M

O A K E

S
M E T H I NG
 A "BRIEF" WORD FROM THE EDITOR
Ge t t i n g a n i s s u e o f t h i s m a g a z i n e made is
a s e r i e s o f s e r e n d i p i t o u s m o m e n t s, which
m e a n s i t i s a b u n c h o f b l i n d l u c k o n my part.
Th i s i s s u e h a s b e e n n o d i ff e r e n t . The very
lo v e l y p a i n t e d G e i s h a w h o g r a c e s the front
of t h i s i s s u e w a s s e n t t o m e a s a general
su b m i s s i o n , a l o n g w i t h s o m e o t her great
ar t d o n e b y K a t i e C o w d e n , s o m e of which
ca n b e s e e n i n t h i s v e r y i s s u e . O nce Katie
ag r e e d t o l e t t i n g m e u s e t h e i m a g e a s a cover
su b m i s s i o n s s t a r t e d t o t r i c k l e i n o nce again
an d i t l o o k e d l i k e t h i s i s s u e w o u l d actually
ha p p e n . T h e n Wa r r e n E l l i s l i n k e d the Make
So m e t h i n g t h r e a d o n W h i t e c h a p e l that had
m e a s k i n g f o r m o r e w r i t t e n w o r k , this lead
to a t o n o f s t o r i e s b e i n g s u b m i t t ed, more
sto r i e s t h e n t h e t o t a l s u b m i s s i o n s I’ve had
fo r t h i s m a g a z i n e p u t t o g e t h e r ! W hile very
aw e s o m e , i t d i d p u t m e b e h i n d a l o t as I read
th r o u g h a l l t h e w o r k . . . o r t r i e d t o , I found a
sto r y I s t i l l h a v e n ’t r e a d y e t t w o w eeks ago,
an d s e v e r a l I h a v e y e t t o r e s p o n d t o. If you
ha v e s u b m i t t e d w o r k a n d I h a v e n ’t replied I
ap o l o g i z e , I g o t v e r y o v e r w h e l m e d .
I w o u l d l o v e t o s a y t h a t i s the only
re a s o n t h i s i s s u e i s l a t e . I t ’s n o t . I always
fe e l t h a t i t ’s m y j o b t o t r y a n d m a k e sure each
iss u e i s p l e a s i n g t o l o o k a t . T h i s makes me
so m e t i m e s o v e r t h i n k d e s i g n s w h e n it comes
to w r i t t e n w o r k . W h i c h i s v e r y f oolish of
m e o f c o u r s e . T h e w r i t t e n w o r d c an create
en o u g h i m a g e r y o n i t ’s o w n , a n d this isn’t
a b i g f a n c y m a g a z i n e , i t ’s a s i m p l e straight
fo r w a r d p r e m i s e a n d e x e c u t i o n t hat is all
su m m e d u p i n t h e t i t l e , ‘ M a k e S o m ething’. I
ta k e t h i n g s p e o p l e c r e a t e d a n d h e l p get them
ou t i n t o t h e w o r l d f o r m o r e p e o p l e to look
at t h e m a n d e n j o y t h e w o r k . A n d t he stories
in t h i s i s s u e ( t h e p r e v i o u s i s s u e s a s well as
th o s e t o c o m e a s w e l l ) a r e q u i t e g o od, there
is v a r i e t y i n g e n r e a n d s u b j e c t m atter, and
th e y p u l l y o u i n t o t h e s t o r y. S o m e may not
be t o y o u r p e r s o n a l t a s t e , I k n o w I’ve read
so m e w o r k s t h a t w h i l e n o t s o m e t h i n g I would
ha v e s o u g h t o u t , I e n j o y e d t h o u r o u ghly upon
re a d i n g .
2
Speaking of good or not, I have noticed
a sad trend when it comes to creators,
so many of them seem unsure of their
work. I have gotten many emails with
submissions that include a phrase that goes
along the lines of “I’m not sure this is any good
really,” or “I understand if you don’t want
to use this if you think it’s crap,” and it just
makes me sad, especially since typically it
is something I would consider good. Some
of it is stuff I find incredibly great. I can
see where the uncertainty come s from, a
fear of having your creation being ripped
apart and shot down is brutal. But just have
some hope for your work, and hopefully I
never get another email where the writer is
hard on themselves.
Anyways, there’s some great stuff
in this issue. It ranges from science
fiction to family drama, includes humor,
tragedy, and horror, and that’s all before
we get to Space Shark (a sub genre all unto
himself). There is finally some poetry in
an issue, I always imagined poetry being
submitted before hand, but Ben is the first, but
hopefully not the last. The artwork in this
issue is also some beautiful work, well
maybe not so much Medea, it is more
creepy and intriguing, I really love how it
looks printed out. I could go on and tell
you what I like about each contribution to
this magazine, but I will just finish this up
so I can put the damn PDF into MagCloud
so people can buy the issue. I hope you
enjoy the work as much as I do.
Allen Wiggs
Geisha 1
b y Katie Cowden

A Mak e r ’s M a n i f e s t o 4
b y Steve Ormosi

Beard O v e r w h e l m i n g ! 5
b y Clay

Spine / B u t t e r f l i e s 6 / 7
b y Katie Cowden

Assort e d S o n n e t s 8
b y Ben Gwalchmai

How B o o k s A re M a d e 10
b y Ryan Thompson

A Ston e Wa l l B e t w e e n U s 12
b y Christopher M. Beckett

Lucha L i b re E n M ex i c a l 18
b y Emerson Murray

Re-Inv e n t i o n 22
b y Krista “Q” Di Fulvio

The Sa v i o r o f Ti m e 2 4
b y Dan Black

Space S h a r k 25
b y Chris G.

Medea 28
b y Emerson Murray
3
 A Maker’s Manifesto: Borrowed
Thoughts, Personal Ideas
by Steve Ormosi

What happens when you make something? When you put in a serious effort of getting those neurons
firing in just the right manner? A trimming of the excess. A shaping of the mental shrubbery, if you will.
I will.

I WILL NOT WASTE ANY MORE TIME.

It really sickens me to think of all the time I’ve wasted just thinking. I should be doing. I should be
making things. Does this make sense to you? I hope so. My brain bulges in my skull to imagine all the
stories out there, untold. It turns my hands into gnarled hammers to remember all the times I’ve forgotten
what it is I wanted to make. As a great man once said, I am literally angry with rage. So I’m making
something. Something that might never have been made without a push. And I’m thinking thoughts that
would have never been thought except that now there’s a reason to. And what’s more, there’s a will.

I WILL CREATE.

I’m toiling, and it will probably never be complete, but I’m making something. It is something that I’m
proud of. It is something that I think you will like too. That’s the dream, anyway. It is not a toaster.

Are you wondering what I’m making? I can trust you, right? It’s a bomb. And when it goes off you will
hear it from hundreds of miles around. And you will know that it was me. Tell everyone. They won’t
recognize it unless you do. It’s a neuron bomb. Firing directly in your brain. Who knows? If enough
people are in the blast radius, it could change the world. Or break it. Either way you will be there, friend.
We will be there together.

I WILL TELL YOU WHAT YOU CAN DO.

Make something and live. Do anything and breathe. Fill the void with you.

4
7
 Assorte d
Eyes
Your eyes set aflame are more true now.
Your eyes turned to floating snow touch head.
Your eyessnow sweeps in wings breath upward
to sweep down, down into your back.
Your eyes sucked through your head, swallowed
through your neck to between your blades.
Your eyes emerge from your back but as bone
your eyes seek to see distances
your eyes grow as falling light makes them arch
your eyes break into extensions of brittle bone
to form five other arches, each a little shorter -
your eyes form flesh to keep them from infection
and this new flesh sprouts smaller black bones of
feather.
Your eyes are changed now, to wings.
Endearment
Laid at the bottom of my bed
you are curled porcelain wanting
to be fed small Pacific treats,
grand ancient mates,
homelands of smaller hands and
eyes and birds you’ve killed.
Brought to me slowly I begin
to cry for them and us
as you purr a storm into my
ear’s thumping drum then
nuzzle the awful bird toward me,
asking me to take it before you
curl on my lap, claw my leg,
cutting my leg to red-ribbon pieces.
8
by Ben Gwalchmai
Hairdresser’s Sonnet
No one cuts my hair like you do.
You use no mechanics on my wire frame.
On your neck sits a pearl on a line
between a circle of cracked white beads –
I can see it in your scissors.
No one cuts my hair like you do.
Your scissors could cut my ears,
my scalp or the face of my fringe –
drawing blood
but instead they simply defend from split ends.
Not many can come to the same hairdresser their
whole life but
no one cuts my hair like you do.
Inconclusivity
In late 20th Century London
inconclusivity became an art.
Automata with hearts of gold often
had men walk them a year at a time -
some men steamed through six months of ecstasy,
others teased out the tick of a year’s fine.
Respectable, growing affection they hoped
their engineering would hold, (its lustre not rust,)
but walked dumbfounded alone when it
no longer clicked at their call or troubled
itself at all to explain its actions.
Cornered it revealed a basic programme:
it would be good to talk<there are no starts/
there are no endings> it would be good to
S onnets
Flight The Cyclist
[Dedicated to Flight Lieutenant Ian Fortune]
“I’m a cyclist,” she said.
The ears drumming perforated, Wearing the fact till a jaguar’s tail,
the pressure relieves emerging from her tongue’s head,
as we descend. flicked me with a thick cyc-lic flail
There’s no rush of wind to which I remained unimpressed.
against the skin but “I’m a cyclist,” she said.
instead a cold film in the air Again. Again I wanted to say ‘Vive vitesse!’
causes the hairs to stand on end. But was about to say something else
A Lark Ascending alongside when – “I love city cycling best.
acts as a reminder of It’s a new adventure everyday.”
the music we miss The robin stitched to her red breast
where we are – began to tweet uncontrollably.
were we on the wing – I dared not ask what she did for a living -
drumming, gliding “I’m a cyclist,” she said.
bleeding, holding.

Thirst
Head. Pounding. Hard. I think of the river
I swam in as a boy, “Don’t drink it, Ben”
John had said – I’d drink it if I ever
got back there or it got me here. Right then,
the sun is set, time to walk this desert.
Brawling sands cut a twelvefold lip into
my soles that kiss a cold, unquenching dirt
further in to my cracked skin but I do
continue...barefoot and barely clad...but
there is hope still and still I should keep my
thoughts still and not of water, not how hot
nor how heavy my legs are nor the pain in my thigh...
Though I now lie with my face in the sand...
I still picture a full cup in my hand...

9
10
11
 A Stone Wall
Between Us By Christopher M. Beckett
Large raindrops beat the shingle roof, calling to the
five-year-old as he lay on his bed. Daniel Muller’s eyes
were closed as he concentrated on the sound of each
raindrop. He was counting them, reaching fifty-seven
once before the sounds pooled together.
Daniel soon bored of this and rolled off his bed,
floorboards creaking as he landed. He walked to his
window and stared through the curtain of rain outside.
He scanned the fields searching for his father. But the
rain overhung with dark clouds made it impossible.
“Daniel!”
His sister was calling. Lisa was six years older, with
long blonde hair like her brother and similar features—
soft cheeks, big eyes, and a long nose. The first few
days of her summer vacation Daniel had been happy to
have his sister around. But that had soon changed.
“Daniel! Come here!”
Daniel wanted to ignore her but knew that was useless.
“Daniel!” she screamed.
He’d hit the nerve.
“What?” he called as he walked down the hall to her
room.
“I’m bored. Play with me.”
Lisa was sitting in the middle of her bedroom floor
with the doll’s house their father had built for her sixth
birthday. It was the last time the old man had made
anything. In her hands, Lisa was holding two of the
many cloth dolls she had collected over the years.
“Nah,” said Daniel. “I got better things to do.”
“Like what? Count the holes in your ceiling?”
Daniel didn’t say anything.
“Come on. Mom always played dolls with me.”
Daniel shrugged, stepped into his sister’s room and sat
down.
“Here.” Lisa handed over two of her dolls for her brother.
Daniel scrunched his face up—a default response—but
soon scooched himself forward so he could more easily
interact with the miniature real estate.
12
An hour passed. Daniel and Lisa were so involved
with their play they didn’t hear their father coming up
the stairs. Reaching Lisa’s room, he nearly filled the
doorway as he took in the scene before him. Young
Daniel looked up from where he was crouched low on
the floor and his stomach clenched at the expression
on his father’s face.
“What the hell are you doing?” asked Big Dan, his
eyes set squarely on his son.
“Playing,” replied Daniel.
The large man took a step into the room and reached
over the doll house, grabbing Daniel’s left arm just
above the elbow. Lurching back, the farmer yanked
his son from the floor causing the boy’s shoulder to
pop. Daniel screamed in pain as his feet cleared the
roof of the doll house.
“How are you going to grow up to be a man if you’re
playing with dolls? Eh?” His father’s question barely
registered with the boy.
“Look at me when I speak to you!”
When Daniel did not respond, the larger Muller
slapped his son across the cheek. “You’re just like
your mother.”
With tears streaming down his face, Daniel stared up
at his father for a good moment, then stepped around
him and raced out. Reaching his own bedroom,
Daniel slammed the door behind him. His father’s
voice slipped under to grate at him one more time.
“And don’t come out until you’ve thought about
what it means to be a man!”
•••
“Get up.” His father’s voice was gruff but soft, not
yet fully awake. Outside, the sun had yet to rise, a
thin line of gray above the trees the only indication it
was morning.
“Come on,” his father was insistent.
The pain in Daniel’s shoulder had subsided. He
blinked away a small tear as he reached down to
pull off his nightshirt but his father interrupted him.
“You’ll be fine with that.” Daniel rolled out of bed
and slid his feet into his shoes.
Big Dan had already stepped back into the hall when
Daniel moved to follow, his short legs shuffling to
keep up with his father’s long strides.
•••
Dan Muller had been a vital part of the community,
sharing his opinion when asked, helping neighbors
when they needed it, being a good citizen. Many a
night he had entertained the mayor or the minister at
his farmhouse outside of town long into the evening.
Some were surprised that Dan had never run for town
office, but that wasn’t the type of man Dan Muller
was. He was happy to offer assistance when he could,
but Big Dan was a farmer and knew he wasn’t cut out
to run anything more than the acres he owned.
All of that changed when Anna passed giving birth
to Daniel.
Care for the baby was given over to Mrs. Jansson
from the next farm over, and Dan retreated to his
fields. Trips into town became a rarity, Big Dan often
sending his daughter with a list of supplies to be
delivered. There were attempts by some to help bring
him out of his depression.  Dan wasn’t so much rude
as he was brief in his conversation when the Samsons
and the Olczyks visited the farm. His boisterous
manner had been buried with his wife.
Dan Muller was also an obstinate man, adding to
the burden he now bore and accounting for his new
obsession. When they had bought the farm, the one
thing Anna had asked for was a rock wall along the
back edge with a break in the middle through which
they could enter the woods. She had always been a
romantic; it was one of the many things that endeared
her to him. But while she was alive, Dan neglected to
start Anna’s rock wall. This fact sent him retreating
after his wife died. And it was this that drove Dan
Muller to begin the rock wall after his wife passed
on.
It was to Anna’s wall that Dan brought his son this
morning.
Daniel’s feet sliced through the grass, long blades
brushing against his ankles, leaving faint traces of
dew on his skin. The boy’s eyes refused to open all
the way as the black trees rose up in front of them,
arcing over father and son like some macabre line of
giants. Daniel shivered and tucked his arms tight into
his chest.
“Okay.” Big Dan stopped and turned, but Daniel
couldn’t make out his father’s face beneath the shadows
of the early morning.
“It’s time you started helping out around here. You’ll be
off to school next year, mollycoddled by that teacher,
so you need to start learning how to be a man now or
you’ll never have a chance.” His father’s voice was still
soft, afraid of waking the day. Despite that, the tone
was obvious.
“So,” continued his father, “I’m going to have you help
me with this wall. You’re going to carry those rocks
over here. And I’ll set them where they need to go.”
Daniel looked up at his father and then over at the pile
of large rocks.
“But—” began the boy.
“No. If you can spend the afternoon playing dolls,
you can give me a morning moving rocks. Now get to
work.”
•••
Daniel’s fingers were raw and bloody from the early
morning labors. He’d been unable to lift any of the
rocks and had tried to roll them through the long grass
to where his father waited. It had been strenuous work,
and Daniel had found it near impossible.
As the sun reached into the cool blue of the morning
sky, Big Dan looked down at the boy, struggling to
move another rock from the pile, and told him to stop.
“I’ve got work to do in the fields, and I don’t have time
to baby-sit you. Moment I leave you’d probably end up
hurting yourself and then where would I be? We can get
back to this another day.” His father walked off toward
the barn while Daniel slumped over the large rock,
watching the big man slowly recede into the tall grass.
Daniel knew then, he hated his father.
•••
The next year Daniel started school, walking the two
miles into town each morning with his sister. They
would leave early—after chores were done (milking the
cows, gathering eggs)—and hope to catch a ride with
one of the neighbors. Most days there was a wagon or
a weathered pickup making its way along the winding
dirt track.
Throwing himself into his studies as soon as he began,
Daniel was a star pupil. He grasped things quickly. He
also worked hard at his schooling. Not only would he
bring home his schoolbooks every night, but he also
brought home other books from the shelves lining the
classroom.
13
 •••
“What are you doing?” Daniel’s father crowded the
bedroom door as he glared down at his son.
“Schoolwork,” said Daniel.
“What about your chores?”
“I wanted to get this done first so that—”
“What is wrong with you? Those books aren’t going to
help you any. You need to work in the barn and help out
with the crops and the animals if you want to take this
farm over some day. Now get downstairs before I have
to move you myself.”
Daniel was nine years old and finally losing his baby
face, though he still retained his slight build. He stared
at his father for a second and then slammed the book
shut. Rolling off the bed, Daniel pushed past his father
and stomped downstairs. Big Dan smiled and followed
his son down the wooden steps and out the back door.
“And make sure you take your chores serious! I don’t
need us losin’ animals because you were lazy!” he
called as the boy slumped through the barn doors.
Big Dan returned to the field, harvesting tomatoes and
summer squash. This took him a few hours and carried
Dan through to the sun’s final dip behind the wall of
pine bordering his land.
After hauling the vegetables to the cellar, Dan came
up through to the kitchen where Lisa was preparing
supper. Her father stepped over to the sink and pulled
down a flask from the upper cabinet. Taking a long
haul, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and
replaced the empty flask in his pocket with this now
half-full one.
“Where’s your brother?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Lisa, not looking up from the
stove.
“Shouldn’ta taken this long to clean and feed them
animals. I better check on him.” Big Dan pushed the
screen door open with a sad creak, sidestepping it as
the door slammed back into the house, bouncing off the
door frame three times before settling.
He pulled back both doors of the barn, allowing the
day’s waning light to enter. Walking up the dirt floor,
the older man peered into each stall. Three-quarters of
the way up, everything was fine. But as he reached the
far end of the barn, Dan Muller could see where his boy
had become indifferent. The cows had been fed—he’d
at least done that much right—but the stalls hadn’t been
fully cleaned out. Big Dan could feel his face starting
to burn, sweat beading on his forehead. Swearing under
his breath, Big Dan turned and marched back into the
dim evening.
14
Upstairs, Daniel was lost in another book. The boy
did not hear his father approaching. Big Dan’s long
strides carried him into his son’s bedroom.  He didn’t
even consider slowing down as he lunged for the bed
on the opposite side of the room. Daniel looked up,
eyes widening just as his father reached him. The boy
had no time to react as his father’s bloated fingers
enveloped one arm. He pitched Daniel over the side
of the bed onto the floor. Landing hard, the boy curled
in on himself and tried to pull away from his father’s
grip, but Big Dan only shrugged his son’s efforts off
as he groped for the other arm. Daniel flailed about
and evaded his dad momentarily, but the large man
was soon dragging Daniel across the rough wood
floor.
In the hall, Big Dan shuffled for better footing and
then started pulling his son toward the stairs. Once
there, Dan Muller did not break stride. He yanked
his son down the wooden staircase, watching as
the boy’s head bounced off each individual step.
Reaching the bottom, Dan dragged his son across
the floor, the boy’s head thumping the coffee table
out of place. Kicking the front door open, Big Dan
raked Daniel’s shoulders and back over the rise of the
door frame, driving a large splinter into the soft flesh
above Daniel’s collar bone. Knocking the boy’s body
off the screen door, Big Dan stepped off the porch
and twisted, throwing his son into the packed earth
outside.
Daniel rolled twice before landing in a heap. He tried
to compose himself, couldn’t stop the ground from
spinning.
“What the hell is wrong with you, boy?” Dan Muller’s
voice rasped as he stood, glaring hard at the nine-
year-old.
“I don’t know,” stammered Daniel, unsure what he’d
done wrong.
“I can see that, fer Christ’s sake. I give you a simple
task and you can’t even complete that.  I don’t get it.
As smart as you’re supposed to be, how is it you’re
too dumb to finish one simple thing for me?”
“Dad, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Daniel shuffled back a few feet, trying to keep some
distance between the two of them as he watched the
rage build in his father.
“Didn’t I ask you to clean out the stalls? All of them!
And what do I find in the barn?” Dan looked at his
son accusingly, waiting for a response.
“They’re not all done?” Daniel’s voice cracked as he
spoke.
“That’s right. And why is that? What the hell can
you tell me that will convince me not to beat you
senseless?”
Daniel had nothing to say. His throat clenched around
his voice box as his stomach twisted into a knot.
“Well?”
“I don’t know what happened. I thought I finished
them. I must’ve forgot a couple.”
“Jesus, you must’ve forgot?” Dan Muller’s ears went
red as spit flew from his mouth. He came forward
with a quickness Daniel was unprepared for and
grabbed his son by the ear, twisting hard as he lifted
the boy from the dirt. Leading Daniel by the ear, he
brought the nine-year-old to the barn and threw him
down just inside the doors, a cloud of dust kicking up
around him. Grabbing a pitchfork and bucket from
the pegs beside the door, the older Muller threw them
at his son where he lay.
“You finish this damn job, and you do it right. After
that, we’ll have a talk behind the shed. And when
you get inside, no more books in your room. Are we
clear?”
“Yes,” said Daniel, his voice barely audible.
“And don’t think you’ll be getting away with this
again. I find you slacking off on your chores and
shoving your head in a book another time, it’ll be
worse. Keep that in mind while you’re working, and
pay it particular mind for after we have our little
discussion.
“I’ll be out looking for a good-sized branch while
you’re finishing up in here.” Dan Muller stalked off
for the back woods.
The next day, Daniel went to school with one eye
almost completely shut (it was so bruised it looked
black) and a large welt on the opposite cheek. None
of the kids asked him what had happened. Most of
them had encountered similar punishments in their
own time, though not as extreme.
A week later the swelling had receded, and it was like
it never happened. For everyone except Daniel.
•••
One day a few months after Daniel turned eleven,
things at home came into sharp focus for the boy.
He’d come home from school and gone right to work
in the barn. It was nearing the end of the term and
the day had been a particularly hot one. Daniel’s shirt
was sticking to him as he shoveled manure out of the
pens. He needed to keep brushing his hair back as the
perspiration made it wilt, the drops of sweat stinging
his eyes.
Daniel was halfway down the length of the barn when
he drove the spade into the dirt and decided to take a
break. He needed a drink of water from the well, and
he figured it might be nice to peel off his shirt and get a
fresh one from the pile beside his bed.
Stepping into the soft glow of the early evening sun,
the boy peered into the fields, searching for his father.
If Big Dan saw him heading to the house early he’d
want an explanation, and even that might not forestall
a beating. Shading his eyes, Daniel scanned the wide
green but saw no motion except the easy sway of the
cornstalks from a cool breeze wandering in from the
west. Giving up, he made for the house.
Winding through the kitchen, Daniel made his way
past the dining table into the main room of the house,
heading for the stairs. As his foot hit the bottom step,
he heard something like a dog whimpering. Turning,
Daniel’s eyes stopped at the door to his father’s den.
He walked over, rested his ear against the smooth grain
and closed his eyes tight.
Daniel could hear a soft cry from within. He also heard
a muffled voice, deep, but couldn’t make out any of the
words. Reaching down, Daniel tried the doorknob. It
gave slightly but refused to budge.
Daniel stepped away from the door. Before today, he
hadn’t understood the “talks” his father had with Lisa.
All Daniel had known in his world was that his father’s
ire seemed reserved for him alone, while his older sister
got away with everything.
He put his ear back to the door. His sister’s cries were
running in time with a methodical knocking, like a
constant bass note hidden below the harmony. Blood
rushed from the boy’s face as Daniel felt a chill wash
over his back. He felt as if he might be sick and ran for
the stairs. He didn’t want to add to his list of chores
and was even more scared of what his father might do
if he found him standing outside the den. Tears came
unbidden as Daniel assaulted the steps two at a time,
moving quickly to leave behind what he’d just heard.
•••
Daniel finished setting the table for supper and took
his seat at one end, folding his hands in his lap, staring
at the dirt beneath his nails. Lisa came through and set
a large bowl of mashed potatoes in the middle of the
table. Daniel looked up as she turned for the kitchen,
staring at the back of his sister’s head. He followed
her long blonde hair past the chopping block until she
moved out of sight.
From behind, Daniel could hear his father’s heavy
footfalls announcing his presence for the evening
meal. Daniel clenched his eyes shut, fighting to keep
15
 back tears. It was a number of seconds before the boy
realized he was holding his breath. He inhaled deeply
and let it out slowly before opening his eyes.
Big Dan came around Daniel’s chair and squeezed his
son’s shoulder. Daniel glared up at his father, but the
man didn’t notice as he turned to take a seat at the head
of the table.
“What’s for dinner, honey?” bellowed Dan Muller.
“Roast chicken, potatoes and carrots on the side, and
bread,” called Lisa. She stepped back into the room
and placed a bowl of carrots and a plate of warm bread
on the table. Her father began heaping his plate with
potatoes as she returned to the kitchen.
“Man. We didn’t eat this good with your mother.
You got lucky, Daniel.” His father didn’t look up as
he spoke, intent on his food. All Daniel could do was
stare, bewilderment painting his face as he searched for
something to say.
“Lisa, get that chicken in here, I’m starving.” Their
father peered around the kitchen doorway as he dropped
a second spoonful of carrots onto his plate.
“Coming,” said Lisa as she returned, balancing the
chicken on a serving platter. She set it down right in
front of her father. It was his job to carve the bird, one
of the few things he did at dinner other than eat.
Dan gazed at his daughter and then looked down the
table to Daniel. “She does look as pretty as your mother
though,” he said with a large smile as he picked up the
carving knife.
Daniel would recall little of what happened next.
Lunging from his chair, he jumped onto the table,
sending one of the candlesticks through the air.
Banging his knees, Daniel half hopped, half crawled to
the other end of the table, clawing at the checked cloth
beneath him. The boy was screaming, a primal gurgle
that roared through the small room. Daniel gripped the
other candlestick and swung it at his father, knocking
the chicken to the floor. Daniel groped for his father’s
face, his fingers discovering purchase in the folds of his
neck where he began to squeeze.
Big Dan didn’t understand what was happening and
couldn’t think straight with his son bawling at him.
As Daniel lurched from the table, he sent both of them
clattering to the floor, the hard wooden back of the
chair driving into his father’s shoulder blades.
Knocking the wind out of the older Muller, Daniel
pulled his knees up closer to his father’s face and began
to press down hard on his throat. Big Dan glared at the
boy as he worked to regain his breath.
Soon, the elder Muller wedged his arms beneath
Daniel’s knees and pushed up with all his strength,
16
thrusting the boy off. Daniel toppled to one side, and
smashed his shoulder.
He looked at his father and then at Lisa, who had
tears running down her cheeks. He got up and ran
past his father, driving through the kitchen door and
off the back stoop.
Daniel kept running, past the barn and through the
fields. He thought he could hear his father laughing
at him from far behind. But when he stopped past the
long rows of corn, Daniel realized it was only in his
mind.
Trying to catch his breath, Daniel saw that he’d
arrived at the stone wall. A full moon was high in
the eastern sky, shining down on the spot where he
and his father had stopped earlier in the week. Rage
welled up in him, and Daniel started kicking the large
stones along the top of the wall, toppling them over
into the tall grass.
“You sick sonuvabitch!” Daniel screamed to the
darkened forest as he attempted to destroy the wall.
“Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!”
The chinks fell at Daniel’s feet and he stomped on
them, trying to bury them or crush them into powder
or both. Overcome with emotion, he had no control
as he pushed and heaved and kicked at the rocks,
knocking over as many as he could before exhaustion
sent him stumbling over the wall, banging his skull
on one of the larger base stones.
Daniel rubbed at the bump forming on his head and
cried until he fell asleep beneath the stars.
The next morning nothing was said about what had
happened at dinner the previous night.
This silence, particularly that of his sister, was worse
than anything Daniel could have expected.
•••
The next year, in the middle of the first session, Dan
Muller pulled his daughter out of school. He told
Miss Slate that Lisa was sick. A day or two later, Dan
loaded the wagon, and he and his daughter headed
north for the nearest train station.
Daniel remained home to take care of the farm. Miss
Slate questioned him at school the next day. Daniel
knew that his father had taken Lisa to stay with a
cousin in Montana, but it was a relative Daniel had
never met. As for an explanation of his sister’s illness,
Daniel hadn’t been aware she’d been feeling poorly
and was unable to share anything more.
A week and a half later Big Dan returned, Lisa now
settled five states away. He said nothing to Daniel
about the trip and refused to talk about Lisa whenever
the boy tried to bring it up. All he told Daniel was that
his sister would be back in seven or eight months,
which meant she would need to repeat her senior year
in order to graduate.
That year the stone wall became a meditation for
Daniel, a way to sweat out his frustrations. It was
a place to get away, a place to think—about Lisa,
his dad, what was happening to them. At the wall,
Daniel’s mind was clear. Without the wall, Daniel
might have run away. But it was for his mother. And
it was for Lisa.
Something else Daniel came to realize at the wall. He
would need to become the man of the house.
Because his father only cared about himself.
•••
When Daniel was fifteen, he found himself looking
down on his father. Dan Muller was still twice as
heavy as his son and had no qualms about using his
large frame to keep his “boy” in line. But Daniel was
smart and did his best not to cross his dad.
Most evenings, after the chores were done and Big
Dan started in on his whiskey, Daniel would excuse
himself and go out to the barn where he would light
a lamp and read. He didn’t like being in the house
while his father was drinking. Lisa had been gone for
two years–marrying a few months after graduation to
a man ten years her senior–and the house had never
felt more empty.
With the added responsibilities falling to him, Daniel
found it difficult to get out to the rock wall. He wasn’t
sure what he thought of that. Part of him felt guilty
that his mother’s wish had yet to be fulfilled. But the
memories of his childhood chained to that wall left a
bad taste in the young man’s mouth, and he found it
difficult to get motivated to work on it.
Unless Big Dan was feeling motivated, which was
the case one Saturday afternoon.
“Come on. It’ll be good for us,” said his father. “We
can get a good chunk of that wall done before your
sister comes over.”
“Lisa’s coming by?” asked Daniel.
“Yeah.  Didn’t I tell you? I run into her in town the
other day and she said she wanted to come out and
have dinner with us. Said she’d cook and everything.”
Daniel couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen
a smile on his father’s face. It made him uneasy.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay.” Big Dan slapped his son on the back and
pushed through the screen door. The younger Muller
followed, hands in his pockets as his mind wandered
through history he’d rather have left forgotten.
For hours the two men hefted rocks onto the wall,
making visible progress. They took a break for lunch,
but other than that there was no respite as the sun rode
its arc across the sky.
It was about four in the afternoon when Big Dan
dropped a rock onto the wall and turned to gaze across
their fields.
Daniel was at the rock pile, searching for the next stone
to bring over. He stopped when he heard his father
calling.
“Lisa!”
Straightening up, Daniel looked over at his father, who
waved enthusiastically.
Daniel looked across the green, catching a glimpse of
his sister in a yellow summer dress and a sunbonnet
that had a deep red sash tied around it. She was waving
back at the two of them.
“God, but she is beautiful. Looks just like your mother
did when I first met her.” Big Dan’s voice was a
whisper, as if he had forgotten Daniel was there and
was only talking to the forest.
Daniel walked over to his father.
The old man had eyes only for Lisa. He didn’t notice
his son approaching.
Daniel raised his arm. Off past his father, he could
see Lisa’s hands reach for her mouth. Daniel almost
believed he heard his sister gasp. The next instant
Daniel swung the large rock down onto his father’s
head, caving in the man’s skull. Blood splattered onto
the younger Muller. He brought the stone down again,
sending his father into the soft earth.
A minute later, Lisa was standing beside her brother.
Daniel couldn’t stop shaking, the adrenaline rushing
through his veins as he tried to catch his breath. Lisa
took her brother’s hand and squeezed as she wrapped
her other arm about his waist.
The two held each other and said nothing.
A minute passed. Lisa looked down. Daniel’s knuckles
were white, strangling the rock still in his hands. She
pried it loose and dropped it next to their father’s limp
body. Daniel looked at his sister, then walked back to
the barn and grabbed a spade.
The two of them worked through the night.
By morning, ten more feet had been added to the wall.
17
There are a couple of painted
boards around Mexicali if you
know where to look. But, if
you want the real scoop, you
need to go to the Panadería
Azteca.

This bakery always has a lu-

cha board out front listing
this week’s card. The bakery
is owned by one of the fea-
tured luchadors, Black Aztec.
Inside, the walls are covered
with cutouts of newspaper and
magazine articles about Black
Aztec. Everywhere you look
you’re surrounded by lucha
libre. The women working
there never have any answers for my questions
about lucha libre.

Whenever we visit my wife’s family in Mexica-

li, we always make sure we catch a lucha show.
There are two arenas that I know of in Mexicali.
One runs shows on Saturday nights and the oth-
er on Sundays. Both are in small gymnasiums
with the ring built in the center as a permanent
fixture. Both arenas only hold a couple hundred
fans and the bleacher you sit on is the foot rest
Above. Rubi Gardenia is an exotico, a gay
themed wrestler. He kisses his opponents,
kisses the ref, and runs into the audience,
sitting on the lap of the burliest looking guys.
It’s a weird phenomenon. Machismo is alive
and well but the audience doesn’t just laugh
at the exotico wrestlers, they also laugh with
them. The exotico’s are teased and made fun
of for being so feminine, but in the end they
are applauded, for vanquishing their foes.
Left. This is Inmortal. He is a
rudo, but a serious one. He does
not goof off or make a fool of
himself. He is covered head to
toe. My wife and I always loved
Inmortal’s high flying and booed
him to no end. The last time
we were down in Mexicali, ru-
mor had it that Inmortal’s body
is covered in burned flesh. He
nearly burned to death in a fire.
When we watched him wrestle
that night, we could see that
some of the fingers on the thick
gloves he wore, bent backwards.
There were no fingers in them.
for the person behind you so it can get
pretty crowded with hot shows.
Left. Guerrero Rojo. My
Mexicali luchadors wrestle at either arena
wife hates this guy. She
and occasionally national stars are brought
can’t stand to even look
in for big events.
at his picture. He is huge
and rough and violent.
I’m almost always the only white guy at
He throws the skinny
the matches. One time, there was a skinny,
little technicos around
bleached blond kid in the crowd as well. It
the ring and when he
turned out he was a wrestler from southern
beats them up, it is truly
California and during one of the matches
cringe-worthy. I always
he challenged one of the luchadors to a
have to reassure my
match the next week.
wife, “They are all right.
They are not hurt.” But I
There are always a ton of kids at the show.
do it through liar’s teeth
My wife covers her ears because of the foul
and she knows and
language and the kids are always the worst.
doesn’t believe me.
Their foul mouthed creativity is hilarious.
There’s always old ladies too, the kind that
hit the rudos (bad guys) with their purses.
Mexican wrestling inspires a lot more au-
dience participation than American wres-
tling. Audience members
vie for the funniest jeers all
night. The rudos are often-
times laughing stocks, and
not “cool” like American
bad guys. The good guys
are still the “cool” guys in
Mexicali.

The crowd can get pretty

wild. I’ve never been scared
for my life or anything that
dramatic, but one night after
a hot Chivas-Aguilars futbol
match, the crowd was pretty
wound up. Chivas fans in
the audience were yelling
at a skinny guy in a huge
yellow, Aguilars poncho. A
fat mustached, Aguilar fan Above and left. This match was
starting cussing and threat- a hair vs. mascara match. Ti-
ening everyone in white and gre Leon lost and had his head
red. Plastic bottles were fly- shaved. Both men were extremely
ing and a lot of threats were bloody by the end of the match.
made but no one got really Tigre Leon’s neck was cut on a
violent. table and at points in the match it
looked like he was wearing a red
Text and photos by Emerson cape. I squirreled away a piece of
Murray. broken table covered in his blood
monster_95018@yahoo. and still have it.
com
 RE-INVEN TION
By Krista “Q” Di Fulvio
If necessity was the mother of invention, then surely
boredom and desire were the fornicating parents of re-
invention. That was his final coherent thought as the
anaesthesia dragged his consciousness into the realm
of nonsense.
Re-invention was a lost art, there were no rock stars
anymore. Nothing but Angels above and decay down
below. Broken toys that everyone stepped on, discarded
dreams. The Angels brought with them proof of faith
and there was no longer reason to dream or to wonder.
A good life meant eternity in Heaven and a bad life
meant Hell. Earth was but a stagnant Purgatory in
which he was king. As long as he remained on his little
plot of dirt.
Not that he hadn’t acquired quite a reputation. Far and
wide when people heard of his city or of his name, they
would shudder, cringe, maybe even whimper or cross
themselves from their heads to their shoulders and then
kiss their dirty fingers.
Suiting the cultural and sociological themes, many
began to regard him as a devil, or at least a demon under
the devil’s wing. Those people missed the point, they
didn’t listen. Anyone who truly followed his words
knew that he served no one but himself and that he saw
himself as no demon but merely a mentor. He could
show the fallen and those jaded of faith the world of
individualism. For a price.
Everyone had to pay a price. Usually it was to work,
to follow his words and instructions without question,
something the formerly devout were used to doing.
They would listen to his views of the world and actually
spend a few moments thinking. Maybe he would caress
them, kiss the flat of their scalps and offer to them his
treasures which they would lick from his cold hands
like puppies.
22
His followers would sit back, the salt from his palm
still sharp on their tongues and they would receive
into their minds his visions. They would cluster
around him and follow like shadows and under
pulsing, blinding lights they would dance and worship
themselves, because he taught them that they were
the only things that really mattered.
In a world of faith, those of his city were outcasts.
He would target them, prey on their obtuse feelings
of worthlessness. He made them believe that he
understood, that he cared. They became his children,
his whores, his loaded guns.
He was hardly discriminatory either, he accepted the
heretics from all walks of life, male or female, old or
young, intelligent or stupid, able-bodied or lame, it
made no difference to him as long as they paid their
dues.
He had been at this for years, building his empire
up from a one man army to an entire city and a few
hundred citizens. Charisma, that’s how he pulled
them in, which was fortunate because he wasn’t
particularly attractive. He was far too skinny, far too
gaunt. Sometimes, after pushing the plunger a few
too many times, he would wonder what he would
be like after he got old. Would he be weak, a joke?
Would he reach his twilight years? Did it matter?
Usually something shiny would flicker in the corner
of his eye and distract him, after which he would
awaken a day and a half later on his floor and then
vomit out a stomach-full of blood.
There was a price for everybody, even him. It was in
the image itself. There were no rock stars anymore
and so people were unaccustomed to being dazzled
and in awe of a mere mortal with a fancy outfit and a
thrusting pelvis or kicking legs. As a result it was so
easy to impress his followers in the beginning. But The fingers began to curl, the pointed tips, like claws,
familiarity breeds contempt, and so came the need for shredded the sheet just a little as it bunched under his new
re-invention. palm. He bent his hand at the wrist, clutched the fingers
The arm had to go anyway, it was practically lightly and rotated it in a circle. He tightened his fist.
Swiss-cheese thanks to the needles, a purple and There was no pain; there was barely any sensation at all,
bloody mess that went numb and dead more often just a dull sense of extension, like trying to touch water
than it didn’t. Lately he had resorted to stuffing on the other side of glass or losing an object because you
the hand into the pocket of his blazer for support. forgot it was in your hand. He held his palm close to his
Signs of weakness were cracks in the veneer, and face and studied the almost unnoticeable texture on the
if he cracked, they would all crack. At this point, fingertips and surface of the palm. Finally he flexed each
amputation was at the same time the most merciful, finger individually as if striking keys on a piano. Despite
logical, and safest option. his tired daze, he smirked.
He had the best surgeon in the state on his pay roll as This new cybernetic device was better than he imagined
well, which was a perk. Initially he was dubious of it would be, icy as death and dangerous as a spear. It
being drugged into unconsciousness when not in the was a new symbol of his power, his rule, something only
safety of his bedroom. What was to keep the dear he possessed. There were no rock stars anymore but
doctor from killing him and taking over the city? even if there were, none of them would dare go to these
Wisely, his defenceless body was surrounded by his extremes for their fans.
personal body guards who were too stupid to act of Would he miss his old hand? Perhaps, but it was a
their own accord. small sacrifice to make. Everything came at a price and
The first thing he felt as he began to awaken was a everyone had to pay.
terrific iciness, like his shoulder and it’s blade was Especially him.
painted with liquid nitrogen. He groaned and opened
his eyes a sliver. The only light was from the moon,
which filtered into the room through the glass of
the window. He licked the roof of his mouth and
swallowed, his mouth dry of any saliva. His throat
ached. He scrunched up his eyes tight before trying
to open them wider. He was so groggy. He found
this intoxication unfamiliar and annoying. Sleep was
clawing at him but he refused. Instead he tried to lift
his impossibly heavy head but only managed to turn
it to the side. The pillow was stiff against his cheek.
Lying next to him was his arm, silver, shining in the
moonlight. Bionic bones were naked of flesh and
delicate wires, too few to be thought of as veins or
sinew, ran like gossamer threads against the metal.
The hand itself looked like any other skinned hand
but instead of bone there was alloy, the fingers...
The fingers were cruel and unfeeling. Silver dragon
spines, stiff serpents with evil hooks. His mechanical
ring finger twitched; it could move, he could move it.
He thought “move”.

23
 THE SAVIOR
OF TIME
by Dan Black

“z417 zhours zto zinfinity”…

… T h e c o m p u t e r i z e d v o i c e reiterates like a digital tape reel. The Savior squints

p a i n f u l l y, b l i n d e d b y t h e c o l u m ns of light around him. The craft consisted of four
e v e n l y s p a c e d s u c h c o l u m n s , g l owing brightly enough to be mistaken for a star from
e v e n f r o m t e n s o f l i g h t y e a r s a w ay. The Turiyans see it as both a burning transparent
o r b i t a l a n c h o r a n d a d i s t a n t p o i nt of light. In their dimension everything is every-
w h e r e a l l t h e t i m e . A g i g a n t i c e l ectron wobbles in and out of the structure in a figure
e i g h t p a t t e r n c o n t i n u o u s l y. T h e floor matched the canopy: a floating shell of space
d u s t . A p u l s i n g y e l l o w - o r a n g e organ, oscillating and dripping, clings to the dust
s h i e l d . A v e s s e l f o r t i m e i t s e l f . I t is bulging and about to explode. Five escorted him
t h r o u g h t h e g r i d , t h e i r r e f l e c t i veness so pure in the emptiness they seemed nearly
i n v i s i b l e . O n e m o r p h s a m a k e s h ift oval head out of itself and turns it to the Savior.
“ [ M a t t e r a t o m i c - s u b p u r e a r e w e.]”, it shares. Micro time shifts tweak any and all
c o m m u n i c a t i v e p a t t e r n s . T h e c raft never corrects these, a result of enviro nment;
s o o n i t w o u l d n ’t m a t t e r a n y w a y. Elemental beings, consistent to the core. Sentient
n o n - l i v i n g m a t t e r. N o t h i n g c o u l d live in their neighborhood of the multi-dimensional
u n i v e r s e , l i f e r e q u i r e s t i m e . T h e y couldn’t comprehend it, even as much as they tried
to. So they resorted to this.

24
“z19 2 z h o u r s z t o z i n f i n i t y ” …
“Yo u t o o k m e t o o s o o n . I w a s n ’t a ble to
help t h e m a c h i e v e s a l v a t i o n . I w a sn’t…
The G o d s s e n t m e a n d I f a i l e d t hem”,
he f o l d s h i s h e a d i n t o h i s h a n d s . When
he a r r i v e d t h e p e o p l e c o u l d n ’t even
pronounce his birth name, so they dubbed him
“ove r m a n ” . H e l e a r n e d e v e r y l a n guage
syst e m o n t h e p l a n e t d u r i n g h i s d e scent,
and s e r m o n e d a l l t h e c u l t u r e s o f the
wor l d s i m u l t a n e o u s l y. “ I ’ m h e r e t o save
you a l l , ” r e v e r b e r a t e d i n t o s p a c e . Some
two -thou s and years prior – their time, not his
– the Savior sat under the Epistoal Gas Cloud,
orbiting patiently until a new star was birthed
out t o h i m , a l l t h r e e r e s t e d i n h a r m onious
alig n m e n t . E n l i g h t e n m e n t . T h e m etallic
bein g s s h i f t t o o n e l o n g , t h i n beam,
stre t c h i n g from the back
und e r n e a t h h i s c r o s s e d l e g s t o p o ke out
the f r o n t . “ [ E x p l a i n w e w i l l . M o ve to
not t r y a n d e y e s y o u r c l o s e . ] ” T h e craft
begi n s t o s h a k e w i t h e n o u g h f r iction
to s p o n t a n e o u s l y c o m b u s t ; t h e l a ck of
oxy g e n h e l p s . I t i s p o k i n g t h r o u gh the
emp t y s p a c e t o t h e n e x t d i m e n s i o n over,
it f e e l s l i k e d y i n g . A p u r e w h i t e , thin
pass a g e s i t t i n g b e t w e e n v e r t i c a l and
flat u n i v e r s e s . A f i g u r e f l o a t s o ff in the
dist a n c e , r e a c h i n g t o w a r d s t h e c r a f t a s they
pier c e t h r o u g h t h e o t h e r s i d e . T h i s t ime it
feel s l i k e b e i n g b o r n a g a i n .
anyone. A shower of burning meteorites
rain down upon him on the surface of a
terra-formed moon while he
simultaneously steps out of the ship into a
sacred chamber; he quickly learns to block
out the former. “[I felt that],” one of the
orbs tells him, “[you are learning already.]”
The slippery and bloated organic ve ssel is
placed into a tabernacle of sorts surrounded
by digital readouts. “I can understand you
now. Why can I understand you now?”, the
Savior is taken to a mirror-ball
seemingly like any of the others. It zaps
and blurts out lines of code and rotates
sporadically. When it stops, it speaks
slowly: “[You are not able to achieve
planetary salvation on your world
because that is not your purpose.
You are sent to that dimension by the
‘Gods’, yes... we are these ‘Gods’. You
end, are not their Messiah, you are ours.]”
Now an infinite number of them watch
remotely in every corner of the
universe. “[You have managed to exist on the
other side and descend to us with the
Nuyrii containing time itself. Through
it and you we will finally understand it.
Teach us, Messiah.]”

“zWe z h a v e z re a c h e d z i n f i n i t y ” …

Upo n d e p a r t u r e f r o m u n i v e r s a l l i m b o, the
Sav i o r i s i n t e rn a l l y l o s t . E v e n a s a higher
bein g o f h i s w o r l d , n o t h i n g c o u l d p repare
him f o r t h i s p l a c e . N o t h i n g c o u l d p repare

25
 C R E AT O R B I O S :
Christopher M. Beckett has lived all his life in Ben Gwalchmai: is a liar. It’s what he does for fun and
Maine. He works at his writing in the dark, once it’s what he admits to for truth. For more on that, go to
everyone else is in bed. You can see his other work, http://bengwalchmai.wordpress.com
including the self-published anthology Warrior27, at
warrior27.com Emerson Murray became a hardcore wrestling fan
when he saw that it was Cyndi Lauper approved in
Dan Black is a part-time writer and musician.  the mid-80’s. He has been painting and committing
He resides in St. Paul, Minnesota with his girlfriend acts of photography since then as well. His biography
Laura and cat Max.  Dan has been published in various on professional wrestling legend, Bruiser Brody was
outlets such as Outside Writers and Weaponizer, in published in 2007. He enjoys a good suplex, bodyslams,
various forms such as webzines and literary magazines.  and long walks on the beach.
Dan is currently conceiving his first attempt at a novel.  secretcinnamonsquad.com bruiserbrody.com
His writing has been called “elegiac”, if not a little bit
unhinged. My Blog: The Sonny Wilkins Chronicle. Steve Ormosi is a writer.  That’s another way to say
My Music: Mild Maynyrd on Bandcamp “unemployed layabout.”  It’s also another way to say
“nerve wracked mental patient.”   When not writing,
Katie Cowden is a self taught photographer and Steve enjoys TV, movies, books, murder, poker, and
painter living in Austin, Texas. Her day job is teaching candle lit dinners.   Just kidding about the murder
preschool, which gives her lots of opportunity to You can find his work at:  http://lifeafterdeath-comp.
color pictures of dinosaurs. In her spare time, she blogspot.com/
likes drinking tea, watching bollywood movies and
playing in the creek. You can follow her artistic Q is the letter Q who is a writer-slash-artist from
adventures on tumblr: http://krakatoakatie.tumblr. Canada. Her brain likes to play in dark places and she
com/ runs on the warming comfort of tea. Do not tamper
with... http://anarchicq.com
Clay, fastidious and demure, lives in Menifee,
Ca, philandering through the untamed droves Ryan Thomason is an illustrator who works in lino
of feline  corpora. He can be found replacing his cuts as well as pen and ink. He lives in Edinburgh and
fluids with spirits and documenting the past at could definitely get used to talking about himself in the
lostjulycomics.com third person. He thinks you should spend some time at
tezoarillustration.com, it’s nice there.
Chris G. writes and illustrates SPACE SHARK and
TEAM MUMMY. He resides in a dead-ass town on
the outskirts of downtown Los Angeles. One day he
will take life seriously, but until then he can be found
dumping art at teammummy.com and chronicling
Space Shark’s life story in the making using the
power of the sequential arts at spacesharkcomic.com

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