years ago and currently have 106 episodes produced. In their podcast, the three hosts talk about the business of self-publishing and are constantly interviewing differ-ent self-published writers in order to even further hone their techniques for success in the publishing realm. Recently, Trunt and Platt de-

cided to spread their technique and their talent to an even wider audience through the creation of a kickstarter. Kickstarter is a crowd sourced funding website. You, as the leader of your project give incentives for donations, and at the same time accumulate funding and a base of consumers. Recently, The Micro- a small 3d printer was funded three million dollars for their project. The duo took advantage of the kick-starter business model and created something never before seen in ei-ther the history of the internet or in

the literary world. Over the course of thirty days, bestselling author Johnny B Truant will stream live to the internet, the creation of a novel in a stream called Fiction Unboxed. On May 21st, Truant’s project was funded. Out of their initial goal of $19,000, the kickstarter managed to fund over 300% of their original goal. Those who donated over 89 dollars get a say in the actual cre-ative inception of the novel itself and lower level donators will get copies of the book written. Truant is taking the creative power of the internet and funneling it through him and his personal creative ability. Perhaps live writing is an evo-lution of literature itself. As one is mesmerized by a master craftsman creating from raw material, per-haps watchers will be sucked into the creation of a world from a blank

page. In Peru, writing has taken the place of wrestling for some on Mon-day nights. La Noche, a bar in Lima has replaced live music on Monday nights in lieu of Lucha Libro. Writers don masks and compete by writing short stories. The crowd watches the writers write and choose a winner. The loser is unmasked. Both of these takes of writing as a public spectacle contrast strong-ly; a competition compared with public sourced novel crafting. They hold one distinct similarity- they hold audience participation integral to how they function. We have seen how internet crowd sourced non-fic-tion can change the world through Wikipedia, but we have yet to see works produced through crowd sourced fiction. Something amazing may arise from the idea.

Katie Lee McNeil

Soft purring n’ babies chirping, feverish sideways harmonica playing,tossed n’ rolling over thoughts- childish, exuberant thoughts.Inching closer to melodic loving, humming n’ chasing flip-flapping babies,lap-sitting cat, shoulder-crawling bee,Residing under The Awkward Tasting Lemon Tree.

Criss-crossing limbs rest n’ dangle, as the ball of light is a shinin’glittering tips of barely sharp greenery all in tangle, wave by n’ side, at last are dancing tango.Babies on high keep singing through leaves, cherishing citrus drops falling, near the landing of Morning’s first coffee,Residing under The Awkward Tasting Lemon Tree.

Eyes Unwound Jake Newland

Everywhere I looked today,I looked for anotherAnother who would speak of My differenceAn outsiderBut every time I pushed my hands into the dirtAll I could find Was more of meConsolingEducating me through roots and fingertipsThat share the same origin

Showing me stemsI found brilliance In skies dominated by darknessI found windIn glass boxes beneath the ocean floorEverywhere I searched I found myselfLeaking out into the worldWith the worldAlso leaking into meAnd I found myselfInseparable

ReflectionsJake Newland

There is a beautiful, deep suffering in being human

In being able to ask of death

And not receive an answer

In screaming at the wind

And hearing only echoes

In talking to friends

And watching them move away

It’s only that this suffering exists

That tell the lips when they should smile

A Silent Voice Made of Gold Nicholas J. Vasquez

Silence is golden, only to the world without words,

Where plastic gray trains filled with silent widows plow forever

through the twilight; widows, with black veils drawn on their

faces, cry with laughter under the blood-salmon sky, laughing

with eternal sorrow at the eyelids, from their mistakes known

as children filling their pockets made of crimson marble.

This single fabrication defines nothing in this world. A single

tear in the rain, will never be cared by the tall shadows, the

tender face known silence. Thus, a man with a voice made

Of red gold fears this forgiving darkness within his cave of

reality. And so, he scrapes at the edge of it with fire made

from rotten eyelids that crawl their way out of his marble

pockets. Never asking them where they came from.

And so, the man spies the trains and asks in a brown voice,

“So, where is my dream?” and in the mental reality of his caves

A golden voice whispers, in confidence: a confession.

“It is a continuation of reality.” The world of no words now

Stares into the shores of time that engulfs the plastic crowded

trains like quicksand.

“But where is my reality?” ask the man, squirming out of the

cave as if it will change anything. The supple fragile faces of

silence, known as the widows, howls to the man, the

fabrication of gold and despair,

“It is at the end of your dream.”

Space Between Two Worlds Nicholas J. Vasquez

A world without time,

a feeble decrepit man with no

place to call home, in his prime.

A world without ground,

a white ice-cream sky bleeding

the crimson light illuminating, dying,

crying, frying the coolly child

with her mile wide smile.

You, the wooden green bench,

with gray voracious grass as legs

and silver sagacious nails as eyes;

are the space between two

worlds.

A cosmic key made of bark

carries the weight of both

their cheerful sorrow.

something neither can ask

the other “ May I borrow? ”

The child has no ground

to be buried in.

Nor does the man dying in the

arms of his own grief.

You will forever carry these worlds,

limiting the smile child

with a surface, and

letting your insipid

life consume the

man, as if you adore his life of

eternal brevity,

But you do not.

For how can a

bench love a man

and his child?

Who wait in autumn’s

voluminous rain for a bus that will

never come.

A bus; to replace the

the wooden bench,

the space of nothingness

that keeps the worlds

at bay.

Only the child finds ground on the bus.

And man lets his grief finally

grab him by the throat on a bench made of bark.

Away! Away! Away! Away!Henry David Thoreau

Away! away! away! away!

Ye have not kept your secret well,

I will abide that other day,

Those other lands ye tell.

Has time no leisure left for these,

The acts that ye rehearse?

Is not eternity a lease

For better deeds than verse?

‘Tis sweet to hear of heroes dead,

To know them still alive,

But sweeter if we earn their bread,

And in us they survive.

Our life should feed the springs of fame

With a perennial wave,

As ocean feeds the babbling founts

Which find it in their grave.

Ye skies dropp gently round my breast,

And be my corselet blue,

Ye earth receive my lance in rest,

My faithful charger you;

Ye stars my spear-heads in the sky,

My arrow-tips ye are;

I see the routed foemen fly,

My bright spears fixed are.

Give me an angel for a foe,

Fix now the place and time,

And straight to meet him I will go

Above the starry chime.

And with our clashing bucklers’ clang

The heavenly spears shall ring,

While bright the northern lights shall hang

Beside our tourneying.

And if she lose her champion true,

Tell Heaven not despair,

For I will be her champion new,

Her fame I will repair.

BacchusRalph Waldo Emerson

BRING me wine, but wine which never grew

In the belly of the grape,

Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through

Under the Andes to the Cape,

Suffer’d no savour of the earth to ‘scape.

Let its grapes the morn salute

From a nocturnal root,

Which feels the acrid juice

Of Styx and Erebus;

And turns the woe of Night,

By its own craft, to a more rich delight.

We buy ashes for bread;

We buy diluted wine;

Give me of the true,

Whose ample leaves and tendrils curl’d

Among the silver hills of heaven

Draw everlasting dew;

Wine of wine,

Blood of the world,

Form of forms, and mould of statures,

That I intoxicated,

And by the draught assimilated,

May float at pleasure through all natures;

The bird-language rightly spell,

And that which roses say so well:

Wine that is shed

Like the torrents of the sun

Up the horizon walls,

Or like the Atlantic streams, which run

When the South Sea calls.

Water and bread,

Food which needs no transmuting,

Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting,

Wine which is already man,

Food which teach and reason can.

Wine which Music is,--

Music and wine are one,--

That I, drinking this,

Shall hear far Chaos talk with me;

Kings unborn shall walk with me;

And the poor grass shall plot and plan

What it will do when it is man.

Quicken’d so, will I unlock

Every crypt of every rock.

I thank the joyful juice

For all I know;

Winds of remembering

Of the ancient being blow,

And seeming-solid walls of use

Open and flow.

Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine;

Retrieve the loss of me and mine!

Vine for vine be antidote,

And the grape requite the lote!

Haste to cure the old despair;

Reason in Nature’s lotus drench’d--

The memory of ages quench’d--

Give them again to shine;

Let wine repair what this undid;

And where the infection slid,

A dazzling memory revive;

Refresh the faded tints,

Recut the aged prints,

And write my old adventures with the pen

Which on the first day drew,

Upon the tablets blue,

The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.

To R. W. E.Ellen Sturgis Hooper

Dry lighted soul, the ray that shines in thee,Shot without reflex from primeval sun,We twine the laurel for the victoriesWhich thou on thought’s broad, bloodless field has won.Thou art the mountain where we climb to seeThe land our feet have trod this many a year.Thou art the deep and crystal winter sky,Where noiseless, one by one, bright stars appear.

It may be Bacchus, at thy birth, forgotThat drop from out the purple grape to pressWhich is his gift to man, and so thy bloodDoth miss the heat which ofttimes breeds excess.

But, all more surely do we turn to theeWhen the day’s heat and blinding dust are o’er,And cool our souls in thy refreshing air,And find the peace which we had lost before.

I Slept, and Dreamed that Life was BeautyEllen Sturgis Hooper

I slept, and dreamed that life was Beauty;

I woke, and found that life was Duty.

Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?

Toil on, sad heart, courageously,

And thou shalt find thy dream to be

A noonday light and truth to thee.

Letters to Modern Corsair:

To: Louis HerveyI’ve started reading this a few months back. After the science fiction episode I went back to look at the older ones. Anyway, Lou-is, I really liked your story called Knight Fall. The drama and action were real. I want to say it ends on a sort of cliffhanger. I want to know what happens next. Did you write more? If not, that’s kind of week.

Johnathan G.

[Via e-mail]

IA: Thank you for the letter, Johna-than. Louis Hervey hasn’t written for the Modern Corsair in several months, but is by no means out of contact. He did say that he viewed his vigilante hero as being in a se-ries of short stories. He’s currently working on both an origin story (as we all love those) and some follow up stories of his crime fighting. A more realistic answer to your implicit question ‘Will we publish more stories in this Knight Fall series?’ would be I don’t really know right now. If Mr. Hervey cooks up another story, and it’s good and wishes to put it out through us then

yes you will read more.

To: Modern CorsairAre you doing any live shows in towns besides Downey?

@Kennywright

[via Twitter]

IA: We have discussed doing shows in other locations. We had a rather successful night in Whittier’s Half Off Books. So yes. But we just need to plan it out. If there are any sug-gestions about locations we should go to please let us know.And I know some are confused but this month’s show of May 30th has been canceled due to scheduling troubles. But we’ll be back in June with Religion on the 27th at Stay Gallery.

Have comments or questions? Send them to our e-mail: themoderncor-sair@gmail.com or our Twitter/ Facebook/ Tumblr pages too.

The Modern Corsair for March 2014Issue Number 8

This issue was: Transcendentalism. Eat artificial nutrience. Transcend transcendentalism.

The next issue will be: Religion.The next issue will be gospel. Believe in the issue. Live as the issue. Become the issue.

YOU HAVE BEEN AN ISSUE SINCE THE BEGINNING.Jerk.

Check out our subreddit at www.reddit.com/r/themoderncorsairSend all entries, comments, or suggestions to

themoderncorsair@gmail.com. We’d be happy to hear from our readers.Special thanks to:

Karen TsaiThe Stay Gallery

And the biggest thanks of all to:You.

Not you as the reader of this magazine, specifically you as the humanreading this text in this moment. Keep on reading, beautiful person.

CREDITS