I don’t know where the hell that last month has gone. I tried looking under all the beds, but it wasn’t there. It was a short search, though, because we only have two beds. You know what I did find? Elm Tree’s secret magazine collection. Don’t get too excited-they were all botany magazines, but I’m sure they were all provocative enough to get anyone’s sap running hot.

I found Bigfoot’s stash of 8-tracks, too. I was tempted to have a listen, but since the only thing 8-track compatible in the entire building is Haratron, I decided against it. The last thing I want to do is shove something into his access slot. Eileen did that last year ago when the toaster broke, and the office atmosphere was uncomfortable for months.

A few words of business. First, the submissions page has been updated, so please check it out. It has a cartoon in it and everything. And second, as a friendly reminder, we’re currently accepting submissions of humorous fantasy fiction and fantasy-themed poetry, artwork, and non-fiction for our summer issue.

This month is wordier than usual. Meaning, it’s all words and no pictures. We have poetry by Harry Johnson, Jason Barber, and Rachel Levy; and prose by Andrei Trostel, Eric Suhem, Greg Calhoun, Jimmy Chen, Ravi Mangla, and Jesus Christiansen. Those are all probably their real names, except that Jesus guy.

—Andrew Kaye, editor-in-chief

you can never make it.

where do they come from,

plucking shoots of hopes,

prying into the scales?

nobody knows.

they are the space-crawlers.

they are the attic-thumpers.

they live in furniture.

they eat dust and pain.

they resemble dead spiders.

they could be invulnerable.

contortionists changing

the shape of ours-to-come,

they note all that we do.

unlike gremlins,

they keep score.

telepathy is their modus operandi,

whispering sentences to each other

through walls and over continents.

they dole punishment out

and savor our suffering

collectively.

they will kill me for this.

they will kill all of us in the end.

we win if we know.

they hate that.

————

Jason Barber lives, works, and writes in Denver, Colorado.   He earned his undergraduate degree from Hampshire College and his graduate degree from Catholic University. Jason enjoys reading as much as writing and thinks a library would be a wonderful place to live.

traveling carnival on the school playground;

fireworks, cotton candy, staying up late.

Our ride spinning like a pinwheel,

more like a slingshot – cables snapped,

women screamed, bodies flew a mile a minute.

I came to in a circle of enquiring faces,

flashing red lights, next to a wall of hay bales.

“Is my dad okay?”   He was.

I wet my bed that night.

Before falling asleep, I remembered dad

had let those two girls ahead of us in line.

————

Harry’s short story, “Bobby Metz’s Headache,” was the lead piece in the 2008 edition of The Clackamas Literary Review, available at Amazon.com. His bizarre story, “Jungle Dream” is currently frightening readers of the online journal, Sliptongue. “Next Time, A Rabbit” appeared in the penultimate edition of the brilliant but now defunct 21 Stars Review.

His work has also appeared in Apt, Rain Farm Press’s Paradigm, The Aggregated Press, Flask and Pen, Ink Filled Page, The Verse Marauder, Above Ground Testing, and Locust Magazine. He has a poem upcoming in Hiram Poetry Review and a non-fiction piece, “To The Colors,” in the upcoming inaugural issue of The Evening Street Review.

I TOTALLY care about the earth. I have an eco-house okay? I keep out

the riff-raff with super tall hedges maintained by using sustainable

gardening with native plant species, of course. My gardener wanted to

invade with some fabulous plant from his native land but it wasn’t

native to here so I told him no gracias and not to plant it where he

lives, either. His wife brought me some of that greasy food they eat

but I won’t let anything into my kitchen or body other than grass fed

earth best free-range garden of good eatin’ wild caught earthbound

farmers cage free before the fall organic new horizon sustainable

health valley recycled back to nature all natural food. Poor people?

Right on. They can get on their bike or the bus and ride down to the

farmers market just like everyone else does. If only they would stop

eating so much fast food. I personally invited the guy who makes my

all organic vitamin boosted fruit smoothie each morning to come to our

farmers market but he didn’t show. They could go and make their own

little community garden. Those people just don’t want to be healthy.

Let’s have a proposition mandating that all people must shop at

farmers markets or no food stamps for them. My SUV totally blends

right into the earth. It enables me to be one with nature to drive

right up into and next to and even on top of nature. I wish my kids’

nanny would stop riding that emissions spewing bus. I keep telling

her to take green public transport only (and learning a little more

English wouldn’t hurt her either). It’s okay if she’s a few minutes

late every once in a while as long as she takes clean vehicles. Did I

tell you that my fleece matches the earth, too? Have you seen my cute

new shoes? They’re made with 100% recycled tires. Poor people? You

mean like Che? I’m totally down with Che. Haven’t you seen my 100%

organic cruel free cotton t-shirt. So cute. Check out my sweat shop

free jeans made with 100% organic cotton that’s been recycled from

garbage and they were only like $189. Do they make me look fat? Poor

who? I’m saving the earth here all right? I have important things to

do. I’m green okay? I don’t have time for you know. My pool at the

country club (it’s a green country club by the way) is all natural

100% natural chlorine. Fund public education? I can’t do that because

I am giving all of my education ducats to our local green

multicultural private school. It has solar panels you know and they

compost like everything. And I sure as hell am NOT going to pay

twice. Poor people? Well, are they multicultural? Do they recycle? My

new surf board is made from 100% organic plastic made in this

community factory in China. The sweet workers don’t even need health

care because those people there are so amazing that they have

multicultural healing powers like native healers. They’re totally

self-sufficient. I wish I could be like that. It’s so cool.

Â

————

Â

Rachel has taken a break from teaching to write and to attempt to rule her three unruly children. Born and raised in Washington, D.C., she currently lives in Oakland, California. She posts, mostly essays, to her blog http://rantsravesandrecollections.blogspot.com a few times a month. Rachel was very tempted, but not quite brave enough, to let Defenestration make up a bio for her.

Hey listen, sorry about not getting back to you. It just took us three weeks to type this so far. Our  ’secretary,’ who is busy with eight children, can only  ’type’ in the murky diminishing rays of dusk’s light before it gets pitch black. Like right now, as she’s transcribing this, she has her face so close to the  ’keyboard’ that her     nose   ke eps tou chin g the spa ce     bar. Really anno ying!

So anyways, we are completely awe of  ’h t t p colon forward-slash forward-slash double-u double-u double-u youtube dot com,’ or  ’youtube.’  ’We tube’ it all day. You’d be surprised at how much the searches for “buggies caught on tape,” “separation from the world,” and “second-cousin makeover” yield. And Metallica. They  ’rock!’

So far, we have checked five messages in our  ’inbox,’ and responded to one. A Harvey Chester of Los Angeles wrote: “get a clue asswipes.” He didn’t capitalize the first letter of the sentence! Harvey (we just figured this out too), you have to press the  ’shift key’ in order to  ’type’ a capital letter. But try to use the  ’caps lock’ button sparingly; it freaks out the horse. Really. I mean, REALLY.

Okay, I’m back from the  ’hospital.’ We had to put the horse down. It’s been two years since we started this  ’e-mail.’ Now our  ’inbox’ is 1,282,053. The internet is on fire! Electric!

It’s winter again. Since  ’typing’ this (with the whisk generators and all), our crops have been completely neglected. But the lemon meringue pies are out of this world, and by world we mean  ’2009.’ Thank you for your patience. That is all.

Ride the lightning!!!

Where’s the  ’send’ button? Oh there…no, no don’t  ’type’ this. I’m just talking to you now, not the non-repenters. Hit  ’backspace,’ come on. Hit it. Ok, whatever.

————

Jimmy is the author of his undoing. His humorous pieces have been inside two women.

Jesus and I have a lot in common. First and foremost, our names both begin with the letters J-E-S-U-S C-H-R-I-S-T, albeit my first name is pronounced the Mexican way, with a long “J” (I was conceived in a taco stand). Additionally, I am a carpenter like Jesus was, and my favorite animal is the goldfish. Also, my mom (who was almost named Mary!-she ended up Sylvia) was one of those born-again virgins with the restored hymens when she gave birth to me. (That must have hurt!!) So, as you can see, Jesus Christ and Jesus Christiansen?-not so different after all.

My friends all call me “J.C.” The “C” is short for either Christiansen or Clark, which is my middle name. (It works on two levels.) When they ask me for advice, I just reply with a big smile, “WWJD??” Then they say, “No no, I’m serious, if you were in my position, what would you do?” and I say, “I have been in your position, and what I would do is the same thing the other Jesus-the real Jesus-would do.” And when they say, “Which is?…”, then I just purse my lips and squint at them, and nod solemnly and tap my temple, to gesticulate that they would already know the answer if they would just think about things as deeply as the other Jesus or I did/do.

Then they say, “You know what, ‘Jesus’?”-and they do that pretentious quotey finger thing when they say my name, like it’s not my real name or something-”You’re a real d-bag sometimes. I wish you’d just give regular advice for once in your life like a normal friend.” And I say, “Fine, Barack, you know what I did when I was in your position? I took the under. There is no way, given the recent success of Minnesota’s bullpen and the anemic on-base percentage of Kansas City’s hitters, along with the weakness of the Twins’ offense in night games played on grass, that the teams will combine for more than seven runs.” And they would tell me thanks, that I’m a real “MVF” (“Most Valuable Friend”), a way better friend than David (a.k.a. “Axelrod”), Rahm (“Rummy”), Jon Favreau (“Swinger”), or Michelle (“Brownie”).

Then they would continue the list, adding that I am also a much better friend than Marty, Craig, Valerie, Warren, Jeremiah, Malia, or Sasha. Whoever they are.

Also, Eric, Arne, Lawrence, Zac, and Vanessa.

I would respond, “You sure have a lot of friends for someone who isn’t Jesus!” And they would tell me that that was sort of a rude thing to say, at which point I would remind them that things that might be rude for people not named for venerated progenitors of harmony and faith aren’t rude for people who are. One of the perks of being named after a legendary religious figure is that you can drop your name into just about any conversation and people don’t think you’re preaching. Only that you’re maybe a little conceited, which isn’t as annoying. That must have been how Muhammed Ali felt. Buddha also. It makes me hungry when that happens. I’m suddenly in the mood for Mexican.

Tacos, anyone?

————

Jesus Christiansen is the nom de plume, this one time only, of Michael Wolman, an aristocrat, blogger, poet, and lover in the mold of Lord Byron. (Several people say he “looks a little, but not really” like Johnny Depp “in the right light.”) If you didn’t like this piece, you would hate his blog, Winter on the Equator (winterontheequator.blogspot.com). Jesus lives in New York. And heaven.

Weeks before, Ludwig boarded Wheelie and was scurrying about the institution’s hallways. He sped into the hospital gift shop, crashing into a rack of ‘Get well soon’ cards, sending them fluttering to the linoleum floor. Ludwig was not handicapped, but he was spending more and more time in the wheelchair, having become a fan of the now-defunct U.S. TV show ‘Ironside’.  “Raymond Burr has a deeper understanding than the rest of us,” he was fond of saying. As the alarmed gift shop manager looked on, Ludwig declared, “A token of atonement m’lady!” He grabbed a roll of wrapping paper, then some scissors and glue. He cut a crude flower-shaped piece out of the wrapping paper, then glued the paper flower to the cash register, covering up the ’7′, ’8′, and ’9′ keys. “A pretty flower for a pretty lady,” declared Ludwig. And with that, he whirled Wheelie around to the right, and into a potted plant. As the manager pried the mess off the register, her gluey fingers sticking together, she felt great anger, but also felt strangely touched by the simple gesture of affection. About 30 seconds later, Ludwig was fired on the spot. Now, in the current  conflict with the other wheelchair, Ludwig’s soul seemed to fill Wheelie with new power, beyond its 4 electrical speeds.

Victorious over the rival chair, and safely ensconced under the seat of the matron, Wheelie left the hospital and sailed across the ocean to the European continent. The octogenarian’s destination was Berlin, and after disembarking the ship, the wheelchair accompanied her on a series of scenic rural train rides. Upon arrival in Berlin, the wheelchair felt the pull of its soul. It abruptly deposited the matron in Berlin’s largest park, the Tiergarten, and a foreign mode of transport moved in quickly to relieve the elderly socialite of any stresses, delivering her to a new reality she had never dreamed of, among the Teutonic well-to-do. Wheelie, now free, rolled along side roads towards the Autobahn. As the wheelchair sped along, it viewed the ghostly apparition of Raymond Burr, in Perry Mason mode, holding a law book in one hand, and a paper flower in the other, recommending a detour to the left. Wheelie followed that path, changing course from a potentially disastrous encounter with a pebble. Now on the Autobahn, Wheelie blazed along at 195 kilometers per hour, easily passing other traffic, feeling fulfilled.

————

Eric Suhem lives in California and enjoys the various qualities of his vegetable juicer. His work has appeared in Monkeybicycle, Cerebral Catalyst, why vandalism?, Clockwise Cat, and elsewhere.

The revolution swept across the board – MLB, NFL, NHL, MLS, and so on. Hanes bought out both the White Sox and Red Sox, becoming the first multi-team owner. They lobbied not to have their teams play each other, and they were exempt from direct competition. San Francisco of the NFL climbed to third on the Forbes annual “Most Profitable Franchise List” in their inaugural season after being acquired by entertainment leviathan “Girls Gone Wild”, who renamed the team the San Francisco $4.99s. Between fan giveaways and the cheerleaders, it was easy to forget that a ticket also bought you a three hour game. Some corporations funneled more money into their teams than others. Several franchises banded together to lobby against the salary cap. The cap was removed – in all sports. The Buffalo Cheap and Easy Phone Bills Brought to You by AT&T became the most expensive team, dethroning the New York Yankee Candles, with player salaries equaling roughly the gross domestic product of Denmark. They were a relatively successful team, but really, winning didn’t seem so important anymore. Buffalo was about as far east as you could go before you met the “Iron Curtain”. National defense contractors bought up most of the major cities along the coast: New York, Washington, Philadelphia, Boston – with the exceptions of course being the Baltimore Nabisco Oreos and the New York Yankee Candles. Even the New York Red Bulls were plucked by Lockheed Martin after a defect in a new zero calorie variety of the popular energy drink plumped the head to twice the size of a soccer ball. The Iron Curtain made a pledge to build teams around a strong defense but found themselves preoccupied with engineering high-powered offenses. Everyone knew once you broke through the hard outer crust, East Coast defense was like slicing through meringue. But that offense…wow!          

Even the teams that nobody expected to sell out inevitably did. FedEx sank their teeth into the once community owned Green Bay Packers, and UPS purchased the Cleveland Browns. The Los Angeles Lakers battled against the sprouting trend, eventually settling on a compromise in which they could preserve the Lakers team name on the grounds that a small “Brought to You By…” subheading could be found under all mentions of the team, both in print and following any verbal references. Rising energy costs provided the energy sector with enough expendable capital to spawn the Miami Heating and Cooling. It wasn’t long before every minor league and professional team had dissolved into nothing more than leaves on the corporate redwood – or levers on the wood chipper (either/or).          

Employees of the Cincinnati Oscar Meyer Red Hots went on strike in protest of their uniforms. Cincinnati cleaned house and hired a wave of teenagers. A similar thing happened when Wrigley Doublemint bought out the Minnesota Twins and tethered the legs of staff.           

The Los Angeles Galaxxon-Mobil hiked ticket prices and turned in record profits. They filched players from the top European clubs and swallowed up rival teams like a vicious twister. Soon, Galaxxon-Mobil owned and controlled every team in every major sport (after Microsoft’s New Jersey Internet Explorers and Chevron’s Edmonton Oilers finally capitulated), manufacturing results according to the proclivities of their investors. Fans didn’t like this and, little by little, stopped showing up to the games. They tried to buy the fans, obtaining some, but most weren’t having it. They started losing money. It didn’t make any sense. They sold their shares to the fans and communities, who seemed to be the only ones interested in procuring the failing franchises. Slowly the leagues settled back into normality. Galaxxon-Mobil was left scratching their head, wondering what went wrong. 

————

Ravi Mangla is currently working on a film-to-novel adaptation of Big Momma’s House 2. Visit him at http://ravimangla.blogspot.com/ .

Now if I was looking for an actual tool then I know I would have to go into the mini store located within the Home Depot store called the “Tool Corral” which has its own separate cash register. I’m not sure what made all these tools so unruly that they needed to be herded up and corralled into a separate store all together within the main store… but I’m sure they must have been way out of line… except maybe the laser levelers. God forbid you need assistance in the “Tool Corral” because you have less of a chance of getting help in there then you do of getting out of this store sane and alive which is a long shot at best. The only person in the “Tool Corral” is a creature at the register vaguely resembling a human being who is staring into the laser scanner in wonder, like a mesmerized moth.

I also know that if I needed lumber of any kind I would have to get it myself using a handy dolly with only one functioning wheel, of which there are two of in the whole store… but unfortunately one of them is being used by the staff to transport items to be stocked later once the staff member remembers where they left it which likely will never ever happen. Unless I just happen to be building something with the exact lengths and widths of the lumber in stock, which is unlikely, invariably I would need it cut. Of course since no one living is around, I have to cut it myself at the “cutting station” with something that vaguely resembles the sad memory of what a saw used to be, which if you look closely has a few drops of blood and some hair on it. To make matters easier the now long-dead sad saw is attached to the same kind of chain they use to anchor air craft carriers to the dock with… apparently so the saw doesn’t walk away. I guess this is all part of that whole tool imprisonment corral theme that goes on there.

Occasionally there is the random frightened older person who actually asks me in desperation where something in the store is… not because I am wearing an orange apron or anything, but because they are old and wise and thus know they have a much higher probability actually getting a correct answer from a total stranger who doesn’t technically work there then finding and asking an actual employee, of which there are none to be found who are by traditional definition… “alive.”

“Paint? Oh that is in aisle twelve.” I politely reply to the scared and intimidated geriatric person, of course all the while thinking of my own little old grandmother who would be similarly in need.

Big mistake! Because I have now demonstrated a functioning brain cell in this vast warehouse of vacant minds. Immediately, no less than eight people (on their way to zombie conversion) descend on me like they have just realized that they forgot to eat my brain and I somehow slipped through the cracks by accident. In a desperate act of survival I instantly throw my arms out in front of me… perpendicular to my body… palms down and level with the floor and start chanting in a monotone vapid tone, “This isn’t my section… this isn’t my section… this isn’t my section… this isn’t my section.”

Looking dejected, the crowd disperses and I aimlessly Frankenstein-walk away to the next aisle just to escape the inquisitive wrinkled horde. Low and behold I have found all of the actual Home Depot staff standing there in the “Hardware” aisle starring blankly up at the wall of nuts, bolts and nails… more then likely because they are shiny and bright. Wait… the nails… they are here! Without any sudden movements around so many obvious undead creatures and a wall of sharp pointy objects, I quickly locate the box of nails I need and stagger out of the aisle so as not to draw any attention to myself as a living being.

I find my way to the main set of cash registers which seem to be opening and closing in mayhem, akin only to the movement of piranhas devouring a cow that wandered too close to an Amazonian stream. The cashiers seem to be randomly leaving their stations and other registers are opening elsewhere creating a Thunderdome-like atmosphere amongst the customers. People… or what are now the empty shells of once vibrant people… are clamoring over each other in a mob-like mentality to get to the newly opened registers before they close once again unexpectedly. I suspect this behavior is to create a gauntlet-like situation that discourages anyone from ever leaving the store and thus being trapped there forever only to be later devoured by the staff. Several of the “people in line” (and I use that phrase loosely for many reasons) are blankly staring at the wall of batteries that are strategically placed at every register if only to slow a stampede of the almost living with something that they have all been told they need lots of, in case of a survival emergency. I grab a handful of batteries off the rack and throw them in the other direction to avert their attention as they go mindlessly chasing after them moaning something about the apocalypse. I take the scanner out of the hand of the dazed and confused decoy like statue that has been placed at the register instead of an actual human cashier and scan my box of nails and swipe my card in the little machine. When the machine asks for my signature I quickly scratch it violently with my finger to closely resemble what would have come out had I actually signed it with that electronic pen… which is missing of course, likely gnawed away and swallowed by one of the employees. I sprint past the creature standing by the exit that only wakes and flinches when the alarm goes off clearly indicating NOT that a tool has escaped the oh so secure corral, but rather that a customer was about to escape the building with what they actually came here for. Leaping over all the empty propane canisters blocking the exit I somersault onto the sidewalk into a ray of warm sunshine. I pick myself up and clean off the layer of dust that had covered me which most people think just comes from being in a Home Depot but few realize is actually a sign of how LONG you have been inside. I confidently stride to my parked car mentally noting all the people going into the store happily talking about their exciting new projects. As I get in my car and start to drive off I realize the plethora of people that are going in… is in stark contrast compared to no one coming out.

I am just happy to be a survivor.

————

Andrei says: “Ah. Well… I attended Juilliard… I’m a graduate of the Harvard business school. I travel quite extensively. I lived through the Black Plague and had a pretty good time during that. I’ve seen the EXORCIST ABOUT A HUNDRED AND SIXTY-SEVEN TIMES, AND IT KEEPS GETTING FUNNIER EVERY SINGLE TIME I SEE IT… NOT TO MENTION THE FACT THAT YOU’RE TALKING TO A DEAD GUY… NOW WHAT DO YOU THINK? You think I’m qualified? Basically I am the most sarcastic person you could ever meet and God help you if you take me too seriously.”

Pimp My Rickshaw (MTV)

Ridin’ in style isn’t just for the gangsters anymore.   West Coast Customs is going global.   Their souped-up chariots will be hitting the streets of Hanoi in a big way after the traditional man-powered taxis get mad makeovers courtesy of Xzibit and his crew.   Prepare for ready-to-serve Cup o’ Noodles, platinum chopsticks, and spoilers so raw you’ll break your jaw.   Call ahead for takeout – you won’t want to leave when this show gets rolling.

Biggest Loser: Dubai (NBC)

You’ve seen gas prices plummet at the pump, but now watch as the men behind the bottomed-out barrel fight to see whose wallet will be lightest.   Tempers will burn and secretaries will sizzle as dollars disappear quicker than your 401k.   Spend your summer with “Biggest Loser: Dubai,” it’s the safest investment in town.

Refugee Gladiators (NBC)

No Hulk Hogan, no problem.   This retooled version of the show finds a different source of desperation.   If you’re tired of the same old romance novel at the same old beach, then look no further than “Refugee Gladiators” for this season’s top guilty pleasure.   In these head-to-head athletic contests, the winner eats and the loser watches.   Set your DVRs – refugees will start earning their rights Wednesday in primetime.

Russia‘s Next Top Executive (CW)

Ever wanted to boss around a country?   Or be the world’s most important puppet?   That’s just the chance these Average Iosefs will have when Putin begins the search for the next Pinocchio to join his staff and the running to become president.   Nothing good lasts and neither can Medvedev, so join Putin as he prepares for the future.   Be warned – this is not “The West Wing.”   With episodes like “To Kill a Journalist” and “How to Lose Chechens and Alienate People,” this show has the grit to make your presidential dreams come true every Thursday.

Most Extreme Immigration Challenge (Spike)

Spike is heading South of the Border with its newest reality offering.   The wackiness remains, but this time Kenny Blankenship and Vic Romano have teamed up with the U.S. Government to allow one lucky winner an escorted trip to the Land of the Free.   Brass balls, boulders, and big dominoes have never been tackled with such enthusiasm, so turn off your Blackberries and turn on the only show stuffed with more fun than a piñata.   Saucier than a Spanish soap and hotter than a habanero, “Most Extreme Immigration Challenge” is sure to steam up the ol’ water-cooler.   Plus, you won’t want to miss the only show with a passport on the line.

There you have it – no need to dust off the beach towel or gas up the boat, because TV has never been better than it will be this summer.   Getting culture from your couch – what more could you want?

————

Greg Calhoun is a Jesuit Volunteer living in Cleveland, OH.   He operates an intentional living blog with a not-so-creative title – intention – (http://bewithintention.blogspot.com/) when he isn’t coordinating volunteers to pass out clothes and food to people in need.   He has no books forthcoming, but don’t worry, he will sound a trumpet and take to the streets when he does.