Locution-Zine #3

7/28/2019 Locution-Zine #3

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Dear Reader,

As Locution grows, its staff continues to nd new ways to improve the magazine. Two major changeswill be apparent since our previous edition. Our rst action was to restructure the editorial board; by

clearly dening each editors responsibility, we did away with much of the havoc and stress of the last issue.

In other words, weve managed to gain the professionalism required to work effectively, without losing the

sense of community that holds us together. The second change is more striking: although Katherine did

an amazing job on the layout of our rst two issues, visual design remained a eld in which Locution was

lacking. So we welcomed Jeffrey Jang to our staff - his air for design has, quite literally, transformed the

face of Locution.

Yes, Locution is alive. Growth is crawling up through the cracks and crannies of our community. Ourmembers are passionate, talented, and diverse. Our staff is diligent and enthusiastic. Were ecstatic, more

than ever, to be a part of this publication.

The decision to make this a staff issue was a natural result of our excitement. What better way to show

our appreciation than to show our readers how much we enjoy our craft? Transforming concepts into a

reality, however, is no easy process, and this issue was no exception. But we feel the hectic deadlines and

late nights are a natural consequence of wanting to present our best to the world.

This issue is our best and we dedicate it to you, reader. We have toiled silently, writing and editing,

to produce a magazine that rises above our own standards. The effort of our long nights and endlessproofreading culminates in this issue - enjoy, and join us again.

Yours Truly,

James Zhao

Editor-in-Chief


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All rights reserved. This publication may be freely distributed

only in its entirety and without modication, and only for privateuse. It may not be sold for prot. Excerpts may only be repro-

duced and distributed with permission from the copyright own-

ers, except in the case of brief quotations used for book reviews

and interviews. The creative works published in Locution do not

necessarily represent the views and opinions of its editors, staff,

or members of its online community.

Locution Press 2009

locutionissue 3, autumn 2009

www.locution-zine.com

Editor-in-Chief

Community Manager

Head Copy Editor

Webmaster

Columnist

Submissions Review Board

Copy Editors

Design

Special Thanks to

James Zhao

Drew Reed

Bart Graafmans

Aarin Edwards

Jeffrey Vales Kennedy

Anna Clare

Christopher Foster

Amy Hawley

David Leuenberger

Visalakshi Ramachandran

Katherine Arrandale

Jeffrey Jang

Michelle Baker

Joonas Lipping

Dylan Mounts

Sara Williams


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Letter from the Editor

The Importance of a Solid Opening

David Leuenberger

article

West

Jeffrey Vales Kennedy

poem

On the Impenetrable, the Inescapable,

and the InsightDylan Mounts

short story

Shock and Awe

Anna Clare

short story

Water RisingPhil Amy Wright

short story

The Motorcycle Black Madonna

Dylan Mounts

poem

In the MiddleMichelle Baker

poem

Cartesian Coffee

James Zhao

short story

Rushmore ShruggedJames John Simakas

short story

All Children, Except One

Katherine Arrandale

short story

Untitled

Visalakshi Ramachandran

poem

The Rebirth of Baroque

Bart Graafmans

article

Contributors

iii

7

9

10

13

14

17

21

22

24

26

28

29

32

Contents


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7

Time is sparse. Hence, a good opening will

as often as not decide whether a story is read or

forever put on the high shelf. The trick is to write an

engaging opening, but the difculty lies in knowing

what it can look like. This is especially daunting as

there is no simple formula.

It is a good idea to look at introductorysentences from established authors. Analysing what

worked and did not work for them can help a writer

come up with his or her own openings.

Stephen Kings Dark Tower series starts as

follows:

The man in black ed through the desert and the

gunslinger followed.

This is a strong opening for several reasons. It is

short, snappy, and puts you right in the middle of the

action. It is evocative and mysterious at the same

time.

Short and snappy is important. Short sentences

stick out. Long sentences evoke a slow pace and

tend to be confusing. At a time in which innumerabletexts vie for the readers attention it seems futile to

start at a slow pace. Hook the reader right away;

grab him or her at full speed, without a chance to

object. Then, well down the road, the reader will

be curious enough to keep on reading through both

racy and slow passages.

One of the tricks in Kings opening is that it

gives and withholds information: King establishes

antagonist and protagonist, location and plot. In

this sense, the reader is told everything he needs to

empathise with the key characters.

However, Kings brevity also evokes a lot of

questions that pique the readers interest. Where

exactly is that desert? Why does the man in black

ee? And why does the gunslinger follow? Thesequestions are important because they form a hook;

they create the readers engagement with the story.

As an extreme measure, let us compare the

previous opening with Edward Bulwer-Lyttons

famous opening line from Paul Clifford:

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in

torrents, except at occasional intervals, whenit was checked by a violent gust of wind which

swept up the streets (for it is in London that

our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and

ercely agitating the scanty ame of the lamps

that struggled against the darkness.

What has gone wrong here? This is a very long and

convoluted sentence. Read out loud, it challenges thehuman lung capacity. There is a lot of information in

this sentence, but unlike the previous example it is

not relevant. This is merely a passive description of

scenery; it does not accomplish anything story-wise.

It neither introduces a character nor does it raise a

question. Of course, the author may have been world-

building, but with the dosage of a sledgehammer.

Telling a story is a form of communication between

The Importance of a Solid Opening

Why bother reading?David Leuenberger


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8

the author and his audience. The author, however,

needs to choose which information is pertinent at

the moment.

If we simplify there are three different kinds

of information: setting, character, and plot. While

these three elements should remain balancedthroughout any given story, an opening works best

if it concentrates on character and plot.

The character is the link between reader and

story. Let us go back to Bulwer-Lyttons example.

Apart from the convoluted structure, its biggest

problem lies in the absence of a character. The

addition of a character in this sentence could

function as a hook to make the reader care. Wecould imagine the following opening:

Clifford had no choice. He ventured out into the

dark and stormy night. Torrents of rain soaked

him and the gusts of wind cutting his face made

him wonder if nature itself was against him.

While I by no means presume this to be a awless

opening, it does have one solid advantage over

the original passage: The reader experiences this

display of nature through the eyes of Paul Clifford,

the eponymous protagonist. The audience will

empathise and wonder: Who is he and why does

he go out into this terrible storm in the rst place?

Empathy and curiosity are key.

Setting too can lead the way into a novel. Often,

authors create an allegory with their setting. This

means that the setting works as a mirror image of

the hardships that the protagonist will have to go

through. But caution is necessary. The use of setting

is not without risk: the audience may or may not

like your setting. A protagonist can always redeem

himself in the course of a novel, but settings can

rarely change.

I would gladly provide a foolproof formula forthe formidable opening, but it does not exist. What

works for writing works for openings especially: It

should be fresh and original, and free from clichs.

It should serve a purpose, ideally that of introducing

a character central to your story and it should be

vigorous and concise.

For that reason aspiring writers should develop a

deep affection for reading. People who read critically

often acquire a certain afnity over time for excellent

writing. Every book begins somewhere, somehow.

Next time you pick up a novel (or article), linger on

the rst sentence. Ask yourself whether it works

and why. This helps you, as a writer, to developa feeling for solid openings. In turn, writing them

should be, well, not easy. But easier than before.


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The morning window shows static grey:

a program in my head

tuned by clouds and rain

to a solemn show of coastal towns

huddled in a corner, tightly hugging

evergrey peaks lost in a low-lying blanket,

the horizon a haze of white noise dropping and

everywhere, everywall, everyone a face and

a clutch of rain sliding through my mind

up down left right, slipping through the innite

grey; the green pointed pines

stretching to dene their revolution.

And lost in this chill memory lies a phantom warmth

for which my shuttered eyes shudder --my sheets drawn close, I hope,

might shield me from this grey ghost.

WestJeffrey Vales Kennedy


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10

I dont believe in you, she said. This was

inside my apartment, the rent three weeks overdue,

the couch too familiar with the imprint of her ass.

She was talking and I knew she was talking, but I

was busy watching a cockroach crawl across the

carpeting. Soon it would make its way to her foot,

stop, think about going left, then right, and nallyscurry over her ratty-ass Converses with the knee

high striped socks, me just looking and watching,

sometimes even listening. She never stopped talking.

She never even looked down. I dont think she felt

the cockroach; I think her words were enough

all those empty consonants and vowels dribbling

down her chin and staining her shirt. The cockroach

turned and crawled under the couch. I looked up ather mouth.

I guess I dont believe in me either. I prodded

at the ashtray. It almost spilled off the armrest. But

then I never really believed in you.

Once the words settled in their places there

wasnt much left between the two of us. Maybe

a little awkward eye contact, some half-hearted

hugs and smiles. I remember once with my sisterId asked, How come our parents spend so much

time arguing with each other? She shrugged, I

shrugged, and eventually we graduated and moved

away. Now its pretty obvious. The alternative is this

overwhelming silence.

Let me walk you to your car. Its dark out

there.

I took the train, she said. To save money. I

didnt have to ask for what. She got up to leave.

Listen, I said. About tomorrow. She

stopped, turned. Its got nothing to do with you

or your book. Really. I just have to go back home.

Fine, she said. Okay. Fine.

The door shut and the cockroach came out from

under the couch. I watched it and it stared back atme, waving its antennas like tiny sts, threatening

and dangerous. Youre insensitive, it was saying,

and arrogant and nave. Enjoy your Missouri with

its caves and cows. Im staying right here.

I walked to the kitchen, found the bug spray.

Like hell you are.

I wrapped him in a napkin and ushed him down

the toilet.The next morning I woke up and walked down

Michigan Avenue. There is no better place to lose

yourself than the sidewalks of Michigan Avenue.

Something about the writhing mass of tourists is

warm and invitinghow they stop at street corners

and take pictures with their arms wrapped around

each other, all wearing I Heart Chicago! T-shirts

and smiling for the camera. Theres one man whocovers himself in silver body paint with silver pants

and even a silver hat, and he stands on the street

all day long with a bucket of change in front of him.

If you drop money in his bucket he starts to move,

dance, hell even pose with you for pictures. The

tourists love him. Ive seen him there every day of the

week, even when its 80 degrees outside and theres

no breeze blowing out from the lake. Everyone is

On the Impenetrable, the Inescapable, and the InsightDylan Mounts


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11

drenched in sweat, holding those lanyards with the

little electric fans on them, but the silver man still

stands like a statue, coated in full body paint and

clothes. Ive never met someone who loved their

job so much.

Farther up north, past Clark and Belmont,theres a hole in the wall with a door and a couple

of windows and a sign so small you can hardly read

it from across the street. It says Billys Hookah

Bar, and its run by a big black man by the name of

Billy Washington. When you walk in he gives you a

menu and for ve bucks a bowl you can have every

avor you might want. Theres Sex on the Peach

and Homemade Apple Pie andmy favoriteStrawberry Kool-Aide. There is nothing in the

world like smoking strawberry Kool-Aide.

I walked in that morning and Billy Washington

looked up from the counter.

Hi Billy.

Hey man, he said. I thought you were leaving.

I am. Flight leaves in a few hours. Just wanted

to drop by, see how things were going. You know.

He raised his eyebrow. I never knew how he

did thatraising just one eyebrow and giving me a

look that could only mean one thing. Its something

youre born with, I guess. Like rolling your tongue

or going to church. Either you can do it or you cant.

You tell that Amelia girl yet?

Yeah. Last night. Its not what I wanted to do.

He sighed. Alright. Sit down. Ill load you a

bowl.

Underneath Billys counter was a glass window

with all types of paraphernalia on display. Glass pipes

and four foot bongsBilly blows them all himself

by hand, a skill he claimed to have learned from a

beggar he met on the streets. They were beautiful,

whether you smoked or not; you couldnt deny they

were gorgeous. Its amazing the things you can learn

from the hungry and homeless.No, its okay, I cant stay long. I just wanted to

ask you something. A favor.

Billy didnt look at me, but his nostrils ared a

little and I knew he was listening. I often wonder if

he used his ears at all, or if he could smell words and

sounds with his nose, sort of how snakes do when

theyre icking their tongues. Its not something I

can explainnot really. But when you see his nose

moving around and twitching like that, youd swear

the man was deaf.

I want you to read this for me. I want you to tell

me what you think. I handed him a blue composition

notebook like the kind you see in Harriet the Spy.The movie version, with Rosie ODonnell. The rst

twelve pages were lled with writing; the rest were

blank. He ipped through the pages.

What is this?

Its just a letter, I said. Or a story or something.

I want you to read it, and if Amelia comes in, do you

think you could give it to her?

Sure man, he said. No problem.I stood at the door for a minute, looking around

the bar. On one wall Billy had a map of the El routes,

one hed stolen from the train some midnight, years

and years ago. It was so old it didnt show the Pink

Line or the Greens Ashwood stops. When people

asked hed say he kept it for himself: in case he ever

got lostif he wasnt sure where he was goinghe

could look up at the wall, and there was Chicago all

laid out in front of him. Hed even marked where the

Red Line hits Belmont with a Sharpie. Hed written,

You are right here.

Hes the smartest man Ive ever known.

Billy, I said.

Yeah? he said.

Ive gotta go, I said.

He nodded.

Ill see you later, I said.

He raised an eyebrow. I turned and shut the

door. On the plane ride home I tried not to think

about it.

It was June in Springeld, a week before the

Fourth of July, when I found an envelope in the

mailbox with my name on the front and a Chicago

return address. I opened it. Inside were pages andpages of the manuscript Id writtenthe one that

Id given to Billy Washington. I thought at rst shed

sent it back like it was something contagious

something blighted. I thought shed been afraid

to keep it: that the only way to purge me was to

purge my words. By returning them, maybe then she

thought I wouldnt come back.


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12

It was all ller. When I gave it to Billy theyd

seemed important, like some opus for my end of

Chicago. But reading it now, all those pages were

empty, taking up space just for the sake of it.

Then I saw she stapled two pages at the end.

The rst Id forgotten Id written. The second shewrote herself. They were letterslittle pieces of

thoughts that were simple, ugly, beautifuland I

think the entire point.

Dear Amelia Mallory,

The squeak of the straw drowns out every

sound in the world. Sitting at Steak n Shake just

before sunrise with to-go cups and milkshakes,

theres no trafc or morning birds, no rustling

leaves and no nearby car alarmsits just me and

my straw rubbing against the plastic lid, and you and

your hands with the ngernails that were perfectly

trimmed every goddamn time. I always chewed my

own, sometimes so much Id just be biting esh. But

that was still satisfying and Id keep going until my

nger was bleeding right underneath the nail, and it

would hurt to type for almost a week.

Thats the kind of thing Im thinking about,

sitting at Steak n Shake by a beautiful girl. Theres

the sun beginning to peak over Wal-Mart to the east

and that rst light hitting the puddles in the parking

lot just right so they look like mirrors radiating all

around us, but for me its only the ngernails and

the straw squeaking like a chew toy lodged in beside

my eardrum. Then you open your mouth, and you

talk so loud I taste the words in the air with mytongue. Its not enough to know what you said, but

I do know it sounded like warm wafes with syrup

right after waking up, or late at night when everyone

else is asleep. And for that I smile, and nod, and hold

your hand in mine, so I can see our ngernails side

by side.

The last page was in her handwriting.

Dear Lucas Persinger:The edges of your consonants carve initials

in the walls of public restrooms. As if you didnt

have much more left than empty letters, hardly read

through the stench of last nights romantic dinner.

I dont believe in you, Id said, which was easy in

the days of Santa Claus and Jesus, but the vowels

all slurred together into harmless melodramatics.

About all I had leftan atheist praying in a plastic

confessional stall, your grafti scratched like

scripture just beneath a phone number that claims

Jenny sucks cockall capped by the most glorious

predicate to grace Christs porcelain altar.

You can wipe your ass with the Bible, Lucas.But Ill write that number on my hand.


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13

We sat next to each other on the green hill and

shared a annel blanket, me and my friend. Below

us was the city, half awake in the chilly spring night.

The sky was clear, perfect for viewing the meteor

shower we had come to watch, away from the

glaring lights of the city. Look, said my friend, there

is the North Star. Thats Cassiopeias Chair, andthats Orion, the hunter. Also, there is the Great

Bear and the Little Bear, and the Pleiades, the seven

sisters of the night. Its strange, isnt it? That many

of the stars were seeing could be dead, and we are

only gazing at their ghosts.

Yes, I murmured, very strange.

Sometimes I dream of planets, he continued.

They are indescribably enormous and Im in spacewatching them circle the sun. Or Im on earth and

they hang silently in the sky, close enough to touch,

beautiful colors and rings, but all dead. And none

of them as enormous as the loneliness I feel. Their

enormity spoke to my loneliness, and amplied it

until I could hardly stand it.

Ive had dreams like that. Dreams where Im lost

in a crowd, and every face is the face of a stranger.The more people there are in the dream, the

more lost and lonely I feel. I am always looking for

someone I know: my mother, perhaps, or you. But I

never nd anything familiar. Even the place Im at is

a place Ive never been.

Ive had dreams where I am invisible to everyone

but myself. People and objects pass through me as if

I was nothing but air. In one dream, my hand passed

right through everyone I touched, until I came to

you. I touched you on the shoulder, and you turned

and saw me. It was as if that one look from you

conrmed my existence. As if, prior to that, I didnt

exist except in my own mind.

I once dreamed that I was looking for you

because I wanted very badly to embrace someone.It was odd. I was so desperate for affectionate

human contact I felt I would die if I couldnt nd

you. And I did nd you, at last, but I couldnt reach

you. Something held me back, and something pulled

you away from me.

At this he took my hand and said: Nothing will

ever pull me away from you.

I felt a dove apping its wings in my chest.I settled in close to him and laid my head on his

shoulder. Look, I said, the stars are falling.

And they were. They rained down upon the city

below us, ery blazes of white-hot light, destroying

buildings, killing people that ran like insects through

the streets. Great craters and cracks appeared from

the impacts, and the earth yawned, swallowing cars

and people whole. Soon the entire city was in ames,and even from where we were sitting we could hear

the anguished screams of the dying. But since it was

not happening to us, we sat back and enjoyed the

sudden warmth in the air and the fabulous show of

lights.

Shock and AweAnna Clare


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14

In front of our town university there was a

strip of gardens where I liked to sit and read in the

summer. The strip was populated by oaks that had

been growing there for hundreds of years. Usually

this means there are tall, regal trees; however, in

the eighteenth century, the duke of those parts had

ordered the tall, regal ones to be cut down and tobuild ships out of them (which he subsequently lost

while demonstrating his naval might). The oaks that

were left to grow were gnarly, bent onestheir

demeanor less regal and more senile, somewhat

decrepit, tooeyeing you from under their green

hoods with one good eye. I rather thought it gave

them character, and usually occupied the shade of

the gnarliest, most crooked of them. In those rarecases that someone had taken the spot before me,

I sat in the sun (being a sore loser), and consoled

myself by making faces in the usurpers direction

while they werent looking. On this particular day

I was sitting in the shadow of that oak, reading The

Theory of Poker, dreaming of getting rich without all

the effort.

As it is an established purpose of river banksto house all the modern art thats ugly enough for

people not to want to live next to it, but made by

someone famous enough that the city doesnt want

to hurt their feelings by throwing it away, an artistic

explosion of chrome had been diplomatically shoved

in the middle of the cobbled plaza on the other side.

Normally I tried to avoid looking at it as much as I

could, but I happened to glance up from my book

at it then and couldnt help doing a double take, as

my attention was drawn by the river surface, which

looked to be ruminating on the statues concrete

pedestal.

There were two old ladies sitting on a bench,

agreeing furiously about something, and a couple

with a small child having a picnic. None of them hadnoted this new development, so I reexively acted

in the manner of a child who realizes that he has left

the bathroom faucet open with the plug in ve or so

minutes ago: I quickly and covertly removed myself

from the area. The nearest exit was the university

front entrance, which I promptly made use of.

Luckily, I was wearing jeans, a Pac-Man T-shirt

and (as of recent events) a vaguely confusedexpression, and therefore blended into the crowd

perfectly. I didnt have a fully outlined plan yet,

at that point, but generally I intended on passing

through doors as much as I could, for the symbolic

assurance of advancement as much as anything. Many

of them were locked (which could also have been

interpreted symbolically), but after encountering

one or two dead ends I found my way into theuniversitys courtyard.

Judging by the commotion, the rest of the

riverside was waking up and smelling the coffee, or

the unexpected high tide, anyway. The university,

having been established in an old cotton factory, had

a twenty-foot brick wall going around the side of

the courtyard that faced the street. From the gate

I could see people eeing towards higher ground.

Water RisingPhil Amy Wright


15/34

15

I eyed my surroundings: the highest point in my

vicinity looked to be the tall chimney, so I headed

for the maintenance ladder.

It was one of those ladders theyd installed a steel

safety frame around, so that if you lose your grip and

fall, you have a chance to hit your head immediately,without needing to wait through the tedious tumble

to the asphalt. I stopped for a breather about two

thirds of the way up and leaned against the frame,

looking at the pandemonium below. The water had

overtaken about one half of my reading tree, as it

lay quite low on the gentle slope of the garden strip.

I was on the wrong side of the building to see for

sure, but it seemed like the river was enrolling in the

university. In the distance, the statue was already

immersed, and the heavy doors of the church by

the bridge were completely underwater as well. I

continued my climb.

The top of the chimney had a nominal railing

that seemed to offer mostly emotional support for

the acrophobic. Nevertheless I tried not to look

down too much, at least until I had anchored myself

to something solid. Edging along, I accidentally

kicked a pigeons nest into the chimney; the resident

pigeon, whod been standing around on the railing,

made offended noises, then appreciated me on the

shoulder.

Soon the water was reaching the third-oor

windows of the university. Students and other

fugitive citizens were starting to ood onto the

tin roof. A group survival effort in one of theclassrooms shattered a window, then found to its

dismay that tables do not oat and as such make

poor rafts. Meanwhile, as the water overtook the

lower buildings, the people atop them had to crowd

in tighter and tighter, until the people closest to the

edge began to domino in. An upside-down rubber

raft oated in from somewhere in the near suburbs.

What had been a river was swiftly becoming a sea.When it reached the university roof, most of the

others were long submerged, and some of the more

athletic people were swimming along, either towards

some higher point or just to stay aoat. Bit by bit I

watched the university buildings getting overtaken.

In a little while more, the only spots of high

ground left were my chimney, another one in the far

distance, and the church tower. The water inched

closer to me with more and more condence, now

fteen feet away, now ten. By now there wasnt a

soul in sight. I suddenly felt quite alone.

At the last moment before the water reached the

chimneys edge, I realized the startling importanceof gripping on to the railing. I did, then, and had to

hold on with all my might as the chimney submerged

and the water gushed in to ll the black void of the

chimney, bringing up decades of collected grime,

muck and appreciation. I had no other option at

that point than to surrender myself to the waters

will, so I lay myself spread-eagled and let the current

oat me off.

I silently panicked, my left hand twitching, my

right gripping the Theory of Poker like a talisman,

and oated for a minute or two before I bonked

into something. I steered myself sideways to it, then

bonked it again by accident, so that it oated a bit

further away. It was the rubber raft from before;

I made for it in awkward movements. I grabbed a

handle on the side with my left hand and dragged

myself up onto the upended thing. It took a bit of

effort to balance on it, but I managed it, and carefully

lay myself on my back, so as not to upset it again.

It was a beautiful day, with the sun shining down

from a cloudless sky, but it did nothing to improve

my mood. What the sun did do was make me

drowsy, and the gentle rocking of the raft lulled me

to sleep.

When I awoke the sky was tinted slightly red.My head hurt tremendously. I collected myself, then

made an effort to sit up. The rst time around it

just brought me close to vomiting. The second time

I actually made it, though it didnt help my nausea.

The sun was close to the horizon, I saw. In front of

me, the endless ocean rippled and rose into a liquid

relief of a male human face.

Salutations, it said.What the fuck are you? I returned the greeting.

The face rippled, gagged, then spoke. I am

ocean.

I looked around myself; all that could be seen in

any direction was the curve of the earth, far away in

the distance. You did this?

It looked uncertain for a moment. Then, Yes.


16/34

16

I hate it. Stop it. I hate you.

Really? Ocean furrowed its liquid brow, then

closed its eyes. Ill think about it. Then it sank back

into the water.

I was all the more befuddled. I thought about

lying down again, but decided against it, since sittingup had been such hard work. At the same time I

wondered if anyone else had survived, if there

was someone else sitting on a raft somewhere,

wondering what the hell just happened. What if they

didnt nd me until I was dead?

A wave of nausea hit and I ipped onto my back

with eyes closed, and groaned. My thoughts danced

around me like will o the wisps, my brain dazed.

I came to a conclusion. I rolled myself onto my

stomach. There was a pencil in my pocket; I shed

it out, and started writing, from foggy piecemeal

recollection, onto the pages ofThe Theory of Poker.


17/34

17

No.1

I am knocking at the gateway of the Midwest and running

away from the door before they have time to come answer,

escaping through elds of corn and cattle, past children

playing Tag and mistaking me for part of their gameso they tag me as It and I have no time to explain

Jumping fences and cutting through backyards until I

slice my leg on the chain link and slip in my own blood.

Im nursed to strength by strangers and cigarillos smoked

on backyard porch swings until Im healthy again

with a touch of bronchitis

And sent on my way like a Puritan on pilgrimage who gets

to ride Amtrak instead of the fucking Mayower but still

isnt all that thrilled about this smelly old fat man

hes forced to share an armrest with.

I am deposited at the corner of Michigan and Congress lost

and carrying my luggage through public parks where

all the homeless sing opera and even though itsnot my taste in music I applaud the effort and

ask for directions.

One says to just go towards the nearest four walls I

can nd and wants to know which school Im coming from.

Oh yeah? he says, I graduated from there years and

years ago, he says, and then he sells me a hot dog

deep-fried on a stick.

I am building a sanctuary in the Art Institute with Lego pieces

and words colored Purple and Parsley, until the curator

comes along and says I cant be doing that here. Sir,

I respond, I stepped on one of the Christmas lights

you had strewn across the oor.

I am so very sorry.

The Motorcycle Black Madonna

(Two-wheeled Gypsy Queen)

Dylan Mounts


18/34

18

I am forcibly removed from the premises and placed inside the

four walls of Plymouth without Indian sh for food but on

holidays Im sent care packages complete with a Halloween

beach ball and all the comforts of home.

I am wandering the streets of Sandusky in search of Cedar Point--

home of Americas most roller coasters--and counting the

corner bakeries advertising 50 cent pieces of pie to

an entire town asleep by eleven except for the taxi driver

whose cab smells of cigarettes, sex, and stale Pepsi.

He tells stories of kings and concubines, past glories

of a people nurtured on the industry of adrenaline, with

words so rehearsed its more a hypnotists patter and

a handshake so rm when I leave the car that I

dont much mind he stole my watch.

I am the simple audience behind the stage left to watch what happens.

I am the lack of judgment and I am the bright eyed design

falling in on itself. I am the remnants of self-destruction

and the ruins of potential, but I am no Howard Roark.

And as I am walking to the end of the pier I turn around

to see the tops of tall buildings pretending to be small

in the distance. But I cant nd any details from far away

so I walk home and I play the role

Of local tourist, purchasing pizza and pretzels from a street

vendor who sells Bears sports memorabilia. As I walk past he

taps my shoulder and says, Put a hat on your Head!

Walk around like a Champion! and I mumble, Excuse mesir, because I am already late for my train.

No.2

This is the one-year anniversary of the morning I woke up dead

from aspirating on Happy Valentines Day! text messages--lodged

sideways inside my throat and going down slimy as a state fair

goldsh swallowed on a bet. You did not really just do that, I

said, but the circus songs coming from the carousel clogged upall the words

And I choked to death on my own damned sentences. No one knew if to

hold the funeral here in Camdenton or some other left-wing liberal

university, so they consulted God and he said, Dudes, Ill handle

this one. And reaching down with his right hand he takes my corpse

and icks it


19/34

19

Halfway across the country, where it lands smack dab in California

next to the Worlds Largest Ball of Yarn and its Matching Largest Thimble.

I wont know this being dead and all, but theres actually another

ball of yarn just down the road in Mr. Freedmans garage. Its larger

than this one, but there arent nearly as many people who go to see it.

Mr. Freedman doesnt know why but from what God tells me

This is because he lacks a Thimble. Now its Christmas again--Valentines

religious older brother--and Im walking into my dorm room to nd

a three foot stuffed dog guarding me from climbing into my own bed.

It wears a bright red nose and festive jingling antlers, and it is

snarling at me--which conveniently no one else seems to see

With bits of foam and drool dangling in drops from its jowls. Clearly,

this dog must be my roommates. I say, Down boy! Down! Down! Where is

your Christmas spirit? and the dog takes a moment to think about this

before he begrudgingly goes back to sleep in my roommates study corner.

Jesus Christ, I say. Where the fuck do you buy something like that?

This is made in China, Jesus responds, which I thought was very considerate

of him, but I bet we could make better here in the old US of A--

These are all the words Im building, all the stories Im telling to

my fellow railroad riders and even also the common pedestrianjust to remind myself that

This is not your satisfaction.

This is the science of mutual attraction followed closely by the jam sessions

of late night train rides where two genuine black men engage

in impromptu rap battles upon greeting each other and laying down

Phat Beats with their lips.

This is hard to ignore for anyone else riding the train back home, but me

I stood up and said, Yo! Yo! Yo! Yo! and began to lay down my own

Sick Rhymes. The black men seemed to think this was some kind of

joke and said, Sir, we would rather you didnt do that, if its

all the same to you, and I deboarded the train at the next stop.

Here Im at Belmont and Clark street and the sky is falling in afairy-tale of feathers to coat the city with tufts of white, like

snow but larger than any akes Ive ever seen. It looks more like

a cloud somewhere in the sky exploded into a million tiny cloud-puffs

falling to cover the people all below, and I spent the walk home

picking out shapes in the crowds.


20/34

20

This is the forgotten basement bathroom carpeted by cigarette butts where

I lost my virginity to a Mexican Mole Man and smudged up mirror;

I wasnt nervous so much as I spent the entire time wondering

why one of them seemed so familiar and why no one was there

to clean the other.

Then its Easter and Im screaming words in the mouths of babes

so theyll grow up strong before I send them out on their annual

First Baptist Easter Egg Hunt. They bring back eggs colored in

melted wax with portraits and landscapes--ones the Chicago skyline

and anothers Miss Sylvia Plath--and I tell them, Good job Kids,

and to keep up the good work.

Their eggs are sitting in a basket now on my kitchen table rotting

in a purple stench and Miss Sylvia Plath seems as dead as she always

wanted. But Chicago looks just the same as before, only now it is

nighttime and the buildings stand a little less straight, and when I

look closely enough there is the El shooting sparks from its wheels

across the tracks still covered in snow.


21/34

21

At night I hear echoes of my footsteps.Im afraid to turn around and see myself

coming, or worst of all, going.

I dont know when I left, but

A turn to see my entrails dripping;

ambulatory over my shoulder

and I realize Ive lost my appetite.

I think Id been hemorrhaging for a while.A symptom of sound bouncing

from the hollow cavity; keening out

in a bandaged trickle. I can only say

that when it was all inside,

the scariest thing around was me.

In the MiddleMichelle Baker


22/34

22

1

The studio walls were colored with grafti

and not the decorative kind plastered on my bass

case. Snotty phrases about how the man is trying to

take us down, pithy generalities proclaiming fuck

the government. Someones had smattered these

in desperate blacks, yellows, and greens, hoping,almost, their luminescence would make them

permanent, would stop them from fading with each

torrential downpour.

For a while, I stood in front of the sandstone

bricks, wondering what color could differentiate my

phrase from the rest. Plaster-of-Paris white would

have to do. I unzipped my backpack and pulled out

the thick work gloves she had given to me for mybirthday.

Gifts should be practical. Youre an artist. I got

you gloves. Saves you washing your hands every time.

The gloves were without ornamentation, sparse like

her words. Efcient, she said. Unsentimental, I

replied.

A few minutes later, I nished leaving my mark

on the world. Or, at the very least, the studio wall.

The man wouldnt be after you if you didnt draw

on his damn walls. I packed up my belongings. My

watch fell into view as my zipper closed, reading a

neat and tidy 4:05. Time for practice. Bass in hand, I

opened the studio door and walked on the set.

She was strumming her guitar when I walked in.

Her posture was perfect: back straight, legs set close

to each other on the stool. Her hair was tied back

in the most unattractive fashion, but she claimed

it prevented her locks from falling into her eyes.

Calculated, precise, efcient. She spoke without

looking up.

Practice starts at 4:05. I sighed, set down my

bass, and answered.

Well, Im here. She turned her eyes up andbeckoned me closer with a nod of her head.

4:05 means youre ready to play by then. She

slipped my arm under hers, using her left hand to

nger up and down the veins of my forearm as if it

were a fret board.

So why am I the only one who gets harped on?

No one else is here. Why do I get the scoldings?

She tapped out chords and riffs on my arms frommy elbow to my wrist. Her ngers dangled across

my palm, then locked with my ngers like perfectly

aligned gears.

Because you, sir, are dating me. She turned

around on the stool to face me, hands clasped

tightly. Now lets play.

2

I dipped my brush into a palette of blues and

greens, glanced at her, and decided that painting her

dress would be too difcult.

I think, I said, I think Ill paint your pearls.

She had one of those necklaces that was supposed

to mean something. She told me the story months

ago. Something about her grandmother working

arduously to get a decent education. I didnt listen.

Cartesian CoffeeJames Zhao

I b d h d ff


23/34

23

Im bored, she pouted

Pointing out the obvious again?

Tell me a story, then, she whined.

I dont have any.

Tell me about your family, she begged. The

conversation wasnt getting anywhere. She jittered

her leg, shifted her shoulders, did everything possible

to ruin the portrait. I stole a look upwards from my

easel to see her face scrunched up in one of those

girly, irresistible pouts.

Alright, alright. Have I told you about Uncle

Stern? Her face relaxed; her smile returned.

Uncle Stern was a nice guy. Im using nice in the

most liberal of terms, of course. He was nice in the

sense that as long as you didnt breathe on him, he

wouldnt shatter into pieces. Another dip into my

palette, and a few more strokes. I continued talking,

more to myself than to her.

But Uncle Stern wasnt really that bad a guy. He

gifted well, at least to the children. I shrugged my

shoulders, frowned at my picture, and continued. I

got money from him every Christmas. A hundred

dollars or so. Of course, I was never any good atsaving, so it all went to waste. The lighting was

ruining the shadows that dened her nose, so I

improvised. And then, one day, Uncle Stern bit

a bullet. Well, his brain did, at least. Something

wasnt right about the way her lips curved, so I made

them darker to hide the effect.

He left a note, though. A big, red manifesto on

the kitchen wall. He spread out all of his thoughtsand let them soak in. Two weeks after the funeral,

we forgot how nice he was. I nished the last

speckles of green on her dress, smacked my lips,

and told her I was done.

She just stared at me for a while. Im sorry to

hear that.

Hear what?

About your uncle.I smirked. Dont be. I made it up. A pause.

Stop gaping. Lets get some coffee.

3

We started with coffee at the thirteenth hour.

Three creams, no sugar.

That isnt coffee anymore. And that is denitely

not a mans coffee.

She clicked her tongue against the roof of her

mouth, enveloped her hands around the coffee

mugs, and walked into the living room. Her hips

swayed in the slightest manner as she cut across the

room. Click, click, click. Her shoes tapped with the

usual briskness and vivacity. Another step forward,

precise, measured, calculated. The next step, and

the next step, and the next step. She drew up in

front of me and set down the pink coffee mug.

First, you give me coffee with three creams too

many. And now, you give me a pink coffee mug? A

pink one? She silenced any further protest with a

slender nger over my lips.

The mug is not pink. It is a warm salmon-

colored coffee mug. And as for the creams in the

coffee? She leaned in; our noses touched. Dont

expect me to kiss you if your breath is black coffee.

And with that, she kissed me for one second. Precise,

measured, calculated.

R h Sh d


24/34

24

The party was in full swing, full lilting jazzy swing

as musicians staggered from bar to musical bar and

keg to keg. An impromptu band had grown in one

corner upon a drum set, like mold, and was busily

leaping and jumping through winding undisciplined

solos. A musicians party this was, all sound and fury

signifying a damn great many things, most of themneurotic.

Through the wandering horde of drunken

merrymakers I espied my friend Alex, making way

towards me in his usual boisterous fashion. Bottles

of Sam Adams hoisted high, he weaved and ducked

and outright barreled through the throng with the

adroit arrogance of a true trumpet player.

And why, pray tell, he began, thrusting thecold bottle towards me with authority, is my best

broseph, my vocalist extraordinaire, lurking in the

corner of the room?

Deceit failed me. That escapes me, my good

man.

Alex gestured towards the patio door with

his beer. Then away we go! Lead on, Sir Adams!

Bottle thrust forward like a rapier, Alex parted the

crowd as we proceeded to the patio, where the

party was rolling on as merrily as inside. The warm

summer night air breathed life over the scene and

lent me its animation.

My pocket buzzed, and I withdrew my cell

phone, icking it open with the deftness of a

switchblade draw. I read the text missive thereupon

and sniggered.

Aha! Alex declared with an air of discovery.

So this is what made into your pocket with such

dispatch pon my approach! he accused, robbing

Shakespeare with the same casual ease he borrowed

from Frankie Hubbard and Louis Armstrong. He

pried the lid off his beer and proffered the bottle

opener to me. I accepted.He glanced at my phone.

Cindy again, is it?

You know how it is, I muttered. Evil

stepsisters make voice conversations troublesome.

My my, Alex mused, lurking in the corner of

a truly horrorshow party and simply texting your

time away. He pondered this and worried his beer.

I opened mine.I seem to recall, Alex rejoined, a certain

somebody texting incessantly with a girl who was

herself in the middle of a party, only last week.

Yes, I said, heading him off, I am vaguely

aware of the irony-.

Aware! Alex exclaimed. Do you hear this

people, he is aware! He thrust his bottle at me

accusingly. Then I am to take it that your continued

apathy is the result ofblatant cowardice? What, pray

tell, stays your hand?

A sigh, as my eyes appealed my case to the

heavens.

My self-preservation instinct, I replied.

Where to begin this sketch, Alex? She chases

shooting stars, and here I am standing on Earth.

She waits for Adonis to step down from his marble

Rushmore ShruggedJames John Simakas

plinth and yet if he did shed throw him down the


25/34

25

plinth, and yet if he did she d throw him down the

Parthenon steps, because she fears attraction. She

reaches for stars but fears to gain them, for she is

sure shell burn like the other sinners. Two forces

creating a gravitational riptide and woe betide the

man who falls into that event horizon!

My gaze fell from the starry sky and back to

earth.

She tries to avoid it by taking her love and

her lust in different places, pure sources, as if such

vampirism is acceptable, or tolerable. Shes laid her

rails in revolving obsessive circles and along them

that engine roars wild; she stokes the re with

kerosene and I refuse to be aboard when it nally

blows.

Alex read the declaration etched in my stony

countenance, the slashing signature of my mouth.

Youre madly in love with her.

I turned towards the yard and nished my beer.

All Children Except One


26/34

26

All children, except one, grow up.

The thought comes to me as I stand at the

sink, up to my elbows in suds. I let go of the pot

I am scrubbing; it slowly sinks to the bottom, and

I look up. The day is overcast and dreary, and rain

spots the window, but Margaret sits on the grass

and plays with her bucket and spade, oblivious. Ismile, watching her grasp the spades handle and

deliberately tip some dirt into the bucket. She

moves with the endearing clumsiness of all young

children, though it seems like only yesterday that

she was learning to stand.

I resign myself to my pots and pans again, but

movement at the end of the garden catches my eye.

I let my gaze wander lazily over the owerbeds,

taking a winding path before coming to rest on the

pale face that is peering over the stone wall. It is as

if my thoughts have called herperhaps they have.

She blinks solemnly and is gone.

Margaret comes through the door like a train,

shoes clattering on the stone oor. She is dripping

mud everywhere, and I school my face into a mock

frown.

Margaret Agatha Piers, just what have you been

doing?

She squirms and giggles. Digging!

Digging? Digging? I bend over and advance

upon her as she continues to giggle. In my garden?

Thats it young ladyits bath-time for you! I grab

her in my arms and she pretends to ght me off.

Mummy, not a bath! I had one yesterday!

My grubby Margaret pouts. Perhaps she was

not entirely pretending. I tickle her tummy and am

rewarded with a grudging smile.

All diggers get regular baths, silly, I tell her. I

pick her up, sitting her on my hip, and turn to the

stairs. I feel eyes watching my back, but I dont look

over my shoulder.I try not to, these days.

That night I awake to the wail of sirens.

Bolting upright, I throw back the covers and

dash for the door. My hand is on the doorknob and

my mouth forming Annies name when I realize it

is quiet. I freeze, and only the sounds of my frantic

breathing and the rain pattering on the roof reach

my ears.

The air raid was only in my dream.

I dont know whether to laugh or cry. I totter

back to my bed, legs suddenly weak, and collapse

on its edge. I am conscious of the way the mattress

sinks under me, and the cold oorboards that press

against the soles of my feet. I wonder if they are

uneven and the bed is at an angle, or if it is me that

is off-kilter.

Concentrating on the rains soft rhythm I lie back

down and pull the covers over my body. They are

cool from my absence, and I shiver. I close my eyes,

and suddenly it is as if I am watching a newsreel, my

memories the projector and my eyelids the screen.

Smoke billows and thins, and I cannot look away

from the scene that ickers in the light of the ames.

All Children, Except OneKatherine Arrandale

A pale hand clutches a doll amidst the rubble of a havent seen her and set my basket on the grass.


27/34

27

A pale hand clutches a doll amidst the rubble of a

house.

My eyes snap open and I stare at the ceiling. The

rain slowly fades away, and I am still staring when

the dawn light splashes across the wooden beams

and milk bottles clink on the front step.

I walk along the lane that leads into the village.

Margaret is at her Nanas for the day, thank God. I

dont think I could manage her today as well as the

ladies in the village shop. Already I can imagine their

thinly-disguised glances.

Poor dear, look how tired she is.

Well, its no wonder, living on her own as she does.

And with her mother so close byhardly proper

The lane wavers before my eyes and I blink

furiously. It blurs into focus, but I cannot stop the

yawn that follows. It is so wide that my jaw pops

loudly in my ears. I frown and step up my pace.

I am not tired because I cannot raise my daughter

properly. I am not tired because I no longer have my

husband to take care of me. I am tired becauseIshy away from the thought. No sense in haunting my

days with night-timeghosts.

Rounding a bend, I glimpse rooftops in the

distance. I slow, shifting my basket from one hand

to the other. Now that I am almost there, I am not

certain that I can bear to be pitied today.

I come to a gate that opens onto a pasture.

Giving myself no time to think twice, I hoist my skirtand clamber over. The cloth catches on a nail and

tears, and I suddenly wonder why I did not think to

open the gate instead.

I did not know what I was doing at rst, but now

that I stand in the empty pasture I decide to look

for Annie. Once made, the decision feels so right I

cannot remember why I had wanted to go into the

village. Last night was a sign.Striding out into the pasture, I cast my gaze all

around. If she is anywhere she is here, outside. In

the years since the war I have not once seen her

indoors. She is always peering in the window, or

looking through the keyhole.

Therea ash of grey ahead. I catch her in the

corner of my eye and keep her there. I pretend I

haven t seen her and set my basket on the grass.

I kneel beside it and smooth my skirt absently,

ngering the tear.

Annie appears in front of me in the way that she

does, not there and then suddenly there, as if she

has sidled up from a place I cannot see. I look at her

directly, and for once she does not disappear. She

stands with her hands clasped behind her back, and

I take in her downturnedmouth, her golden curls.

She is exactly as I remember her, and I feel a lump

forming in my throat.

Annie.

She tilts her head and holds out her hand. In

it is her doll, as limp as her hand after the air raid.

Fingers shaking, I reach towards her and close themaround her hand. They slide through her as if she

is nothing more than mist, cold and wet, but the

doll itself is solid. I take it, and my Annie smiles for

the rst time. The brightness in her eyes knocks me

breathless, and I cannot help but smile through my

tears.

I cradle the doll in my palm and stroke its cloth

face. There is a sudden wind, cold on the tracks ofmy tears, and when I look up again Annie is gone. I

gently place the doll in my basket and return to the

lane, unlatching the gate and closing it behind me.

The weather is calm once more, and I let the cool

air ll my lungs.

I set off towards the village, and I feel no eyes

watching me leave.

Untitled


28/34

28

Grey.Is that all youre good for?

Messenger of indifferent, cloudy skies,

you lie, swathed in a shawl of dust and grime,

hang, lazily, on heavy eyelids,

doze in hearts that beat too slowly.

Some would say you aim to depress-

ButIn the blackness of night I see

shadows who leer -conniving little beasts- And

the worlds trolls and madmen

devour feasts of my fears -of those who see too little but think

too much of empty space- And

the burbling, creaking creatures of the

darkness

turn to pounce-my mind shrieks

until

Grey Dawn, crystalline goddess of the morning,

creeps through my window,

toes dancing across the ceiling,

banishes all demons with the utter of a nger;

replaces the nights chill with her cool hand.

Before the pink sky or his golden sons care to rise,

She stands, guardian of the moment

when all that is good of the darkness,

and all that is sweet in the day entwine.

Who would entrust that serenity to a braggart of a color?

UntitledVisalakshi Ramachandran

The Rebirth of Baroque


29/34

29

All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the

truest sentence you know.

Ernest Hemingway

Philosophy of writing has changed drastically

since the rise of modernism in the early twentieth

century. Hemingways famous words becamethe base guideline in creative-writing classes for

many generations to come. They are reminiscent

of the theories of Ludwig Wittgensteinone of

Hemingways contemporariesfamous for his

Tractato Logico-Philosophicus. In this remarkably short

tractate, Wittgenstein argues that speculative and

prescriptive utterances ought to be removed from

language because they are void. Surely, it has to

be noted that Hemingways pragmatic advice is far

less rigid than Wittgensteins proposals. However,

they are comparable in that they both advocate the

removal of unnecessary words from language. The

other end of the spectrum would be baroque, a

genre that has lost much of its popularity in favour

of modernism. In fact, few proponents of this school

of thought remain in existence today and then,

most are found in the corner of interior design,

rather than literature. Why did the once so popular

linguistic frills fall from grace, and is there some

hope for literary baroque just yet?

The call for simplicity and brevity in writing

coincided with an increase in literacy among the

lower social-economic classes. This is not surprising;

a wider range of people were able to appreciate

literature, but their respective levels of education

were still quite diverse. Inexperienced readers

would not want to struggle through unnecessary

verbiage. Under these circumstances one would

expect literary movement to have diverted into

different branches, ranging from simple to complex.

The reverse appeared true, however. In line with thecapitalist credo time is money, brevity in writing

became ever more popular among the higher classes

as well. Indeed, as nobilitys place was taken over

by businessmen, literary culture became ever more

business-like. A no-nonsense approach to writing

prevailed during the twentieth century: accurate, to

the point and devoid of redundancy.

In his articleAim for Brevity, which was published

in Locutions previous issue, James Zhao argued

that good writing reects this efciency. This is not

necessarily true; surely, it cannot be denied that

the current fashion in literary culture is concision

and brevity. However, this has not always been

the case, as has been shown, and will most likely

not continue to be the case until the end of times.

Georg Hegel, another great philosopher, formulated

compelling theories about the evolution of thinking.

This so-called dialectical method postulates that

a school of thought will inherently be followed by

an antithesis until the merits of both are ultimately

combined into what Hegel named the synthesis.

Going by this theory, a logical next step in writing

would be a genre that combines the brief and to-the-

point style of modernism with the stylistic methods

The Rebirth of BaroqueBart Graafmans

of baroque. world and the deity who originated evil. It needs


30/34

30

Modern culture already shows symptoms

of this synthesis; society is redeveloping a taste

for decorations. Even such practical appliances

as laptops and cellular phones are made to look

aesthetically pleasing nowadays. The consensus is

thatjust because its practical, doesnt mean it cant be

pretty. And although what was once called baroque

is now labelled design, the idea remains the same.

As design becomes ever more important, the

approach to literature is likely change soon as well.

One author who deserves special mention in this

evolution is William Boyd, who incorporated a form

of modern baroque in his novelArmadillo.

Prometheus and Pandora. Prometheus, a titan

and a demiurge, also known as the great trickster,

and a culture-hero. Bringer of re to earth and man.

Stealer of re from Zeus. Prometheus, restealer,

rebringer.

Zeus, determined to counterbalance this

benecence, created a woman, Pandora, endowing

her with fabulous beauty and instinctive cunning, andsent her to earth with a jar containing all manner of

miseries and evils. Pandora duly lifted the lid from

the jar and all these torments ew out to punish and

distress mankind forever. So, Prometheus brings the

blessing of re, and Zeus sends Pandora with her

malign jar. There is too much of Prometheus and

Pandora in my life at the moment. But I am consoled

by the coda of the legend. Hope was in Pandorasjar, but Pandora closed the lid before Hope could

escape. But Hope lurks somewhere, she must have

squeezed out of Pandoras jar by now. Prometheus

and Pandora, my kind of gods.

This excerpt is particularly tting because it

references Greek mythology, which was extremely

popular during the baroque era. But there is more; forone, the word choice is remarkably exotic, but also

remarkably tting. Demiurge, for example, is a very

conscious choice. Etymologically, it means worker

for the people. In Greek mythology, Prometheus

created mankind, which inherently made him the

greatest worker for the people. However, the most

prominent denitions today are articer of the

no further explanation, then, how tting the word

demiurge is in this context.

Moreover, the quote shows an abundance of

descriptive adverbs and adjectives; a phrase such as

fabulous beauty and instinctive cunning goes against

everything Hemingway stood for. Yet it goes great

lengths to describe Pandora without digressing too

much. Had Boyd chosen to adhere to the famous

mantra show, dont tell, he would not have been

able to incorporate this wonderful analogy without

dedicating several pages to it. This is a display of

the functionality and beauty of baroque styles at its

nest.

I hope to read more novels that feature this inthe future: decorations that do not distract from

the message. Hemingways ideas were necessary

to return to efcient communication, which is the

core goal of writing. However, sticking with those

theories too rigidly would be a shameful disregard

of the stylistic instruments language does possess.

Modernism has made us lose sight of the second

goal of literature, artistry. It is time to regain that.


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Contributors


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Katherine Arrandale is a student and an aspiring

writer, although until recently this involved much

more aspiration than actual writing. College and

the occasional forum contest keep her writing evenin the face of procrastination, while reading and

sporadic attempts at knitting keep her sane.

Michelle Bakeris exceptionally gifted at doing very

little for hours on end. In spite of copious hours of

practice, she still manages to write for work and

scribble a little on the side. She is also enslaved to a

meowing creature named Oreo.

Anna Clare is an unpublished writer and amateur

photographer who has tried, in her way, to be free.

She lives in the United States.

Bart Graafmans is a Dutch student of English

at the Radboud University in Nijmegen. He has

long since abandoned the dream of becoming aprofessional writer and hopes to make a career in

international politics instead. In lieu of any actual

political prospects, however, his current expertises

are teaching and translating.

David Leuenbergeris a teacher trainee for English

as a Second Language in Luxembourg. He likes to

write both poetry and prose, though he prefers

the latter. He has a penchant for cyberpunk and is

convinced that professionalism dies in the face of

boobs.

Dylan Mounts was an editor for issue two of

Locution and is a Creative Writing major at Missouri

State University. In lieu of other interesting facts, you

can rearrange the letters in his name to spell manly

donuts. He spends most of his time not writing.

Visalakshi Ramachandran lives in Florida and is

currently an undergraduate student whose major will

likely change twice in the time it took to compose

this sentence. In her free hours she sometimespretends to write, mostly bad poetry, and hopes to

one day rock the world.

James John Simakas is a Journalism major who

writes science ction, fantasy, and historical ction

when hes not raving about the Man from the

safely ignored depths of the Opinion pages. He is

considered a controlled substance in thirteen states.

Jeffrey Vales Kennedy is currently a student (of

English and Philosophy) and sometimes a waiter. He

resides in many places, but will be making Edinburgh

his home for the next year. His prose was featured

in the rst issue of Locution. In his free time he

writes, reads, and wanders through his own mind

searching for doors to others.

Phil Amy Wright is a student currently living in

Finland. He makes his home in songs, in poetry and

prose, and in between graphite lines on paper. He

would be glad to offer you a cup of peppermint tea

at any time of the day.

James Zhao is a guy. Presumably, he writes, but

most of the time he just pretends to. He likes eating,

sleeping, and rolling down hills in a potato sack. He

thinks kittens are delicious.


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Locution-Zine #3