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The

DREAMS
issue

! ! BE!ABOUT!IT!!
a!zine!

! !
Conceived,!written,!formatted,!and!printed!in!San!Francisco,!California.!! Tsaritsa!Publishing!2011,!All!Rights!Reserved.!Plagiarism!is!illegal!and!for!wankers.!Don't! do!it,!or!else!!

Welcome to Be About It, the DREAMS issue. The word dream can be approached in a few ways so I decided to leave the topic open-ended, free for interpretation. This is the largest issue of Be About It to date, and I am very proud of it and all the writers who submitted. Thank you so much, and thank you for being so gracious as I put this thing together. Enjoy. And if you like what you see, I hope you consider sending in a piece of writing or art for the next one! Love, Alexandra the Tsaritsa Naughton
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Dreams I dream in black and white-- really dark and confusing, sometimes I can't see what is directly in front of me, a limited scope as if shot in vignettes. The dreams, though highly stylized like a Swedish avant garde film, are plotless and usually make very little sense. And they repeat themselves. I've had this same dream every night for going on months now. Here's how it typically plays out: I'm seeing through my own eyes and wandering. Sometimes it's an old house and I'm going from room to room with someone just behind me, following. Other times I'm in a large municipal building with long, empty, and slanting hallways. The building wobbles back and forth like an unsteady Jenga set, or it is spinning as if on a record player (like it was last night). Sometimes I'm driving a car and I'm on an important mission, though I never know what that mission is. In real life I don't know how to drive, but that doesn't stop me from dreaming about it. I'm driving and driving, fast, the car full of people and were racing down dark narrow and winding roads, then eventually it is day time and I am driving this car up the curved steel part of a bridge (you know, the part that holds the rest in suspension?) for some reason. It's like riding up and down the hills of a rollercoaster, but I can't enjoy it because I'm terrified and I have people in the backseat counting on me not to get them killed. Freud said our dreams hold the secrets that our subconscious is afraid to reveal when we're awake. Personally, I think that's a load of B.S. Science (via the kids show from the 90s, Beakmans World) has taught me that our dreams are dependent on what is already on our minds, and you can control what you dream about-- by thinking about the things you want to see in your dreams before you go to sleep you can essentially design your dreams. Inception, anyone? This strategy works for me on occasion, but it seems that my sleeping self prefers to dwell in
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nightmares, which isn't all that odd considering what I read and watch for entertainment. A morbid curiosity can really affect your dreams. I suppose if I were the type of person who thought about unicorns and Lisa Frank stationary all the time my dreams might be more pleasant. Oh well. One night I went to sleep worrying about my cat, Sookie, who I left home alone while I was on vacation back in Philly. In the dream I arrived at my apartment after an arduous crosscountry journey only to realize that my cat was missing. Talk about a frantic dream. But it was rooted in reality and my own worries. I'm sure Freud would attribute my lost pussy cat to something sexual, but that would be utterly incorrect. The night before the kitty-cat dream I went to sleep staring at a poster of Lil Wayne on my sister's bedroom wall. I dreamt that I was kissing him. I'll bet if I had drifted off to sleep staring at a poster of Kate Moss I most likely would have been graced by the model's presence in one way or another (joint fashion shoot? cat fight?). The possibilities with dreams are endless.
_ by Alexandra Naughton

Imagine You're Dreaming. I wonder sometimes why people, including myself, enjoy fantasy so much. Science fiction movies, role playing games, video games, sword and sorcery movies; as a society, we love them. Yet the only time we ever actually come close enough to feel what these settings and situations would be like, is in dreams. Oddly enough, this has resulted in a relationship of mutual causation, we dream what we've seen, and we create what we've dreamt. Like anyone, I've had remarkable dreams, and while I remember few of them, I
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hold onto all of them. I've dreamt of super powers, magic, global wars, apocalypses, monsters, space exploration, you name it, and at some point I have experienced it while sleeping. Yet I've never come close to experiencing any of these fantastic, reality bending situations. I have however attached myself to many admittedly geeky hobbies, likely in an effort to regain what I've lost through sheer consciousness. This all makes me wonder what the state of our collective imagination would be without dreams. Would we have ever made that first leap by pointing our thoughts outside the realm of the possible? Would Tolkien have written about normal folks with everyday lives? Would we even have fiction, or would our opinion of the untrue be solely reserved for what is dishonest, instead of what is beautifully impossible? To be honest, I'm tempted to think we only have fantasy, and fiction for that matter, thanks to dreams. Oh... Most of my dreams are mundane. Boring, regular events such as going to work or walking to the store that just happen to occur when I am unconscious. Many people are disappointed by these dreams, but I'm not. I'm disappointed when I have one of those rare "awesome" dreams. What's worse, waking up after dreaming you went to the store, and then going to the store, or waking up after riding your T-Rex into a valley full of lingerie models only to discover you are the last man on earth, and to save humankind, you must sex them all? Yeah, I'll just go to the store, thanks. Fait pour etre vu I get deja vu at least once a week. I am not psychic, or clairvoyant, nor do I believe in the nonscientific. Admit it, you
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realize every once in a while that you have definitely dreamt about what you are doing at that particular moment. This doesn't mean you're psychic; it means we are boring. We dream about the future because our brains are computers. The things we do, the people we know, and the places we go are all stored information in our memory banks. I find it hard to believe when people insist they have "dreamt the future". You have likely not had a precognitive vision of events yet to come. Your brain is generating scenarios from the data it has to play with, and once in a while, either it guesses right, or we subconsciously carry out the activity ourselves. This however, begs the question, when we do feel deja vu, are we recognizing a situation we have dreamt, or are we forcing events to follow the path of a previous dream, and only realizing it when the fruits of our labor create the desired scenario? If it is indeed the latter, how much influence have our dreams have on us? We could be ending relationships with friends, employers, employees, and loved ones because we dreamt it. We could be making mistakes, losing possessions, even changing situations central to our lifestyle in order to imitate the imprint of a dream we will remember when our actions come to a head, often making us think that the result was "meant to be", because it was dreamt first. If this is the case, it might be best not to follow your dreams.
_ by Paul Martens

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Photo by Neal, from Kiwis Can Fly

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Drowning Reality overcomes me Escape is not an option As the dawn breaks My fears subside Swimming again
_ by Stacey Bessler

My father and I stood at the cutoff to tracks for a train. There was no train in sight. . The tracks were narrow, too narrow to be for an actual train, and began along the slope of a green, grassy hill in a beautiful countryside. Blue skies, birds chirping, fluffy white clouds, and a younger, teenage version of myself ready to depart led me to believe this dream was going to be a happy place for my subconscious, or whatever part of my brain takes over while I dream, to be. Dad and I started walking down the tracks together. Before I knew it, he was far ahead of me. I eventually lost sight of him over the top of the hill on the horizon. I continued along the tracks alone, thinking I would catch up to him. Trees started to appear and blemish the rolling waves of green. A few steps more and I was in a forest. The trees grew tall and blocked out the sun but for a few
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splotches of light shining through the leaves to guide my feet. The forest was calm and I wasnt afraid to walk this dim path alone. I noticed as I walked along the tracks that they grew wider the further I travelled. Upon the hills they started as something that was small enough to be for a childrens rollercoaster at a county fair. In the forest, they became as wide as tracks for a city rail. They continued to grow until they were too wide to be for any train fashioned by man. Wide enough for me to walk hand in hand and side by side within the boundary of the tracks had anyone been beside me. As the sun set and the forest grew darker, I noticed things littered across the tracks. A bottle of shampoo there. A few feet away, a magazine. I kept walking and more and more items appeared. They were things that interested me and I wanted to pick them up and carry them. Then the seemingly pleasant dream took a turn and I noticed something that terrified me and made me wish I was still with my father. Body parts started to appear mixed with the cool things that were spread across the way. Just like the things that grew in number as my journey progressed, so did the number of human legs, arms, hands and who knows what other horrible things. The dream changed, or at least I did. I was no longer a teenage girl. I was now two young boys that were brothers or twins with platinum hair. We walked along the path that I once walked alone, and they were me, even though I was now two people of the opposite gender and about 10 years younger than I was. Body parts still littered the tracks, and I realized that they were people who had become distracted by the material things on the ground, and didnt notice the train quietly
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approaching at high speeds. I started to ignore the things and kept my head up. Then, I (we) saw her. Our older sister lay dead on the tracks. We cried for our sister. I cried. Her dark hair covered a decaying face, her body stiff and cold. Thenan eye opened. Blood colored and filled with hate, those eyes were not the eyes that my sister once saw with. A dead hand twitched and she rose. My sister, dead but standing, curled her mouth into a hungry grin, her evil eyes locked on us. We ran, but not fast enough. One of us was grabbed, and killed by the sister that had turned. We became I, and my brother was no more. The dream changed. I was still a young boy but I was standing at the beginning of the tracks where I stood at the beginning of the dream. The tracks were narrow again and contrasting with the lovely, green hills. I knew better than to believe there was anything beautiful about it. I knew what was coming. I knew what waited for me ahead. At my feet was a mound of freshly packed dirt. My hands were dirty, and my face was wet with tears. I had just buried my brother at the head of the tracks. With a sigh and a heartwrenching, unheard farewell, I gathered my wits about me and walked down the tracks alone. And I continue to walk, the end of the tracks unseen in the distance, somewhere beyond the forest.
_ by Evy S.

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Yawn I am married now but Ive been having recurring dreams about a sinuous ex-girlfriend. Her name was Annabelle, a nice girl if youre into that sort of thing. She was sexy too, which, like hot dogs, is best defined as lips and assholes, and had a morbid fascination with melancholy and Facebook (Probably no relation). Im perplexed why, uninvited, I am now nocturnally frequented by her. Once, I was afflicted like this by a co-worker. For a while I entertained romantic thoughts like maybe she was a Twilightesque vampire manipulating my mind and visiting me in my dreams, but it turns out she was just a lesbian hipster. I turn off the lights and walk over to the bed. There is just something about the world that is so obsolete and dreams can lend credibility to a mundane reality. The surrender to my drowsy crystal world is a guiltless indictment, but Im vexed by the notion that maybe these dreams make me an evil person. Not evil, like Dick Cheney evil, although I am always just one ten percent off black capes sale at Macys away from malevolence. I recline on the bed in the dark listening to my wife snore and pray for insomnia.
_ by Anthony Marshall

I was in the home of Tony Soprano, only it wasn't his home on the show. I walk in to a room of grieving people sitting at the dining table or standing around. It's awkward, but I sit down and help myself to some food, thinking, "somebody musta got whacked. another actor out of a job. Damn, this food is good!"

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Tony Soprano walks into the room. His hair is long and styled like The Big Lebowski. He has an unkempt beard. I want to be polite and greet the guy, but I can't remember his name. Just before I turn to ask somebody, I remember. Only I remember just the last name. I give a casual "Hey, mister Soprano" type of greeting. The guy to my left tells me I'm supposed to call him by his first name to show respect (seems backwards), so I respond, "Sorry, I haven't watched the show in a while. Same guy decides to take food from my plate. I go prison inmate on his ass. Nobody takes food off my plate! Not even Tony Soprano's little cousin. I said something about his action and the resulting fight could get us killed. Tony walks over, catches wind of what had happened and verbally reprimands his cousin for taking food from me. Later, I'm lounging on a couch in a room within the house. I think about taking pictures of the house, but don't. Then I realize I could have had a picture taken with Tony. I start looking for him. In the kitchen, I encounter Coolio. He's making a sandwich. I see Soprano later, dressed up like the first spirit who visits Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. I also ate some strange fruit where the inside looked like ice cream but tasted a little off, not to mention the texture was odd. It dissolved in my mouth. And I remember something about tits.
_ by Frank Z.

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It is mid day, present time, and I've just killed a man. I'm in an empty, dilapidated, turn-of-the-century, wood construction warehouse, standing over his body. I can hear the daytime traffic outside. The building is windowless, but light is filtering through the gaps between the iron oxide finished wall planks creating a reddish, dusty, stagnant atmosphere. The building sits on the southeast corner of Broadway and 51st St. in Oakland, built right to the sidewalks, filling the lot where currently, in real life, there is a small parking lot and a building that houses a real estate company. In my dream the pet hospital next door is there. I have to hide the body. In my dream I don't recognize the man, I only know that he is connected to me, and I'll be caught if he is discovered. We are in the southwest corner of the building. Against the wall nearest to me is a blue plastic tarp, sloppily folded and covered with dust. I consider wrapping the body in it for transport, but he is physically much larger than me, and so impossible to move inconspicuously. So I decide to bury him under the building. I pry up the nearest loose floorboard (there are many), and then the one next to it, and then drop the body through the floor onto the dirt below. I grab the tarp and jump down through the floor next to the body. Here the ground slopes up to the northeast, putting me in the corner of the building with the most headroom. I think about what area is the least likely to be disturbed in the near future, the building is old and there is a lot of redevelopment going on. I decide near the center is the least likely to be dug up for new foundation and try to move him.
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He's too heavy, and in the cramped space I can't get good enough footing to move him. I'll have to bury him where he lays. It is also imperative that I finish burying him before sundown, I have only the filtered sunlight to see by, and the ambient noise from outside covers the noise of the task on my side of the thin dry planks. I spend some time deliberating the wisdom of wrapping the body in the tarp before burying it, unsure of the effect it will have on decomposition, smell, preserving evidence, etc. I notice the angle of the light that's filtering in and realize that I have wasted a lot of time, and I have to start digging. I have no tools, so I dig by hand, right next to the body, occasionally brushing against it, giving myself chills every time I do. I dig until the angle of the light indicates the sun is almost setting, line the shallow grave with the blue tarp and roll the body into it. I wrap the free ends of the tarp around the body and fill in as much dirt as I can. When I finish, the light fading, there is no obvious sign of the ground being disturbed, but I start to immediately regret using the tarp, I think it will preserve the body making it easier to identify should it be discovered. But it's is too late, the sun is setting. I have to get out of there. I climb back up through the floor, replace the floorboards, and find my way out. As I'm crossing 51st, heading north I look back and see the sign; "Coming Soon!" I know I will have to go back or I will be discovered. And I usually start awake at this point. I still don't know what my secret is...
_ by Anonymous, Oakland

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Photo by Neal, from Kiwis Can Fly

Screen of dreams The television is pulsating in a tattered half demolished building. There's no door because there is no wall even though it is partly roofed by the first level also destroyed. On the screen, a child, a bright glowing white child dictates his best wishes to the world: be a soccer player. "I want to be a soccer player" and the reason for it, unreflected by the dirty rude walls is absorbed by the surroundings of metal parts of cars strucked in the red dusty and sandy soil of some location point, a global positioning system abstraction, in a great African city at the dawn of the 21st century. Some people are around but the noise seems to erase them from
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the picture. However, if you stop staring at them, they appear in your peripheral vision and it becomes some way silent among those creatures. Like silence itself, after all. Sitting at the first floor of this lovely half maintained mass of cement, Callicls Ngro and The Streetegist are discussing the rays of light emitted by the screen to be directly reflected by the moon as it hits it though the iron frame of the first floor ground. "Send me to some manufacture where I'll be naturalized! Yeah! Naturalized! I'll spit to my forefather's land face in the eye! Did you get that Callicls?!" The Streetegist was almost shouting. Night has fallen for several hours. The population in town would triple in less than 10 years they said. It's now and then. Morning. A crackling radio is involved in some battle with big baffles on the other side of the street. It's the reign of silence incarnated in the dreadful noise evolving throughout the street like some fantastic big snake digging its fangs in whoever it encounters. People are swallowed, stocked in its stomach, the time their minds get liquefied, sucked and stucked on some fixed idea. For Piter de Vries, African man, a soulful afro haired man with some gray hair, they look more like trapped in a lobster pot. They struggle as much as they can but they're ready to be sold, definitely out of the water in the glaring sun. Piter de Vries, now in his late 50s, swims in the ebbing and flowing of the crowd, with on his mind that it would have been him, he'll use explosive methods. "This is what must be applied to this invading youth", his mind grumbles. "Dynamite! What is going on? Losing their trousers. The same for that diabolical town!" he finally swears... mentally again. "Piter de Vries, Piter de Vries? Is this man of European descent? Maybe the product of some..." Pardon me
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(laughing) "... of some fornicating colonist?" you ask. No, No. You're far from it. Like lot of people on the African continent, he likes to be called this way as people like European clothes. In fact, we Africans are borrowing so much to pay what we already paid more than once, like the "Debt" that in despair we borrow even our names and nicknames. But let's look at Piter, Piter on his way back home, thinking at his European soccer match, which he's going to support. It's a ritual for him, who in his youth listened to soccer matches on the radio of the neighborhood. It's a different story now with his comfortable seat and his color television and embedded speakers howling in the whole house. His wife is going to fix him a nice plate and there he is. Suddenly he asks himself if it isn't his schoolmate nicknamed Le Crne de Rubis that he sees working near a house bordering the sidewalk. He was nicknamed that way because he couldn't stop hitting his head on the rocks when they were playing soccer so that his head was adorned of blood scabs. "Man! That's him topless" and he strangles his astonishment. He's looking quite like a madman. He has seen a true one a few minutes before completely naked lifting his legs like some horse accomplishing some horsebreaker excercise. There he is now. Piter look at him quickly with shifting eyes. Le Crne de Rubis shovels a mount of cement four times to put it in a brick maker machine. The machine fed, it answers with the sound of trembling iron oscillating to its complete destruction. "He's still vigorous!" Ashamed, Piter de Vries, having made his way in life, thinks Le Crne de Rubis has to come to him and salute him. This is the modern way of doing. "I know he's my uncle because his mother who was the youngest wife of my, God have his soul, grandfather, but I'm 2 years older than him! Damn it!" At the moment he goes past him, the old sorceress comes back in his mind with her potions, and the stink of her little place where she used to receive clients in
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the surroundings of the market. Indeed, our unfortunate Piter de Vries isn't as sexually vigourous as he was in his youth. In the streets of a tentacular African city with an exploding population bustling in its capillaries resembling more to the alleys of some ancient Chinese town, a, dressed in a rose and black outfit with some mauve wearing a shiny "New Era" black cap, man is asking a seller at a music shop which is called a "boutique parterre" because all of its article are exposed on a rug unrolled on the soil even. His name is Adam the Ape. - "Art Blakey! How you don't know Art Blakey?! Art Blakey from Art Blakey and The Jazz Messengers! He reclaimed the nationality of this country! Hell how?! I'm damned sure man! He's some great contribution to that country! You're sure you don't know him? Let me look at your disks! I know there's one of him for sure! Hey! Watch out!" Two guys passed him. - "Hey. Seen this nigga man. Samo, all dressed up like life's a party. A little caress and they shout we're about to kill them. Seen how I played it Callicls. Like it was him encumbering our streets, you see Misses, you see Misters! Not us at all! Oh! Did I tell you Callicls?" - "What Street'gist?", let out Callicls Ngro - "It's Stree-te-gist", articulated The Streetegist - "Yeah yeah! Whatever so? - "We've got some work!" - "Paid I hope!"
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After pestering the disks seller for a time, Adam the Ape had some business appointment. He calls it "meeting a future element". It is all about physics of good relations in a money craving world according to him. He speaks now with the man responding to the name of Mike Bizon. They are in a dusty street surrounded by electric pylons of a near electrical power station. - "So", continues Adam The Ape, "You'll be the Guru and me, I'll be DJ Premier. You see?" - "But I just stopped. You know. The all rapping thing is over for me. I ain't gonna put my back into it again." - "How is this, my nigga! You just can't stop that kind of things, nigga! Ya know what I'm saying!" - "What's your name again?" - "Man! How could you do this to me? Don't you realize you're speaking with your favorite future rap producer, Adam the Ape!" - "Yes I know. It's just that my mind is set to lot of things. Ya know how getting that cheddar is hard for some street guy hustling in some third world country like me." - "Exactly that's what we're talking about! How about that! Great minds meeting at last!" - "You know, I'm looking for money. Right now, if you have some, even coins, I'd take it. I have this mother fucker that owes me money you know. Ya know how things go now. You're generous and look what happen to you now!" and Mike Bizon thought apart "Yeah. Gimme some of that time you like to waste, filthy rich ass mother fucker."
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- "Ain't got nuttin man! And you know something true, you stop rapping, you stop writing, then the big green monster that look after every kind of writer is going to stab you in the back and it's going to be really ugly. Maybe, right now at that very moment, you are in its clutches and he is twisting your mind to play some kind of "role" of yourself. Just a role in your eyes but for an exercised external eye like mine you'll be just playing with your life. " - "Fucking pigeons!" said in himself Mike Bizon. "Ok. About your project. Let's say you told me about Fela Kuti, Miriam Makeba or Douk Saga, maybe I'll know better what you're at. But this Guru guy, you know..." - "That's not the biggest problem you know", now reacts, cheerful, Adam The Ape," You know music is like music. Hmm?! When you'll hear my instrumentals you won't stop stompin' your feet and knockin' your head." - "You have something to listen?" - "No. You'll come to my place. Awwright? But listen, our project is.." - "What our project, man?! - "The one like what you always did man. Rapping and we'll do it the Gangstaar way. Feel me?" - "What Gang-Staar?! - "Let me explain you the whole thing again. Then, you know, we'll have some refreshments." - "Why not now? Do you like to be that much a thirsty mother fucker?"
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- "Ok. But let me explain some little things before my brother nigga Bizon. Right!" And Adam the Ape's words, projects, ideas start fading in the mind of Mike Bizon, replaced by those complaining ones: "I'm tired to be a no name. I see fame all around me for the bad reasons, politicians, thieves, corruptors, rapists, cheating wives and husbands. They stimulate lust, money hunger, Pharisaism and even philistines. I'm so normal after all. I wake up every morning and I'm enough sane to say the world has gone mad, completely fucked up to the fullest. Gimme that damn fame! Me, I'll do something of it! I ain't that bad!" Then quieter in the torrent of words of Adam The Ape and his plans of hip-hop glory, a more cunning voice whispers to him: "shall we continue what the old sorceress told us. Didn't she say you could get all that if you can bring her those 7 craniums?" Indeed, some time earlier, outside a hotel away from the city center at least of a big taxi bill for the one standing there, Mike Bizon, a rictus on his face, has his left hand crisped on notes in his pocket and in his mind, despicable words flowing. If he were white, we would say he was having a crimson face. "That's it. I fuck this bitch of his wife! Oh yeah I gave! I mean she's still inside craving for my swollen member. She thinks she made me lose my mind but I'm at it and her fat ass, controlling all aspects of her sexcapade. Older than me and as stupid as fuck. At those moments, what can stop me thinking about what we've done of our women could they be young or mature? I mean, of the African Woman." Adam The Ape left Mike Bizon, happy he found somebody listening for so long to his great ideas about music production. Secondarily, he thinks he crams well heads but it's his only head he crammed. Filled with self satisfaction he leaves now Callicls Ngro and The
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Streetegist in a garbage dump he found on its way back to his place. In the taxi bringing him, this time, definitely, to his place, his vanity takes shape: "what picturesque people they are. True poor wretches living from hand to mouth collecting plastic from all sort of waste, bottles mainly. Sometimes I feel like a true BBC reporter." Then screaming because of the wind engulfing in the car through the passenger window, he asked: "what is playing tonight?" For our two others protagonists, namely Callicls Ngro and The Streetegist, there are those discussions that suppress bad smells and horrid places they find some money in. - "Fuckin' lunch boy, isn't it? I'm working hard like a slave with others and he, with his magnificent clothes and his miniature camera, claims he can feed mouths, stop children from crying and of course look humble. You know, I swear the...", but Callicls Ngro didn't have the time to finish swearing. - "Hey! Stop grunting like that Callicls, my man! It's not good for health and not good for work. Tell me. Do you know what's playing tonight?" A couple hours later, night has come and the streets are filled with the tension of the eyes practically glued to the television screens present from the windows of homes to the sidewalks used by television sellers. Closely, you feel like discovering a new law of gravity. You seem able to observe even the attraction fields and the subtle relation existing between the puppet master and its marionette, the football match and the football amateur. So remains our final question. What could our acquaintances be all doing at this crucial moment where numerous minds fused themselves into passion?
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Adam The Ape doesn't own a television and doesn't borrow one. At his "headquarters", he is kind of disappointed and filming, without any device, himself using his incredible self-depressing powers. If you advise him to get a set, he'll surely say that his powers cannot suffer any kind of competition at least at his place and at the same time that he can't bear so much thanking for his great actions spurred in by the love of mankind. The reason for this is that television, for him, hosts friends like foes. Both can disguise themselves to achieve their masterplan. Mike Bizon has gone back to that same hotel and found some time to look at the television with the woman of another man. - "My team is to win! I know it. I bet all on it!", then he says to his mate for the night "My sweet fatty, do you have that key I asked you for?" - "It's right here, Baby. I just have it in my handbag." - "Ain't that my bitch!" he thinks. - "He's not going to work tomorrow at the graveyard. You won't forget me when you'll be so famous, would you? I'll still be your sweet fatty fatty you know. We'll go away from here and live our love free. Free at last!" she continues. - "Yeah yeah, of course. You know me so well. Come over here and let's look at the game." Mike Bizon answers and afterward repeats to himself, "the fame, the glory and the money exactly. Cheap hoe! " - "You remind me so much my son!" she says before coiling herself in his arms.

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By chance Piter de Vries is not working tomorrow. He shouts: "Woman! Bring me a beer will you! The game is beginning. I'm hungry!" But there is no answer in the usual nauseating pleasing voice. He shouts again, "Woman?" then he concludes, "Why woman can't stand soccer? Well, gone to see one of her friend. No disturbance. Everybody left me, daughters, sons, wife. Only the television remains. That's quite something after all. Let's be happy with it. I could have invited Le Crne Rubis. Why didn't I?" For The Streetegist and Callicls Ngro, sitting on their half destroyed roof, from a strict external point of view, you could say they're still thinking the same as yesterday night but remember that you're just passing by, not paying that much attention, in a hurry to see the soccer game too. You're then about to reach your place, with a Adam The Ape like satisfaction, obsessed by some dream of glory similar to the one of being able to instill the soaring joy of a goal scored by your favorite player in your favorite team into a crowd of millions scattered around the globe, when an old sorceress appears to you and murmurs to your ear: "The world is made of dreamless communities all swallowed by their noisy silence. A silence which veils the sad truth that there is no dream at night asleep but only awake and stimulated. What you see during your sleep is that same urban monster enticing everyone at making reality more real so that you feel in domination, not anymore powerless, before whatever events may arise. Now consider. Aren't you paralyzed when you're sleeping? Wouldn't you like to negotiate some freedom?"
_ by Piter de Vries

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In Dreams Another night drinking beer and smoking cigarettes on the porch. She was depressed (the way I usually am), and that always brings out the best in me. I was attentive and affectionate. I told her how lucky I am; she deserves better. I didn't bother saying how beautiful she looked, stoic in the candlelight. I spoke until the sun was pushing her eyes closed. We're standing together in a weed ridden field. It hasn't been plowed for a few seasons. The Arkansas sun has me pouring sweat into a cheap three piece suit. The stench of the body keeps a handkerchief over my mouth. She stands taking notes five yards away in her navy blue dress, thick white band above the hips, white hat protecting her Irish complexion. We call her my secretary to keep up appearances but we both know she's every bit the detective I am. "Don't smoke all of those," she says, as I light one from her pack. "I'll need them for later." In bed, waiting for her to get ready, I wondered if she'd be up for it. To my surprise, she pulled my usual routine of lying down fully clothed in jeans and black tank top. I took it as a sign of her fatigue and was a little disappointed until she put her head on my chest and asked if I knew the Catholic prayer they say before bed. "The one that starts 'Now I lay me down to sleep...'" I recited the poem my Grandma taught me in early grade school on nights I spent with her, but added I thought it was more Protestant than Catholic. "The Catholics are into the official prayers. Our Fathers, Hail Marys..." Then I followed with each of those, surprised I still knew every word. The building is burning around us. We're chained in the center of the room, back to back, a good distance from anything that would be helpful. I can't see her, but I know
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she's there as the hazy scene becomes real. Her long, red hair is spilling over my shoulders, I look down and see the green leather glove of her costume, handcuffed to me. I hear metal strike the ground, she grunts in frustration; I ask what it was. "The lock pick. What are my powers besides being incredibly clumsy?" I realize she really can't remember. The Ginger must be lurking outside, waiting. He knew his powers would be ineffective on me; so, he had to knock me out. My healing factor will save me...but I need to remind her she can put out this fire in the blink of an eye, or she's done for. And it'll be my fault. When I'd become satisfied just lying there, eyes closed, not falling asleep, talking, she started kissing my chest and neck. I kissed her lips, full with red wine. I skimmed her breast outside the tank top, she gasped lightly. She pulled her top over her shoulders and I told her the black bra with white pin stripes was cute, before she unsnapped it. Then I saw that the panties matched and I told her to leave those on. As she went down on me, I rubbed them until I could feel her straight through the cloth. She stopped and reached behind the bed. "I got something for us," she said. For us? With a coy smile she revealed five feet of soft, dark rope. "Now we don't have to use your belt." I told her I was a little drunk, maybe too drunk for that sort of effort. She started to put it away and I said, "Wait, leave it...maybe I'll change my mind." She went down on me generously while I manipulated my fingers with the pin striped panties pushed to the side. No rush, she was as skilled with her mouth as I was with my hands. Her scent is strong. The beat of her heart grows louder as I float effortlessly from one building to the next. She's been tracking me for weeks, maybe longer. Now, I'm hunting her. At first I thought she was trying to kill me...vengeance, maybe. The closer she's gotten, the more I've known the truth. My suspicions are confirmed as I see her below,
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walking down a dark, littered alley, showing a lot of skin in a red dress. She's making herself a target...but she's no groupie. I'm not the only one who has noticed. Two jean jacket thugs are following close behind. The bigger one slips in and muffles her scream with his palm. The other pulls out a knife and waves it in front of her eyes. He slides it beneath her shoulder strap and cuts. He's gone before the cloth falls. The other is dumbfounded that his partner has just disappeared. She hears the sound of his neck snapping, his grasp on her loosens and he collapses to the pavement. "I've been looking for you." she says, without seeing me. "You know what I want." I do, and I would have given it to her already...but this isn't a world I'm anxious to bring her into. "I'm ready." I know there's no sense fighting it...she is one of us. I open her neck up delicately, and drink. We moved to the carpet and I tied her up. She was on her stomach, bound at each wrist and ankle, bent at the knees. The tightening of the rope had her making delightful little noises. I toyed with her awhile longer before I slid a pillow beneath her hips, pulled the panties to the side and mounted. We went for a long time, varying the pace, her song revealed the intensity. I pulled out and stained the black to release some pressure, before continuing. She bit down on my hand to quiet herself, I planted my lips and teeth on her neck and shoulders. When I felt she'd had enough, I closed my eyes and finished hard. I removed the restraints, fell into bed and she wobbled after me. We came together, just as we'd started, and slipped away into other worlds, hand in hand.
_ by Tyler Sutherland

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I Dream of Jeannienaked. The all-knowing Tsaritsa asked me to give her my input on the notion of dreams. She picked a good time. The reason for this is that I recently stopped smoking weed, which always seems to make my dreams crazier. Is it because I can suddenly remember them because Im not sleeping stoned? Not sure. Regardless, last night I had a dream that I was in a cabin, and there were a shitload of coyotes. Because coyotes have been a big story in the news in New York as of late and I work at a newspaper - I thought Id grab some photos. When I went outside to take some pics, I was attacked by lions that suddenly appeared. Side Note: Shouldnt have watched Animal Planet last night. At the same time and this is entirely unrelated I think Saturday Night Live should have a skit called When Cougars Attack. You have 50-year-old women in makeup waiting in the woods for young men to go hiking, then they jump out and pounce on them at the moment you would least expect. The thing is with dreams is that they ALWAYS mean something. Whether its something obvious, irrelevant, worthy of an epiphany or too peculiar for words, you can always find a message behind it. Truth is I dont give a fuck most of the timeIm accustomed to odd dreams so I simply ride the wave. I had a different dream last night that I was with my cousin in the car singing Basket Case by Green Day. We would trade lines back and forth but halfway through the song, he didnt feel like singing anymore. What the fuck? I love that
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song. And how come he forgot the lyrics neurotic to the bone no doubt about it and I remembered? Then came the oddest dream I had all night, hands down. I was with my girlfriend when suddenly her party-hard roommate entered the bedroom at 6 a.m. She somehow climbed up on the wall and attempted to give my girlfriend an elbow drop a la Macho Man Randy Savage. I instinctively blocked the elbow and saved my girlfriends well-being. I still realized in the dream that it was important to be tactful, because after all its not my apartment. Who does stuff like that? I asked the roommate. She got incredibly insulted and left the room, like I was a buzzkill or something. What does this dream mean? I think its the fact that I find this person to be selfish, and my mind projected those feelings through these images. Whether Im right or wrong, theres no doubt that the subconscious works in weird fuckin ways. Then theres dreaming in levels. Ever seen Inception? Well I dream that way on occasion. Recently I had a dream that I was peeing in the toilet, but then woke up to realize that I had wet the bed. I then woke up from THAT dream completely dry. Freaky shit, but it just shows you how complex the mind is. Dreams also tell me that no matter how stupid you think someone is, their mind is capable of more than one can imagine. But sometimes, dreams are better to ignore. Ever have a dream when youre having sex with a relative? Dont know what it means, but you know as well as I do that youve had dreams that you wouldnt even share with a therapistdreams that affect you for a long time. My advice to you is to cast it aside sometimes, its just a dream thats not worth looking into.
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Then theres the headline that implies wet dreams. I think most dudes will agree that that theres nothing worse than thinking youre having sex with a hot chick and then waking up to a bed full of man chowder. Oh well. Throw a towel over that shit then back to sleep.
_ by Danaconda

Untitled The dream started out as I was in a gym on a sunny day, I recall the gym was really bright with natural light coming from the outside giving off a nostalgic feel. It must been my first day there, I was being tested for my jujitsu skill level, when I was put up against a blue belt that weighed 167 pounds. It was a chubby kid I was put up against. When the match started we clinched and as it went on it was like a stalemate. I got a take down on him and he fell on one knee, I said to myself "I'm ahead on points now", then My mind started going blank and I recall I had to look at the replay monitor to keep track of who was ahead. Except that the replay monitor was jacked up, and it showed that I was being taken down a few times I thought to myself "that couldn't be me." So after the end of the match, I couldn't recall what happened, I asked the opponent and he told me that I did score an early partial take down, but that he was the aggressor throughout most of the match and so he had won by a draw. The head coach pointed out to me that I was at the blue belt level.
_ by Bob O.

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The Dream List I think everyone should have a dream list. You can add to it, or change it, but have one. A list of things that cross your mind when you find yourself daydreaming on your ride to work. A list of things that put a smile on your face and take you outside reality for a little. Dreams are fun things to have and whether they happen or not they are fun to think about. 1) Be rich. I dont just want to be well-off I want to be rich. Being rich is not negotiable. It isnt really about the money either, it is just the principle of it. I have worked so hard to try and BE something that I want to be able to do whatever I want when I want. And whoever said money cant buy happiness was wrong! If your life sucks money cant change that but its a lot better than if you were poor. 2) Have a published book. Naturally I would want my wealth to come from being a famous author, but we cant have it all. So I will settle for just having something published. It means that someone liked my work and that possible someone somewhere will pick it up, read it, and enjoy it. Or if not send me angry hate mail. 3) Stephen Colbert allows me to join his entourage. He reads AND loves the play I wrote, titled Americas Next President!, and mentions it on his show. Which makes all the other political commentators very jealous and they proceed to fight over me. ( This is about dreams) 4) The deceased Beatles come back to life the band reunites and they sing and dance in my living room. Bob Dylan pays a visit too. 5) I want to own something. A cute coffee shop, bookstore, ice cream parlor. I always wanted to own a 50s themed
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diner where the waiters and waitresses wear roller skates. I love Diners. 6) I have to mention peace on earth. 7) To travel all around the world. Well not all around but to all the places that I want to visit. 8) Somehow become wickedly awesome at guitar over night and play a mean solo on some sort of stage where people ogle over my talent and want to be me. 9) Never ever run out of things to say. Yes it is a dream of mine to never run out of things to say. No more awkward pauses and no more being stumped at an interviews (not like that has ever happened to me). 10) Be a wordsmith. I am already somewhat there but I am talking full-fledged. I want to make words my play things (does that sound dirty?). I want to make beautifully crafted sentences and be in awe of myself. Heres to practice...
_ by Daniella Robin Bondar

My New Beginning When I was younger, I spent my days and nights dreaming. Dreaming of a new beginning, a brighter future, a beautiful ending, I spent more time in my dreams than in my reality. As I grew up, things changed. Dreams were fulfilled, big and small. New dreams crept in, replacing ones that lacked the pull that they once held over me. The new beginnings
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became impossible. The brighter future was getting duller every day. And the thought of a beautiful ending became murky. The older I got, the less time I spent in my dream world, longing for those whimsical plots that once filled my head. Until October of last year. Last year, I followed a dream. A life-altering, new beginning, brighter future, beautiful ending kind of dream. I quit a job that I had started less than six months prior, miserable and singled out. I was never a job jumper, so leaving this early in a "career" was new territory for me. My father worked at the company. My fiancee worked at the company. It felt like it ran through my veins. No matter how little I cared if I left with a tarnished reputation, I had others to worry about. So I bowed out gracefully, and never looked back. Not only did I quit my job. I quit my job with no official job lined up, planning to figure out the steps of being an entrepreneur along the way. I dove head first into the world of unemployment, less than a year after my fiancee had found himself unemployed for three long months. I looked proud. I wrapped myself in confidence and told everyone I believed in myself until I believed it myself. But underneath the layers, I felt lost. I had done the "irresponsible" thing for once. And I didn't know how to handle it. Less than two months in, my first dream crashed. And burned. And sent me into a turmoil of depression, frustration, and a sudden lack of dreams. I felt hollow. Empty and unsure, deeming myself unsuitable as an entrepreneur. I started job-hunting. I started questioning my degree. I started losing faith in everything and everyone. I had lost most of my hope for that new beginning. That brighter future. That beautiful ending.
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Until I revisited a dream I had years ago. A dream society had squashed, claiming it to be unrealistic. Impossible. Unlikely. Simply put? A childish dream that I would grow out of. And society was right. At least for seven years. For those seven years, I believed my creations would never be good enough for anyone. My writing, my art. None of it would be worth a penny to anyone. I believed that I would be fighting a losing battle if I even tried. I believed I would have nothing to gain. But I was wrong. More wrong than I ever have been. It took me hitting rock bottom to realize that, though. I had nothing left to lose so why not give it a shot? There would be no reward for not trying. So I caved. I gave it a shot, putting my thoughts, my ideas, my heart and soul out to the world to see. And to my surprise? I wasn't shunned. I was welcomed with the most loving arms I've ever found. People believed in me and in my work, even when I stumbled. I had found myself in a dream that I had long forgotten. So now I've found that new beginning. And it holds a much brighter future. But I don't care about that beautiful ending now. I live in a reality that's become better than my dream world. In a reality that's uncertain and fast-paced, leaving the broken dreams in the shadows of the present. In a reality where the ending doesn't matter because the ride was worth it, no matter the ending.
_ by Ashley Wagner

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Untitled I'm not interested. Really, you're a nice guy. Good-looking, funny. Maybe at another point in my life I know you're not old only twentyeight but you're just a little too old for me. I'm sorry. I'm just not interested. Of course, I'd never say this. I'll just go along with it, hopefully boring you away by being myself. We met somewhere, doubtlessly outside a gorgeous old building. I'm familiar with this place. A small town no, a very small city in the middle of nowhere, completely selfsufficient. Turn of the century architecture lining streets sometimes asphalt, sometimes brick. I've been here many times. I grew up here my hometown. But I've never been here. We walk past darkened storefronts. Everyone has gone to bed it's midnight. A plan I'll sneak away while you aren't looking. You've gone up ahead a bit, so I'll just You wave me over. We have arrived. A bar? But I'm oh, you don't know how old I am. Keep my mouth shut. "ID?" I don't even have it with me.

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I can't believe the bouncer is twenty-one. He looks my age, barely. Shorter than I am. At five-ten, I wouldn't make an intimidating bouncer, so this boy Cute, though. "Oh, I'm notI mean, I'm only twenty." "You don't have your ID." Smile. He slapped a bracelet on me and let me in anyway. Inside, pub dcor. Dark, but pretty. "How's here?" A table, next to the bar. Second row of four, so we're close to the kitchen but can still see whatever the entertainment is tonight. It's not crowded. A few other tables filled, people milling around. I guess it's more intimate so that we can get better acquainted. Two beers. Light in color an ale of some sort, I guess by sipping. I like it, but I don't want it. Then I think of something. "You smoke?" "No." "Oh." Maybe this would be a dealbreaker "But go ahead, if you do. I'll wait here for you." Damn.
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I put my jacket back on, though it's not that cold outside. Flick. Flick. Only sparks. Flick. Then, from behind me, flick. "Here." I turn around. The bouncer. "Thanks." Drag. Puff. "No problem. Could I?" "Sure." I hand him a cigarette. "Thanks." "No problem." Drag. Puff. Silence. Drag. Puff. Silence. Drag. Puff. Then "Having a nice night with your boyfriend?" "Oh, he's not myit's just a date." "Oh. Going well?" "Umhe's not exactly my type." "Oh." "Uh-huh."
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"WellI don't want to be rude, but" He hands me a slip of paper. "Here's my number if you ever want it." "Oh. Thanks." I smile. Stomp out my cigarette. "Thank you." I turn to go. "Call meif you want to." "Okay." Smile. I know I'll never call him. Back inside, you smile. Three or four people, dressed in all black, are setting up the stage. A piano and a four-piece orchestra, plus a mic. "I've always liked setups like this." Maybe you'll disagree. "Me too! It's a shame more lounge acts aren't around. I always wish I could have seen Billie Holiday" So much for that. More small talk. I, again, somehow fail to bore you. Idea. "Hey, I'll be back." "Alright." Good luck a waiter is coming out of the kitchen. I sneak in.
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"Excuse me," I say to a cook, "but can II mean, this is kind of awkward, but tonight is" Lies. "my boyfriend's birthday, and I was wondering - " "You wanna cook something for him. Yeah, why not. I'm a sentimentalist." Fool. First, onions. Garlic. Peppers. I'm not sure what exactly I'm making. Some long-term-memorized recipe, surely. The knife slices through everything with such ease. No resistance. It's air. A razorblade catching on a divot. Chicken, raw and cold. No resistance. Air. "The pice de rsistance." My eyes close in happy anticipation as the blade tenderly rests against my thumb. I examine the blade closely as it glides through the nail. It doesn't even stop when I raise it back up, put it to my knuckle. Another slice between knuckles. At the base, tendons snag for a millisecond, then pull apart. I am done. I am free of you.
_ by Matt Russak

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My dreams are weird. The other night I woke up thinking that my brother had adopted twenty ferrets. Or maybe they were weasels. I dont know. But they were assholes, and they kept trying to bite me. So that sucked. When I told my brother, he laughed at me. I usually try to analyze my dreams, but that one left me totally stumped. Ive always been really into dissecting my dreams; breaking them down and scrutinizing them to determine a hidden meaning. I used to own a dream dictionary, which examined every category such as colors, numbers and even animals. I used to keep a notebook and pen by my bed so I could write everything down as soon as I woke up and evaluate every detail. Some of them are pretty ridiculous, i.e. said weasels (or ferrets). I also have bizarre head trips, with colorful lights and a freaky soundtrack. Those are my favorites- I love that the fact that I see red in my sleep means that Im passionate about something. Lately, my dreams have taken on a more literal and inspiring tone. I recently became motivated to create a book featuring posts from all my fellow bloggers, and sales contributions would go to an educational charity that we would all agree on. Besides the fact that its totally fucked up that Im now dreaming about these people that I already spend hours a day shit-talking and trading grammatical annoyances with, Ive run this by them and they all think its a great idea. So not only do my dreams force me to become analytical, they inspire me to create goodness as well. My dreams are a compelling topic for discussion- if I had more time I would get into the diagnostics of my specific sleep patterns and all that. But I dont, so Ill conclude by
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thanking Tsa for this extremely awesome opportunity to guest-author her zine. I did have a vision a few months ago about being published, and as stupid as this probably sounds, dreams are better when I can actually make them happen. So thanks, Tsa- you rock! Its an honor to be a part of your creation, and I definitely owe you one.
_ by Lana Gaines

Photo by Alexandra Naughton

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The Chronicles of Barnia: The Liar, The Bitch, and The Wardrobe Malfunction When youre in your early 20s, you want to go to as many bars and meet as many people as possible. You want to get drunk, and maybe take a stranger home. By the time youre in your late 20s, however, the magic of morning hangovers and allure of finding that youve lost half of your favorite pair of shoes at some point during the evening has waned quite a bit, and youre now looking to settle down with one person, one group of friends, and one bar. I reached that point when I was about 23, which is probably a lot younger than most folks, but I got tired of being jostled, sweated on, ignored by busty bartenders in lingerie, and having drinks spilled on me. I wanted to find one single bar that was relaxing, fun, and best of all, had a staff of laid back, nice people who didnt serve you while wearing their underwear. I carved my niche in a local bar, and started convincing my friends to meet me there a few times a week, sometimes for dinner, sometimes just to have a shit show of a good time. That bar was like finding someone in a crowd, striking up a conversation with them, and becoming BFF-4-life. It was this bar that I met Chris, who at first glance, appeared to be the most redeeming quality about the dimly lit notquite-a-dive bar. He was tall (taller than me!), good looking, and he played the guitar. Hello, Kryptonite. Hello, Fascination. He wore those jeans, you know, the ones that make him look like an Abercrombie Model, without the undertones of homosexuality? There was something about the way he moved and spokeMaybe it was the way he
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called me his girl, or the way he cradled my head when he kissed me. Like most of my ill-fated relationships, we slept together too soon, and when he didnt call me for weeks, I began to question my own self worth. I thought I was his girl. I thought it meant something when he said that. When he finally did call, he was smooth like velvet, whispering all the right things Im sorry, Ive been busy, work was crazy, youre so sexy, lets go back to my place. and it happened again. He just disappeared after a night of wanton desire and sexual deviance. The calls, the texts, they all went unanswered. I sank into a black depression. Why was he doing this to me? Finally, he called again, and made plans with me. He said he wanted to take me on a real, honest-to-goodness dinner date. The day of, however, he cancelled, saying he had a trip for work come up suddenly, and he had to leave that night. I was upset, but said that I understood. I refused to sit around the house doing nothing, though. So instead, I used the evening for a much needed girls night at a local dance club. Normally, clubs dont appeal to me, but my friends convinced me I needed to get away from the scene of the seduction and just dance. But then again, isnt that a 20something-girls solution for everything? We found a club just outside our normal circle, put on our fuck-me-heels and began a night of stress free fun. I was in the middle of my own spastic interpretation of the Cupid Shuffle when I happened to look across the dance floor and see Chris with his arms wrapped around another (skinnier) girl, with bleached blond hair and a naval piercing. My friends pulled me over to the bar, where we discussed all possible scenarios. I doubted very seriously she was his cousin. We were too far from West Virginia. He was just a Liar.
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Several Vodka and Cranberries later, when he still hadnt noticed the gaggle of girls shooting daggers at him as his lips traced every inch of this other girls neck, I decided it was time for action. Armed with liquid courage and a half full bottle of beer someone had left at the bar, I marched over to him, and flung the contents of the bottle at him. Turns out, someone had been using it for their spitting tobacco. Vindication felt so good. Until the bouncers forcibly removed me from the club. The only solution was to find a new bar. I could never go back to the-not-quite- dive where we met. I could never look him in the eye again. I knew that he would probably never try to speak to me again but I felt so betrayed, so lied to. We tried a few other bars, but none of them felt like our Cheers. We met people who all seemed at fake as the wood paneling and potted plants in the bathrooms. We over tipped bartenders in an attempt to win their favor, but it just never came together. Until one night, we were at a local sports bar and an older woman started talking to me. I say older, but really, she was only a few years older, 34 or so. She was well dressed, and funny, albeit it a bit drunk. She seemed to know everyone at the bar, and introduced us as if we were her friends. The staff appeared to like her, and cater to her strange requests for exotic drinks and shots we had never heard of. I decided to stick around, and get to know her. I drank with her a few more times, sometimes with my friends, sometimes without, and started to like her. Really, really like her. Her name was Amanda, and she seemed like a genuine person. My friend Jessica started hanging out with us, and soon we were like three peas in a pod. We shopped together, we had lunch together, we compared notes on sexual conquests, we talked about our vaginas. It was a bond I thought nothing could break.
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Until Jess brought Alex, her boyfriend of three years, to the bar one night. Right away, I could tell something strange was happening. Amanda was quiet, observing more than speaking. And when I say observing, I mean she was observing Alex, staring at him. Alex was attractive to certain types of women. The ones with low self esteem, who simply thought dating a cute guy meant they were worth something. He had no prospects, he flunked out of community college, he had never held a job for more than a few months, and he smoked a lot of pot. He was an aspiring artist, who, to my knowledge, had never done more than a couple of doodles in his high school art classes. Jess loved him, for what reason, I cant fathom. Certainly, someone as articulate and confident as Amanda would see him the same way I saw him as a parasite. Then, things began to unravel. Jess was miserable all the time. She complained of Alexs distance, his more frequent late nights out, without her. Then, one day, he dumped her. And Amanda abruptly stopped coming out to the bar. Their wedding announcement appeared in the local papers later that fall. Bitch. Jess took it well we went out, got drunk, made a few hang up phone calls, and never spoke of it again after that night. Despite the fact that Amanda stopped showing up at the bar we still thought it prudent to find a new place to haunt. So, the search began again each night we looked through the ZAGAT looking for restaurants and bars that might lend to our love of quietly getting shitty and laughing at words like pencil sharpener. Each night, we tried a new place. Some were very nice, and one almost became our new haunt, except on our second venture there, I decided to wear a brand new strapless red dress, that stopped several inches above my knee, and a pair of expensive shoes that made my legs look like something out of a magazine.
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The problem with said shoes, though, was that they had a 5 inch stiletto heel. I wobbled around in them, but by the time we go up to the second floor bar, I thought I had the hang of walking in them. It was a Friday night and the place was full of single attractive men. I plastered a smile on my face and started to walk, no, strut, across the room. Until somehow, the heel of my left shoe got caught in the strap of my right shoe and I ate floor in front of everyone and to add insult to injury, the sexy strapless red dress managed to ride up, and down, at the same time, exposing my thronged ass and bare breasts to the world. I skinned my knee and managed to get rug burn on my chest. Talk about your Wardrobe Malfunction. I righted myself, adjusted my dress, turned around and walked out of the bar. I never went back, never wore that dress again, and my friends have never stopped called me Tits McGee with a Skinned Knee. The story does have a happy ending, though, despite the liar, the bitch, and that wardrobe malfunction The truth is, Ive learned that it doesnt really matter where you go, its who youre with. I realized that even though we might not get great service, or meet tons of attractive single men, or hear great dance music, I always have fun with my friends. We experienced everything together, and we have stories to reminisce over now that weve found a new place to hang around in - My living room - and the laughter it brings is better than anything you could ever find in Barnia.
_ by Kat Storm, author of Mascara & Microchips

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The Last Dream It came to pass that a young boy was the last of human (kind) able to dream. A century's search through snow and skin and sin had yielded naught but this single dark-haired child. The child of God and Earth. You see, transient, tall tale, night time-temptations had tarnished and tapered into dust and nothing. Driven from the collective sub-conscious by talking pictures, synthetic bodies, plastic-fantastic souls. Woman and man were driven to destruction (dementia and migraine terror) when the universe took her ill-used dreams back. But this boy still had vision in sleep. Visages of flying faces,
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images of the fanciful. Glimpses of truth and future. Desperate dicks with guns found him in Africa adorned with lion's claw and rare metal. A hut. A home. A desert. Three hundred thousand gathered, there in the last frontier, and waited to sup on the boy's prose, the mind-mana of the cosmos. Whispers in the crowd... What has he seen? What would it be like? To dream? Naked, bodies painted, many danced, seeking to stomp their MADness out through sore soles. But the crowd (all of them) were silent when the boy's father leaned in close to hear the son tell the story. You see, he was dreaming for us ALL. Our nightmares, our nude Neanderthal states,
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our new-age musings, our slightly distorted escape-hatch lives. The race's dream burden fell to one dark-haired child. The world stopped spinning to hear his messiah's message. He said: I have seen a creature named 'butterfly', and a future-prior when we were ALL allowed to think. I have seen a paradise of freedom. No blue television glow. No... no... But a heaven where cognition was the charge of each, and not the few. A heaven with no elite. And this butterfly, Yellow and red and orange, SCREAMED what couldn't be spoken. These fucking screens must be BROKEN! The dream-catcher had cracked the dark-covenant, the devil's accord, the deal. Dicks with guns tore him from father's arms, stole him away into the sand. So now I cry everyday for memory
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of the boy the butterfly and the best we ne'er became. The last dream.
_ by Charles M. Emerson III

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For!more!fun!go!to! www.theTsaritsasez.com!! and!feel!free!to!contact!me!at! alexandra.naughton@gmail.com!with!your! questions!and!submissions!!! OUR!NEXT!ISSUE:!triumph

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S M A E R D

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