Main Street Magazine Spring 2021

Grounds for the
In the grand scheme of things, we are all nothing; miniscule inklings who
float along a streamlined consciousness for a fraction of a moment in the
universe’s larger existence. So what to make of our role, our importance?
At Main Street, we aspire to create watercolor relics of a time and place;
snapshots of existence to be tried and tested as true. We aim to capture our
individual and shared experiences in a variegated palette of nonconformity,
mysticism, sorcery, hope-hoarding, hope-sharing, non-muzzling, the
preservation of frivolity in the eye of mechanistic efficiency, the embracing
of skylarking as a higher art form. To be open, accepting, free- willed and
free-spirited, when many facets of society would rather churn out blankfaced
workers designed to be mere numbers in a computer. We hope
to rage and riot against this inhumane atrocity that denies the people of
their soul power; we hope to kill the ego but embrace the individual with
understanding and goodwill. We aim to do this through 100 magazine
pages of expression, dedicated to the things that connect us to our greater
collective consciousness. One can only hope there’s more than statistics
and deadlines and gadgets to this life; that there’s a beating, breathing
creative heart burning within each of us that leaps up when we allow it to
behold the miraculous.
Our goal, then, is to set this heart free, to let it run in a foolhardy and
illuminated gait across the pages of our simple magazine. We invite you to
take part in this journey guided by our team of co-conspirators, the many
rollicking individuals who write, edit, design, and harness the magic of
guileless enchantment open to every welcoming soul.
We love this magazine, and hope that you do, too.
As always, with love,

GR
Front Cover Art by Ember Nevins
Back Cover Art by Julia Gomes
Poster Photography by Brigid
Van Rees and Jack Bouchard
Thank you to the funky folks at UNH
Printing for making this wacky thing
tangible and possible
If you’re a UNH student and wanna join
what we do at Main Street, shoot us an
email at mainstreetmagazine@gmail.
com. All are welcome and encouraged—
no experience necessary.
Follow us on Instagram @mainstmag
OO
VE
photo by dani danis
3

photo by seth burton
C O N
T R I B
4U TORS

Editors editor-in-chief Caleb Jagoda . design
editor alyssa doust . creative
consultant anna parisi . content editors SADIE BURGESS
. caroline fItzgerald . EVAN RINGLE . DELANEY RIPLEY
Writers Marlies Amberger . Jalen Andrew .
Hayley Barnhard . Sadie Burgess .
Caroline Fitzgerald . Sean Gurl . Caroline Hanna .
Caleb Jagoda . Shane Jozitis . Taylor Landry . Fiona
MacDonald . Nick Pichierri . Evan Ringle . Doug Rodoski
. Devan Sack . Meaghan Scotti . Jasmine Taudvin
Creatives
Julian Armijos . Hayley Barnhard .
Se Choi . Alyssa Doust . Julia Gomes
Ember Nevins . Jackie Weik . Jack Bouchard . Jared
Burnett . Seth Burton . Dani Danis . Jesse Dejager .
Caitlin Durnbaugh . Catrina Marr . Max Schoenfeld .
Brigid van rees . ArTISTS IN BLUE . PHOTOGRAPHERS IN PURPLE
5

art by se choi

14
The Second Coming
18
Marlboros and Millers
36
46
64
Remembering MF Doom
Loco Fotos
I’m Getting Older
42
Birds, Music, and
Exisential Dread
A Day in the Life
Agnostic angels
62
68
84
Alien Honky-Donk
The Ghost of the Drywall
96

The Big Bean
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Vibrant cafe serving unique twists on classic dishes.
Full bar with wide variety of cocktails and draft beer.
Visit out website for more details!
Nightly Entertainment
Online Ordering
Catering Options
8 Jenkins Court
Durham, NH
www.thebigbeancafe.com
Visit our sister location on 118 Main Street, Newmarket NH

Caleb
Jagoda
editor-in-chief (chef)
conquerer of
sandwhiches
content editor
proclaimed car
pickle hater
Evan
Ringle
Alyssa
Doust
Sadie
Burgess
design editor
inventor of
shower horse
content editor
yellow car
commander
Delaney
Ripley
10
Caroline
Fitzgerald
content editor
walls fear her,
alcohol loves her
content editor
boss level
turtle whisperer

photography by Jared Burnett

I initially attempted to write a real letter from
the editor and didn’t like it all that much.
After deliberating with creative consultant
Anna Parisi, I was advised to instead use
the following. It’s the Main Street Manifesto,
and I wrote it one day in my head while bored
working in the back of Wildcat Pizza cleaning pizza
pans. I realized that this issue of Main Street is all
about whimsy, and I’d imagine this is one of the more
whimsical manifestos to exist in the world (but still definitely
behind Bob Kaufman’s Abomunist Manifesto).
Thank you for picking up a copy of our magazine and taking
the time to read it, and thank you to everyone who had a hand
in making it. So many great amazing humans worked very
hard on everything in here and I’m beyond grateful that I can
help facilitate and present their work in these 100 pages.
Cheers,
Caleb
Editor-in-Chief
“Do you have the courage to be a poet? The jewels that are
hiding inside you are begging you to say yes!’”
- Jack Gilbert
“My discography is a radical act of love and protection / From
chaos, bomb blast blown in every which direction”
- Elucid
“Now I have my script. I need to find the warriors. Eh? The
warriors, to do it. Every person who will work on this picture
will be a spiritual warrior. The best I will find.”
- Alejandro Jodorowsky
Main Street aims to take the floating space rock of the
earth and chisel it down (using pencils, pens,
paintbrushes, patience, potpourri, and advanced
new camera panoramas, amongst other ideas)
into an 8.5” by 11” 100-page exploitative
explosive expansive extraordinary exploit.
Main Street’s central hope is for the
magazine to be utilized by an artistic
arsonist in cognitive dissonance in love with the
ocean who creates a large enough bonfire to signal aliens
before extinguishing said bonfire with all of the water in the
Atlantic.
The only talisman Main Street believes in are those flattened
and printed, or shouted and fading; however, Main Street
loves and embraces knick-knacks, doohickeys, doodads,
and whatchamacallits, and believes objects can hold
healing powers resting in the right hands, and especially
the wrong ones.
Main Street is generally specific, and specifically general,
depending on the day of the week, the cloud cover, and
what any given Magic-8-Ball reads after given a fair shake.
Main Street intends for its magazine pages to be used to
construct the following particular particles in no particular
order: papier-mâché sculptures, origami swans, F-15
fighter jet paper airplanes with imaginary ammunition,
waterproof sailor hats, colorful flimsy faux tinfoil hats,
paper basketballs aimed at trash baskets, paper fortune
teller whirlybirds popular in middle schools, all-paper
outfits fit for any occasion, counterfeit money to be spent
on hamburgers and coffee and real money.
Main Street is not a cult, but it’s not not a cult. This is a
more important distinction than one might think.
All copies of any given Main Street Magazine issue should
be stacked on top of each other to form a towering figure
that can be used as the following: a totem pole, to be

worshipped; a tall ladder, to be climbed; or a pair of stilts,
to be walked around town cosplaying as a giant.
On lackadaisical sunny Sundays with little wind resistance,
any given copy of Main Street Magazine is to be used as
a frisbee, and can be used in games of fetch with dogs,
or enthusiastic cats. Additionally, if enough copies of Main
Street Magazine can be gathered, along with a cadre of
eager extraterrestrials, the magazine copies are to be
constructed into a flying saucer, spaceship, or UFO. A
memory wiper is to be attained at a local flea market or
thrift shop and used appropriately (or inappropriately) for
this specific instance.
On clear nights, the magazine is to be rolled up and peered
through like a telescope in order to view the stars. On
cloudy nights, the magazine is to be rolled up and smoked
to view additional stars and the inside of an ambulance.
Main Street is whatever one wants it to be. In most
instances, it is a street; in this instance, it is a magazine,
and an idea, and a work of art; in other instances, it is a
set of two words, a social club, a covert communist party, a
coterie of hoodwinkers, soothsayers, and co-conspirators,
and not not a cult.
Main Street members are stupefied and gargoylian in
nature, adoring stoops, observation, and the occasional
bottle of malt liquor.
Main Street members are convinced they’re not making a
magazine at all, but instead are drafting a new edition of
the constitution, which is to be burned upon completion
and nationally broadcasted on live television.
Each issue of Main Street Magazine is to be burned upon
completion and nationally broadcasted on live television
Main Street members know there are many ways to skin a
cat, but would rather make a magazine instead of harming
any house pets.
Main Street Magazine’s pages are to be used as a blanket
by hobos and non-hobos alike, and is best enjoyed while
consuming a can of cold beans sitting beside a trashcan
fire. The beans are not to be warmed by the fire.
Historically speaking, Main Street Magazine has most
commonly been used as a rolling tray. With respect to
history, this storied tradition will continue on.
Main Street Magazine is not to be confused as a newspaper,
which it is the antithesis of. But when the magazine is
distributed, it should be treated as a newspaper, being
tossed on doorsteps by newspaper boys pedaling furiously
on twelve-speed bicycles whilst exclaiming, “Extra! Extra!
Read all about it!” Said newspaper boys are to be given a
nickel for their services, and to be directed to the nearest
pharmacy to buy a milkshake upon completion of their
morning’s work.
Main Street members eat with their elbows on the table,
always. Or standing up on a sidewalk. Or hunched over a
stoop.
Main Street members believe raisins are the worst
commonly-consumed cookie ingredient – why not use
chocolate chips instead? – but are still passable in
oatmeal cookies. Still, an oatmeal cookie without raisins
or with chocolate chips is far superior. After all, Main Street
members, like Bob Kaufman, unite the soul with oatmeal
cookies.
Main Street is actually an anagram, and since 1985 has
had its letters rearranged and slightly edited from its
original title: Meat Strain. In 2085, its letters are to be
rearranged and edited once again to one of the following:
Stain Treatment, Tame Reins, or Snowmen Train.
The most applicable words one can use to describe Main
Street: not far in, too far out, funk, funky, funkadelic,
groove, groovy, potent, postulation, pastel, laser beam,
wizard, witchcraft, wanderlust, spellbound, spelling bee,
somnolent, ventriloquial, jink, wend, red wine, white wine,
box wine, any wine, high life, the champagne of paper
products, supernumerary, necessary, totally unnecessary,
alacrity, celerity, jaunty, discombobulated, jawn, jocular,
and willy-nilly.
Main Street Magazine is, was, will be, has been, and will
not, in that order.
Main Street Magazine will die, but won’t stay dead.
13

THE
SECOND
COMING words +
14

In seventh grade, a friend of mine told me that
since her TV at home was always tuned to the
USA Network, the logo had burned into the corner of
the screen. Even when she and her family weren’t
watching a banal legal drama on America’s favorite
cable network, the scorched outline of the three
overlapping letters was still just visible, as if the TV
itself was begging them to change the channel, to
allow it to return home.
In the days of yore, they thought that seeing was an
interactive process, that beams from objects in your
range of vision shot outward to your eyes and made
physical impressions there, and that was how
seeing worked. According to Big Science, vision
actually works differently than this. I’ve heard, too,
that new-fangled TV screens aren’t capable of
having anything burn into them anymore.
My brain, however, is a different story. In my
twenty years of life, there have been certain
images so confoundingly beautiful, disgusting,
or upsetting that they’ve burned into my mind
and made permanent impressions on my
consciousness. If you took my brain out of my
head and looked at it (please don’t!), you’d
see little pictures stamped there the way
they brand horses and cows. Hunter Biden
wearing a denim jacket over his bare torso
and taking a mirror selfie, for instance. The
little blue mailbox in my preschool that
precipitated a physical altercation between
myself and a classmate. The climactic
scene in “The Inferno,” an episode in the
fifth season of The Waltons.
I shouldn’t have to tell you what The
Waltons is, but I understand that most of
my peers did not spend their childhoods
watching only wholesome family dramas
that concluded production several
decades prior to their birth. Flanked by
the likes of Little House on the Prairie
and Dr Quinn, Medicine Woman in
my heart’s library of great TV, The
Waltons, a television program from
the 70s about a poor family of eleven
living through the Great Depression
and World War II, shines brighter
than all the rest. The Waltons’
eldest son, named John-Boy after
his father, has dreams of being a
writer (“wriiiiter” in actor Richard
Thomas’s approximation of a Virginia accent), and so comes
face-to-face with many historical incidents which he records
in his self-published newspaper, The Blueridge Chronicle.
Not the least of which is the landing of the Hindenburg, the
massive airship whose successful journey across the sea
from Germany would make a great article for John-Boy’s
paper. Or, it would have, had the Hindenburg’s journey been
successful. Then again, its spectacular lack of success
probably made a pretty good story too. It certainly made a
good episode.
In a shocking and controversial move by director Harry
Harris, actual footage of the Hindenburg’s tragic, fiery
collapse plays behind a superimposed John-Boy, his face
wrought with horror as he runs from the wreckage, flames
roaring behind him. There’s a corner inside my head that’s
like a tiny old-fashioned movie theater. In between showings
of Cats and Now You See Me 2, this one moment from “The
Inferno” plays again and again to an audience of one: me.
I sit in my imaginary theater and I contemplate the future that
was stripped away from humanity the day the Hindenburg
caught ablaze. As the airship’s skeletal frame crumples in
on itself, I see the collapse of something else—a future in
which our primary mode of air transportation would have
been charmingly rotund boats in the sky. In this future,
bunnies would have hopped down the sidewalk wearing
little sweaters, grocery stores would only sell one variety of
everything, and Princess Diana probably never would have
died.
Instead, we inhabit a world empty of whimsy and full of
airplanes. Our world is one of extravagant ugliness, where
I’ve never seen a bunny hop down a sidewalk, let alone
wear a little sweater. Grocery stores love to have thousands
of varieties of everything. Princess Diana is dead.
When I think of other disasters, few strike me to be as all
encompassing, as painfully and undeniably indicative of
the failure of our human experiment, as the Hindenburg’s
destruction in the final moments of its maiden voyage. In
fact, only one tragedy of a comparable scale comes to mind.
I’m talking, of course, about the 1999 film Stuart Little.
Like the Hindenburg, Stuart Little begins as a voyage filled
with hope, joy, and the effervescent happiness one can only
feel before disaster. The Little family arrives at an orphanage
in search of a new son, and it’s love at first sight for the Littles
and the audience alike when they spot Stuart, a tiny little boy
who just happens to be a mouse, sitting perched on a tiny little
shelf, reading a tiny little copy of Little Women. It’s a scene
grown in a test tube by benevolent scientists (oxymoron)
art by fiona macdonald
15

specifically to make me squeal. The film promises to
be filled with further such moments of unadulterated
joy—how could it not be? Just imagine all the tiny
little things Stuart must have and interact with—tiny
clothes, tiny suitcase, tiny toothbrush, tiny piece of
lint that looks like a tumbleweed because Stuart
himself is so tiny!
Unfortunately, these things will only ever exist for
me in the landscape of my imagination. Stuart
Little, like the Hindenburg, crashes and burns. Just
moments after his introduction, Stuart goes home
with the Littles, and in my mind, I’m watching the
scaffolding of the Hindenburg collapsing in on
itself again and again like a terrible Instagram
story boomerang, and Hunter Biden is sitting
next to me in my mind movie theater now, and
I really wish he would put a shirt on under that
denim jacket, and Snowball, the Little family’s
cat, speaks. Out loud. In English. Stuart can
hear and understand him, but the Littles can’t.
You might think it’s insensitive of me to compare
the thirty-seven very tragic deaths associated
with the Hindenburg disaster to one talking
cat in a movie made primarily for children. But
consider this: the promise of Stuart Little is that
of ultimate whimsy. By making a movie about
a little mouse who gets adopted by a normal
sized human family, director Rob Minkoff
signed an implicit contract with humanity, like
God after the great flood. He established a
covenant to reward people for being alive
with the simple pleasure of a cute talking
mouse wearing tiny little pants. Far more
than thirty-seven people saw Stuart Little,
and I would bet that most of them left the
theater with the dull throb of loss and pain
in the pit of their stomach, whether they
recognized the source of such grief or not.
I’ll admit, talking animals are a tricky subject
in any film—there are few truly successful
examples of such a thing. Matt Damon
provides the voice of Spirit, the titular
stallion of the Cimarron, in what is frankly
one of the best movies ever made; but
vitally, Damon voices Spirit’s thoughts,
not actual spoken words. Spirit’s a great
movie, but Spirit isn’t a true talking
animal. The Chronicles of Narnia has
Aslan the lion, who does speak aloud,
and does so nobly. But Aslan is literally Jesus,
and so he doesn’t count, either. Curious
George is great, too, but remember—George
doesn’t speak. He makes cute little monkey
noises that are weirdly easy to understand,
but he does not speak.
Ironically, Stuart Little himself is one
of the best examples of a successful
talking animal in film. The reason for his
success is that none of his human friends
acknowledge his mousehood. Stuart’s
a little boy – an orphan – and yeah, he
happens to be a mouse. So what? He
still has to go to school and learn how
to drive and sit down at the dinner table.
That only makes it cuter!
That Stuart is such a smashing success
makes it all the more dreadful when
that awful cat speaks. His snide
commentary cheapens the magic of
Stuart and raises some questions
impossible to ignore. If the cat can
talk, can all animals talk? If all
animals can talk, what makes Stuart
so special? Where are all the other
orphaned mice with a penchant for
19th century coming-of-age novels?
I want to meet them, too! Stuart is
cute because he’s a mouse who
does people things, and because
the people around him refuse to
acknowledge anything that makes
him different from them. When
the difference is so obvious (and
adorable!) the audience finds
themselves filled with baffled glee
and overwhelming satisfaction.
“This is a universe where a
precocious talking mouse
exists,” Stuart tells us. “Don’t
worry about it! It’s normal, here.
You can be happy and joyful!”
But not for long. That stupid
cat opens its stupid mouth
and stupid words come out
instead of meows. I’m only
grateful Princess Diana didn’t
live to see this tragedy. But
then again, if the Hindenburg
hadn’t crashed and Princess
16

Diana had lived, they probably
never would have let the cat in
Stuart Little talk, and we wouldn’t
be having this problem now. But it
did, she didn’t, and we do. We live
in a world devoid of whimsy, with too
many options in the grocery store
and the USA logo burned into the
corner of our TVs and only the threat
of our own personal Hindenburg
crash waiting for us at the end—if only
it would come sooner!
On Christmas Day last year, a child was
born—a child who saved me from that
fiery, crumpled, scorched and tired fate,
and can save you, too, if you only let it.
I’m speaking, of course, of a metaphorical
child—twins, actually, who go by the
names Paddington and Paddington 2.
By the hand of God, Cartoon Network
was showing a Paddington marathon
that Christmas Day. I donned my new
Grinch pajamas. I settled in for a couple
hours of what I assumed would be, at best,
moderately alright talking animal fare.
Instead, I received my salvation.
Paddington Bear, hailing from Darkest
Peru, capable of human speech because an
explorer taught his aunt and uncle to speak
English, arrives to a wonderfully whimsical
version of London, where he encounters an
equally whimsical family, and participates in
various whimsical hijinks. The ensuing seven
hours of my life [the second half of Paddington,
followed by all of Paddington 2, followed by
all of Paddington, followed by Paddington 2
all over again (I guess I should be thankful,
after all, that TVs aren’t capable of burning in
anymore—no one wants the Cartoon Network
logo stuck on their screen for all eternity)] now
live in a separate corner of my mind from the
movie theater where “The Inferno” and Cats and
Now You See Me 2 play—seven hours of absolute
whimsy made infinite by my memory of them.
This corner isn’t a movie theater. It’s a spiral
staircase, I think, that leads up to a little room with
marigold yellow walls and slanted ceilings and a
mullioned window that looks out on puffy clouds and
bright sunshine. I think I see some bunnies down
there in the grass, hopping around and wearing
sweaters. There’s an old-fashioned TV in the corner,
and it’s playing an endless Paddington
marathon at the perfect volume. This
corner of my mind probably existed before
I watched Paddington. Although whimsy
may be dead in our world, I like to think
it’s always been alive and well in my soul.
The Paddington movies simply reminded
me to spend a little more time in this sunny,
cheerful room.
Paddington is the pinnacle of excellence
when it comes to talking animals on film—
he’s adorable. He’s precocious. He wears
little clothes and a little hat. He’s a little clumsy,
yes, but fully loveable. Most importantly, the
family that adopts him does not for one single
moment acknowledge the oddness of a talking
bear, and nor do they own an awful white cat.
They treat Paddington’s unique situation as
something completely normal, and it is this
frank acceptance of the whimsical that makes
their world so special.
Paddington, in his blue duffle coat and red
bucket hat, is the world if we still had Princess
Diana. If Hunter Biden wore a shirt under his
denim jacket. If bunnies wore sweaters and
grocery stores had fewer options. If more people
watched The Waltons instead of fucking Suits
(no offense Meghan Markle, I’m sure you’re great
in it). Paddington is the future that is just out of
reach no matter how far we stretch out our arms;
the one that burned to a crisp the same day the
Hindenburg did.
Only, that’s not quite right. Because we do have
Paddington. We have him right now, right here, in
this terrible awful blimp-less timeline we inhabit.
While I was watching Paddington 2 on Christmas
Day, I looked out the window of my living room. In
the trees behind my house, there was a little red
fox, his thick copper fur vibrant against the snow, his
tail fluffy and delicately tipped in white. Just above
him, perched on a slender branch of a leafless tree,
there was an owl, his head angled to watch the fox
make his careful way through the forest. They weren’t
bunnies, and they weren’t wearing sweaters, but I
think probably they were friends. Maybe they could be
my friends, too.
17

NICK
PICHIERRI
WORDS BY
ART BY
SE CHOI
18

Amber passed her bottle of suds to Kurt. He took a sip and
swished it back and forth like mouthwash. It tasted better
than it should have. He passed the bottle back to Amber,
wary of hogging man’s most prized possession––the last
beer.
“There’s only one beer left. Rappers screaming all in our
ears like we’re deaf,” Kurt rapped.
“What?” Amber said.
“It’s a song. ‘One Beer,’ it’s called. ‘How’s there only one
left, the pack come in six? What ever happened to two and
three? A herb tried to slide with four and five and got caught
like what you doin’ g?’, it goes.”
“You’re always doing that,” Amber said, rolling her eyes.
“Doing what?
“Rapping.”
“Yeah, I guess I am,” Kurt said, laughing slightly.
Amber took another sip of beer, her legs crisscrossed, her
mind at relative ease.
“How’s Brittany?” Amber asked
“A royal pain in my ass,” Kurt said.
“Why didn’t she come out tonight?”
“I didn’t invite her.”
A
fter three or four beers, a couple shots of
cheap vodka, and a few drags from a joint,
Kurt and Amber were properly buzzed. They
stepped outside to have a smoke and grab
a beer from the cooler as their friends partied on, the
apartment door pulsating to the tune of R&B. The air
was warm and the sleeves of Kurt’s army-green t-shirt
hugged his arms gently. Amber’s black sweatshirt
was baggy, half unzipped, and as comfortable
as the patch of grass they chose to
sit upon. The stars gleamed back
at Kurt, too pretty to ignore. His
lighter sparked to life and he
took a deep pull from a Marlboro,
inhaling thoughtfully.
“Some night, eh?” Kurt said.
“You really need to quit those
things,” Amber retorted.
“I will. I leave for Basic in two
weeks. One way or another I’ll
get clean.”
“You won’t be able to run for very
long.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He took another drag and tossed the
cigarette aside, mostly unsmoked, its
ember skittering on the pavement.
“Can I get a sip of that?”
“Have at it.”
Kurt patted the pack of smokes in his pocket, thought about
lighting up another, then decided against it.
“You think she’ll miss you when you’re gone?” Amber asked.
“For a little while, maybe. She’s making a big deal of it,
throwing a party and all, but she seems a little too eager to
celebrate, in my opinion,” Kurt said.
“I thought you two were good together,” Amber said.
“We are, but maybe we’re a little too good together. After a
while relationships just get...comfortable. You both accept
it for what it is and it feels like there’s no more surprise, no
more magic. It’s like driving home in the dark. You can’t
see for shit, but you know the road so well you don’t need
to look at the signs. You know exactly where you’re going,
exactly when you’ll get there. It’s too easygoing.”
“Yeah, but you never know when a drunk driver might sideswipe
your car and send you fishtailing. Nothing’s that
easy,” Amber said.
“Some things are,” Kurt said.
Kurt settled down, laid his head on the grass, decided on
another smoke. He lit it silently, the smell of tobacco filling
the air.
“Can I hit that?” Amber asked.
“They’re bad for you,” Kurt said.
“I know, but sometimes I like them when I’m drunk. They
make my head go whoa for a second. It’s fun.”
“Have at it, then.”
Kurt passed the cigarette to Amber. She held it awkwardly,
with two hands, and took a short pull. Her eyes watered
and she coughed up a cloud of smoke. Then she gathered
herself and took a deeper drag, pulling the smoke deep into
her lungs, exhaling like a pro. She passed the cigarette
19

back to Kurt.
“Fun?”
“Not really,” Amber said, laughing. “I have no idea how
you smoke so many of those things.”
“You get used to them.”
“So you and Brittany are pretty much done then? I mean,
no sense in staying together once you leave, right?”
Amber asked.
“That seems to be the case. I mean, we haven’t really
talked about it, but we both know it’s coming to an end.
That’s okay, though. Shit happens,” Kurt said.
“I thought you two were good together.”
“We mostly are. But it’s the little things that drive me
crazy. Like this morning, for example. I thought I’d be nice
and make breakfast, but she got mad because I burnt the
bacon. She likes it chewy, she said.”
“What?” Amber said, playfully outraged. “Crispy bacon is
the best bacon. Maybe you should drop her ass.”
Kurt laughed.
“I’m working on it.”
They went quiet for a minute, neither speaking, both
enjoying their respective vice.
“That’s the other thing,” Kurt said.
“What?”
“There’s no comfortable silence with her. She can’t just
fucking relax and let the moment ride. The second a
conversation dies she feels the need to start up about
some bullshit neither of us care about.”
Amber didn’t really have anything to say to that, so she
said nothing. Kurt squinted his left eye, smirked a little,
looked off to the left. He always did this when something
was troubling him.
“It’s not really fair to do this,” he said. The first sentence
always lacked context. But now that he had decided to
speak he’d get his point across, eventually. Sometimes it
just took him a while. She waited.
Kurt finished his cigarette and tossed it off to the side with
the other. The silence was deafening now, and he knew
it was time to speak. But still he said nothing. Sometimes
he needed a little prodding.
“Do what?” she asked.
Kurt let the moment ride a while longer.
“Compare other girls to you,” he said. finally. “They always
fall short.”
“Oh, please,” Amber said, laughing gently. “I’m nothing
special. And we never even dated, really.”
“Oh, you’re special alright,” he said. laughing back.
“You’re real fucking special.”
Amber went quiet for a second. The silence wasn’t
comfortable, but it wasn’t uncomfortable either. It was
the perfect mixture of mutual understanding, mutual
disagreement, mutual desire, and mutual aversion.
“I told you, I’m not looking for anything right now. And
even if I were, you’re leaving soon. And you’re still with
Brittany. And we live two states apart. And I’m a mess,
like a total fucking mess. It’d never work out,” she said.
Kurt looked upwards, outwards, inwards, beyond. He
wasn’t sure where to look, so he looked at Amber. It
was easiest.
“Well, at least I’m hot,” Kurt said, laughing. “And once
I get through this army training? Shit, I’m gonna look
like Mark Wahlberg in The Fighter. Then we’ll see who’s
chasing who.”
“You know, it’s okay to say something serious without
making a joke out of it. It’s okay to be serious sometimes.”
That blew Kurt’s mind a little bit. He never knew he did
that. He didn’t know you could do that.
“Well, if it’s meant to happen then it’ll happen. I believe
in that sort of thing,” Kurt said.
“AND WHAT,
WE’RE MEANT TO
BE TOGETHER?”,
Amber said
“I’m not saying that. I’m just glad
I met you. Even if we never get
together, even if I never see you
again, I’m just glad I got to meet
you. It’s beyond luck,” Kurt said.
“It’s just a coincidence. It’s all just
one giant coincidence.”
“Maybe,” Kurt said. “But I don’t
think it is.”
Amber drank the last sip of beer
and put the bottle down.
20

“So this is how we’re gonna end the night? All sad and shit?”
“We don’t have to,” he said. “What time is it?”
“11:45,” Amber said.
“The corner store’s still open, it ain’t too late. Praise that in
your arms like it’s a bouquet.”
“Here we go with the rapping again,” Amber said, laughing.
“Come on, we can make it,” he said, pulling Amber up by the
arm.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.”
They made the corner store just in time to split a six pack,
finishing most of it on the walk back. They weren’t sure which
of them had two and which of them had three, so they shared
the last beer, passing it back and forth until they were both
delightfully drunk and there really was no beer left. Then
Kurt, stumbling more than Amber, walked her back to her
apartment and kissed her on the forehead playfully.
“You really are a jackass, Kurt. You really are.”
“Sure am. See you in the a.m.?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I don’t do mornings. I’ll see you in the
evening.”
“See you then,” Kurt said, stumbling down the staircase
drunkenly.
“Be careful!” yelled Amber as he walked away.
She sounded more like an echo than a person, but he
gave a wave goodbye anyways. Nothing really seemed
that serious anymore. He was drunk, the air was warm,
and the stars were bright. He tossed his pack of cigarettes
into a nearby trash can, knowing damn well that’d he be
buying another pack in the morning. Then he looked up at
the sky, like a gorilla, and asked himself a single question,
one of the big ones.
“WHAT THE FUCK
A
M
i
i
D O N
G
?”
21

se choi
choi

Effng
Awesome
:
A Roadside Odyssey Through Middle America
Words and Photography by Devan Sack
Iwould just like to start by thanking the great people of Illinois—
specifically the town of Effingham. Without your help and kindness,
may have been stuck in your cold, gray state for much longer than I
would have liked.
This all began back in November when I thought to myself, “Fuck it,
quarantine has been boring, let’s spice things up with a new car and an
empty bank account.” Proceeded to spend the rest of my money on a
bed, stove, and whatever else is required to live in a van. And voila, one
month later John and I were en route to Colorado.
Day 1. Smooth sailing. Wow, 17 hours of driving. Look at us. A couple of
road warriors, taking on America. Nothing can stop us.
Day 2. Engine light on. Pull off in a small Illinois town. Lose engine
power. Limp van to mechanic. Leave the car with him. Buy a burrito.
Walk back to mechanic. Cry. No, seriously, I was basically crying.
$6,000 quote, blown transmission. I’m not a huge car guy, but I’m pretty
sure a blown transmission is about the worst news an owner can hear.
I am at an all-time low. Out of money in Effingham, Illinois, with MY
HOUSE unable to move.
I call this guy named “Rocky.” He’s a mechanic down the street. He tells
me the same thing mechanic number one did, but he says he can do
it for less. Rocky, you dog. He gives me a quote for half the price. But
here’s the deal: Rocky is good, but not that good. We need parts, and
it’s a Thursday at 4:30 p.m. Stores are closing and the parts won’t arrive
until Monday.
And there we were. Stuck in a small Midwest town. John, you are my
rock by the way. It takes some time, but I calm down and come to the
realization that this short stop has become a week-long stay in Illinois.
First things first: Find a job? Yeah… find a job. So that’s what we did.
Started at Subway, then Dollar General, the furniture store across the
tracks, and finally Silver Dollar Lanes.
And remember, we have no car. Also remember, it’s January in the
Midwest. A lot of rejection later, the kind lady at the bowling lanes tells
us to come back the following day when the owners are in. So we leave,
essentially on cloud nine, an “interview” lined up and some new friends.
We walk back to the van in Rocky’s lot and make some hot dogs and
pasta, shivering in a heatless aluminum box.
The nights were cold, the walks were long, the days were boring, and
morale was low.
But I began this story the way I did for a reason; the people of that
town were seriously amazing. Whether it was the carwash owner who
was bummed he didn’t have any work for us, or the hotel manager who
offered us some fresh eggs, the people of Effingham made our time
there so much better.

Rocky ended up letting us sleep in the van—on the nights he didn’t have it lifted up. And the bowling alley let us bowl for
free (no jobs though). We ended up at the bowling alley most nights, sitting by the wall outlet, and meeting some really
great people.
The days were full of walking, whether to see the other side of town (10 miles away), or to look for work at another
business. And the cold nights parked by the train tracks were sleepless, wondering how to pronounce the name of the
state we were in.
Went to church on Sunday and the pastor said to stay as long as we liked. We most definitely took him up on that.
I know there’s a lot I’m leaving out, but Monday eventually rolls around and we get a call from Rocky. “It’s all done boys,
you can finally put this town in your mirrors tomorrow,” he said. Or something like that, just imagine one of those classic
Rocky sayings.
We got the news in the abandoned mall we liked to spend our time in. And decided to celebrate with a night out.
Niemurg’s, a steakhouse recommended by our new friend from the bowling alley, was the destination. It’s about a three
mile walk from the van, and that’s even using our shortcut across the train tracks, so we make a day of it.
I felt as though I steadily got colder throughout the stay, warming up less and less every time we went inside. We decided
to stroll over to Niemurg’s at about 3 p.m. and stay as long as possible. I know what you’re thinking: “That’s not cool,
you’re just taking up tables and money from the staff.” Do not fret, we asked the waitress beforehand and what do you
know, in typical Effingham fashion she said, “Stay as long as you’d like!” Seven hours later we walk “home,” across the
tracks, by the junkyard, past the paint factory and to Rocky’s dirt parking lot.
And that was it. Like it never happened. Transmission fixed with Colorado calling our name. I was handed my receipt and
Rocky didn’t even come out to say goodbye. But I wasn’t letting him off that easy; I of course walked back through the
garage and thanked the man that saved our trip. I would have liked a hug, but I think our friendship was just too young.
I wholeheartedly recommend stopping in Effingham if you’re ever passing through. Although I probably would never
choose to live there, it’s the best place in America to break down.

26

My wife is a half-dressed woman. She drinks white wine
occasionally. I tell her I love her but it never counts for toast.
I say, hey-ma, I love you, and she says I’d be a mom if you
weren't sterile. I’d take them, the kids, over her, if I could.
My children said no and my heart said go. I spent
a lot of time in the middle, where plains expand with fecund
abandon. And the body sinks at a certain point. Land creases
like stretch marks. The stretch marks are, maybe, rolling
sprinklers, I don’t know. The sinking point is about where you
are when you realize you're never really in the middle. I mean
centered. And the plains never seem to settle down, a roiling
mass, dead or alive. Feel her kick. So in spite of all that time
I found myself running downstream, to the sea. The unified
body. I was twenty-four. I stayed the course and wound up
West, in San Diego. Pampas grass and the Navy. Stepping
out of the plane, I was greeted by this pinup doll.
“Chantry, we’ve missed you.”
“What. I’m no chantry.”
“Chantry, you toy.” We then spent two months
together in a bungalow on a secluded stretch of coast,
boxed in by beach and sea and to our back the
cliffs, always threatening to avalanche our hovel.
I began to think and feel naturally. We ate spam
and tuna and cried laughing. Then one night she
was gone. I was bare limbed and sprier than
usual. I shed no tears. There had always been
something impending. The game had been
rigged from the start. Someone was after me
and I had to face the music.
I went to the office I knew I could visit.
Milton Berkshaw was waiting there. I’d
admired the palms on the boulevards.
The office was wiry and damp. I
could not shake the feeling I was in
a tomb. But on the second floor of
this unassuming strip mall Milton
staged his act.
“Chantry, I want you on my
team.”
“I'm no chantry.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Whatever you are I want
you back on my team.”
“Be wise.”
“Unfailingly.
Words by Sean Gurl
Art by Se Choi
CHANTRY27

ote that I’m
being unusually
permissive of this
phony act you play.”
The office was
weird; I definitely felt
entombed. They had
laid me down on the
bedsheets and turned
down the thermostat
to keep me cool. Out
there on the limits
of the continent. It
unnerved me, the
whole thing. Where I was. Who
was Chantry.
“You’ve got the wrong guy,” I
said. “That’s not me.”
“Come back here tomorrow for a setup.
I’ll get you on the payroll yadda yadda.
Then we start tomorrow. Go out now and
buy yourself a nice suit, a summer suit,
light color, loosish. People here are relaxed
but scornful so you can’t be too done up. Still,
it always pays to keep up the well-dressed
facade. Save the receipt for your taxes, a writeup.
Then get some rest, hit the jar, ex-extra. Come
in tomorrow morning for this set-up.”
“Okay. Sounds all right.” Skeptically I told him it
sounded alright. I remembered a line from a movie, and
also from a book: “Let’s don’t.” So feminine a way to say
“let’s not.” It made no less sense but it sounded romantic,
a romantic plea. To not. I remembered that pinup doll
and the beach and the spam. Milton was looking at me
querulously.
“Up and atom,” he said.
“Sounds alright. Bye bye.”
“Wait,” Berkshaw said, and stood up with his arm
outstretched to me. “Listen. Past is past. Tomorrow is the
question. The answer is today.” He let down his arm and
sighed. Deflated. His rank breath. “I know you, Chantry.
That’s why you’re here today. Remember that.”
“Right.”
I left the office, down the stairs, admiring the
succulents in the dirt of the curb. I used to always like to
pick the leaves off those plants and squeeze them, like
fruits but without the sustenance. With the appearance of
without. Fertility. Man above, in those days I was young
and unafraid. Out on the sidewalk I made my way to the
Men’s Warehouse I knew I’d find.
“Chantry.”
“That’s my name.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Put it down.”
I was in my tailored suit at the place I’d been sent
by Milton. This is tomorrow. The place I’d been sent was a
laundromat on Sunset and Vine or wherever. I was talking
to the man at the desk, a stout guy, as his wife behind him
took up the rolling rack, full of suits.
“Okay, but I’m skeptical about that name.”
“It doesn’t concern you.” My hair was slicked back
and I hadn’t shaved for a while. I felt rough like sandpaper,
grizzled and salty. I felt I must look tough to this man who
wears thimbles out of fear of the prick.
“Just probably you want pound laundry done?”
“Yes. Definitely.”
“Beau,” the man’s wife said. “Suit rack’s stuck.”
“I’ll get to it, Ma,” he yelled back, then smiled at me.
I’d been given a bag of clothes and told to take it
to this launder and get it done and then to tell the launder,
“You’re in hot water,” in sort of a suggestive way as I backed
out. Milton said the laundry contained the real message.
Every shirt and pant had been carefully chosen for this
assignment. I believed it.
“Just that. Just pound laundry.”
He took the bag into the back and I watched him go.
Then he came back and said, “It weighs only eight pounds.”
“I pay now?”
“No.”
“Sure,” I said, backing toward the door. He turned
away, as if I weren’t captivating enough. “Hey,” I called,
“you’re in hot water.” He turned and I scurried away.
In thought-pain, she says, “We’re beating a dead
horse,” in our damp bed.
“I got the hoss and she got the saddle.”
“Is that another shit song you heard.”
“I quote when nervous.”
“Spare me.”
“If I had my druthers you’d be in the delivery room
already.”
“You know how lucky you are I haven’t found a
more ~fulsome~ man?”
“Fulsome. I can walk off at any moment, literally.”
Standing, I came to the TV and watched apt commercials
for fertilizer with smiling lawn protagonists.
“Chantry,” says Milton. “What’d he say?”
“I didn’t stick around to find out.”
“You did what?”
“Didn’t stick around.” I was huddled in a sticky pay
phone.
“Chantry,” Milton sighed. “Do you want this work or
not.”
“What work is it?”
“Good, decent work.”
“Everyone’s looking for that.”
“And so here you are, tossing away what everyone
else wants. Where’s the sense?”
“Take it easy.”
“I’m your boss, cut that provincial slang out.”
28

“Quietude.”
“I’m on my last nerve. We’re not communicating,
Chantry.”
“It’s frustrating, this dialogue.”
“You gave him the laundry at least? Sure I heard
you. Okay, you gave it. He’ll probably start poring over it
now. Hidden messages are difficult to write, did you know
that? He’s got the easiest part of this charade, deciphering,
even though he's the guy on the hook.”
“How do you figure?”
He began to talk but my mind wandered. What use.
“Milton?”
“Yeah, are you following?”
“Let me call you back.”
“You’re kidding.”
I hung up and left the booth and started walking. I
stopped in a McDonald’s and got a hamburger, and flirted
with the cashier about childhood and paddies. Then I went
to a liquor store.
“So, sweetness. Do you ever travel?”
“I’m familiar with travel.”
At the bar in the back of a lighting store. On the front
of the lighting store was written “bulbs” with lit bulbs. The
bar was sort of a speakeasy where the failing light man sold
local drunks drinks for moderate prices. He was polishing a
bulb and listening to us talk, me and this woman.
“Where you been.”
I was having trouble speaking. “The middle west,
the east.”
“You sound like a generic.”
“You sound like a southern.”
“Tell me something, kid.”
“OK, babe.”
“What’s your favorite movie?”
I thought back to the beach, sprawled in the love
agony. I found myself there very often. I considered this bar
woman’s face: marked, rough, eyes half-open. I don’t like to
be cruel, but it’s easiest to be honest that way. Not that I’d
describe her to her face.
Instead I described the beach to myself: spent, the
love touch, awash with sin and a desire only to flow, move
closer on the sand and be somewhere where the hard sand
wouldn’t hinder the fluid melting touch. Was it myself I felt on
that coast?
We hadn’t watched any movies. Before my exit, I
had. A truth: I was a paralegal for a lawyer in Abilene, Kansas;
that’s Eisenhower’s birthplace. I never took work home with
me. At night I’d watch gangster movies, organized crime.
In this bungalow in the heart of the planes, always ready to
be swept away, I watched the bulldozed and ancient urban
underworld. Jimmy Cagney and Peter Lorre. Among others
whose names escape me. After dark I rarely exited the
darkness of black and white, feeling something like the word
apoplectic sounds. It could be pictured, a wife at the den
door, looking mournfully at her spellbound husband.
“I like From Here to Eternity.”
“Never saw that one.”
“I forget who is in it.”
“That’s OK, sweetheart.” She put a hand on my
leg and swung her head toward me. The bartender,
Joe Bulb, gazed at us. “My favorite is 50 First Dates.
I saw it first with my son.” She fell back. It was time
to shove off.
“Hit me one more time, Joe,” I said, and slid from
beneath her, avoiding her breath.
“No, bud, wait,” she said, and leaned back on her
stool into the wall behind her.
I looked at Lou.
“How’d you find it here, Chantry?” he asked.
“How’d you know my name?”
My wife is the type to keep me well-dressed and
at the same time forsake her appearance. I might
as well have worn top hat and tails. Love is a twoway
street. But sometimes there’s traffic on one side.
Lovers should be like repairmen or the trucks that fill in
potholes.
We lay on the lawn near the playground where
families strode on the spring weekend, drearily picking
at popcorn. She says, “I know what we can do.”
“What,” I say.
“Resort to adoption.”
“I don’t think that’s really resorting. If anything, it’s
a pure, unadulterated good.” I sneeze, for the pollen.
“Well. You know my feelings.”
“Sometimes. If I knew them all, what could I do but
right.”
“It’s not ignorance of feelings that’s holding us
back. We’re quite on the same page,” she tells me.
I sing. “Willy he tells me that doers and thinkers
say moving’s the da da da da da da dee.”
29

“What’s that?”
“Song.” Allergies watering eyes.
“Which?”
“I saw him live when he was still alive.”
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“I forget the name,” I say dumbly.
My wife, she sighs, and I take her hand and kiss it and roll
over and she says, “Let’s go home, the pollen’s really fucking
me.”
She grins then and rolls into my side.
“We aren’t going to be able to pull this off forever.”
And it was time to move things along. It was near
sunrise and I had woken up in a grass patch not a hundred
yards from that wet house. My face was burnt with sunshine.
There was a bald, fat man lying next to me, eyes open,
wheezing, hands clasped on his refrigerator stomach, legs
crossed.
“Who are you?”
“Good morning, Chantry.”
“We met last night?”
“Don’t you know me?”
“I thought I had left the bar alone.”
“What bar?”
“The bulb spot.”
“Nonexistent.”
“No?”
“Return to Milton.”
“What’s the use.”
“Milton Berkshaw, I mean.”
“I don’t feel good, man.”
“Nobody does.”
“No, but.”
“It’s been days since you accounted for yourself.
How’s the wife.”
“Nonexistent.”
“Chantry,” he implored.
“Back home.”
“I know a lot about you.”
“Do you?”
“You’re obstinate. That's, that’s pigheaded.” He
turned girlishly on his side, arm propping up head.
“You’re a drinking man. You’re sly and a cheater.
You ought to be getting a message soon, but I don’t
for the life of me know why.”
“In my laundry, I bet.”
“Have a nip,” he said and offered me a nip of banana
schnapps. I took the thing but only put it in my pocket.
He laughed. “You’d be proner to dryness if you
were a fish. You almost are, and almost rotten, but
blessed be you’re already caught, salted, sold, and
bought. Not to say almost consumed. I should go,
though, Chantry. My message is about said.” He
shifted, barely. “Do you feel at ease?”
“Sometimes.”
“Good, good. You know, we all care about you. You
may return, sins forgiven.”
“Am I so far off?”
“You’re derelict, Chantry, if you pricked your navel
30

31

with a pin it’d implode and smut would spill out. This is not
only evident to me, but to your darling in Abilene too. Too
long, too long in the wasteland. I only want to know how you
seduced that beach woman, on the seaside.”
I hugged my knees like a castigated boy-child. “I
didn’t. I’m very confused.”
“We all are, with you. What the hell your schtick is.”
He stood up, groaning. “Milton, though, he says he knows
what to do with you. You know you’re lucky, uhh. That for
whatever reason you’ve got something, to watch over you?
Like, we’re not even overbearing. We could be. But instead
I just wake up here next to you, to give you a brief message.
But we’re drawing you back in.”
“The message is that you’re drawing me back in.” I
leaned back on the grass and felt ants picking at my nerve
endings.
“No. Chantry, that’s not at all the message. The
message is, right now, that you’ll be given another message,
probably today.”
“Thank you.”
“OK, bye.” He waddled off and I rubbed my chin, the
pointed hairs, slowly. I couldn’t get past the beach, where
we’d floundered in a stream falling from the cliff, the cool,
clear water that came from a spring in a green pasture. She
drank that stream water one morning, and by the evening
started retching. Incidentally, that’s the same night she left
the beach and I left too. That wasn’t my wife, although it
might as well have been, spiritually.
“Chantry,” an employee at the gas station said to
me.
“What.”
“Call this number.”
“Where.”
He gave me a slip of paper with an almost illegible
phone number written on it, and 75 cents.
“I can’t read this number.”
“I’ve done my job. Payphone around back by the
garbage.”
Aesthetically I needed a glass bottle of Coke and
a cigarette to make this phone call. My suit jacket was long
gone. So was the tie. I wondered if this was the message.
Then I asked for a pack of Chesterfields and took a Coke from
the fridge. It was only cans they had, and no Chesterfields,
which nearly set me off.
So outside with a Winston hanging off the lip, Coke
shoved in the ratty shirt pocket, I dialed what I thought the
number was, and it rang.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice said.
Shit, I thought. But stayed on the line.
“Hello?”
“Hi.”
“Chantry?”
“Yes.”
“So you’ve been found.”
“Seems so.” I thought about how cool it was to have
been so busy for the last few weeks. So much time in the
sun.
“I’m not angry.”
“Why should you be. Seems I’m me and you’re
stuck.”
“Well,” she said.
“What.”
“We’re we.”
“You been reading poetry or something,” I said.
I violently sipped the Coke even with the cigarette in my
mouth, and spilt almost the whole thing down my sweaty
shirt. The butt got brown too.
“I’ve just been thinking.”
“I’ve been thinking too. And I think I’ve come to
certain conclusions.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t want to talk over the phone.”
“Then come back.”
“I don’t know if I can do that. Mocking region.”
“I’ll come there. You can’t be released from this
auspice.”
“What, you been reading poetry?”
“Chantry,” she said. “You know what I mean.”
“But do you know what I mean? I can’t go back to
you, dear, without a fight. Let me duke it out. I’ve got an
appointment with Milton this afternoon where I’m thinking
things will really start making sense again. You know I
slept on a beach for two months? What was it then, why
was I left alone. Where were you? Seems I can find a
way out somehow, babe, and it’s not you I’m leaving, it’s
this. Meet me at El Contrario beach. I’ll be there if you
are. That make sense?”
“Dramatic. Do you feel relaxed?”
“Can’t you see I’m tranquil?
The way you put me on, the way
you use your words,” I growled.
She sighed.
“I love it,” I said.
“I guess I’ll see you there,
kind of soon.”
“Make it so, babe.” I felt
hardboiled. “Bye.”
I hung up the phone and I
put out the cigarette on the booth
pole, flicked the butt, and walked off.
Promise. It felt like walking around a
corner into hellfire.
Then a voice called to me in the
supermarket. “Chantry.” I was buying
kitchen staple items. Milton Berkshaw
had set me up in a single room
apartment. He said, this is where
you should live. This place you’ll be
comfortable at least until the inevitable
happens. I thought: Till the inevitable
transpires, he meant.
“Chantry.”
A week since the phone call, longer since
the beach, longer since everything else. The interim had
been spent numbly following, my constitution having
given out. “What.”
“I’m sorry I ran off.”
32

“I deserve it.” We were doing the movie thing where
we didn’t look at each other, in the refrigerator aisle. Now
it doesn’t pay to be mysterious. She was the lady from the
beach.
“I have something important to say.”
“Spit it out.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“No kidding.” I took a cup of yogurt from the shelf. “I
thought I was barren.”
“That’s an archaic term.”
“But you know what I meant by it.”
“Yes.”
“I had a wife who was vaguely threatening to leave
because I couldn’t procreate effectively.”
“I guess the chemistry was off.”
“So I left her. Evidently,” we met eyes briefly, “the
chemistry was off.”
“Chantry,” a new, male voice said, “if that’s even
your name.” The laundromat man was coming toward us
from the other direction. “I finally get your laundry.”
“Where?” I said.
“It said that your girl Mary is with child!
Congratulations, Chantry.”
“It said that? Who is Mary?”
“I’m Mary,” Mary said. “Do you not know my name?”
“Of course I do, Mary.” I put back the yogurt. “Wait.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t wait. I have to go,” said the
laundry man. “I have a lot of pressing things to catch up on.
Congratulations, you two.”
The refrigerator whirr drove him off. We
kept on shopping. The products did not catch my
attention at all, and she kept sighing.
“What are we going to do?”
“I came here for staples. I need flour,
eggs, and milk. Honey, salt, and pepper.” I
started off.
“I don’t know what to say.” We kept
shopping and left the store together. Then went
home to the same apartment, my apartment.
We lay on the blanket under stars that
span. “The end all,” I thought, and stroked her
palm. It felt that a seabird might shit on us at
any second. We were martyrs at trial before
the hate-courts. “Chantry,” she said. “Take
us home.” They led her to the firing squad in
spite of her being tight with baby. A divinely
begotten clump. She had a slight smile and
red eyes.
“How do I know you, really?” Round
cheeks, round lips. We had clouds in our
eyes. She wet my shoulders. “Chantry?”
“I’m not sure. No more briefings?”
“Not really.”
“Messages?”
“No.”
She shifted onto my arm. “Let’s
take a train back home.”
“Where?”

photography by
Max Schoenfeld
A melting pot of musical styles and proclivities, Blanco is a project spawned from an
increasing desire to perform at open mic nights across New Hampshire’s Seacoast
following the start of the pandemic. Consisting of Ryan Farinas (vocals), Matt Oriente
(saxophone), Thomas Williams (guitar), Kai Dimuzio (bass), and Shane Jozitis
(drums), Blanco got its initial kicks at the Freedom Cafe in the fall of 2020. Farinas’
background in hip-hop and R&B combined with the rest of the band’s studies in
jazz and rock result in a sonic smorgasbord offering a little something for everyone
who attends a show. The band paints their performances with a bright color palette,
effusing exuberance, emotion, and whimsy into the atmosphere each time they take
the stage. Their name – chosen shortly before their first performance – is an ode to
their first fan and the band’s official mascot: Farinas’ white pitbull, Blanco.
Art by
Jackie Weik
Catch Blanco playing at the Big Bean Cafe in Durham and Flight Coffee in Dover.
For updates on shows and other antics, follow @blancomusic_official on Instagram.
34

B l a n c o

36
you bring brighter days
Ooh you're like the sun, chasing all of the rain away, when you come around

REMEMBERING
MF
DOOM
WORDS BY CALEB JAGODA ART BY EMBER NEVINS
Ididn’t believe it when I first saw it. He couldn’t die; supervillains don’t die, they evolve, disfigured with newborn penchants
for world destruction. Surely this was a trick, another gaff pulled by the ultimate huckster, just another hoodwink from up
the sleeve of hip-hop’s most infamous villain.
On December 31, 2020, Daniel Dumile, world-renowned underground hip-hop artist of many aliases but most commonly
referred to as MF DOOM, was announced dead by his wife Jasmine on his Instagram page. In a heartfelt note, Jasmine
thanks her husband for a beautiful life and explains his passing took place on Halloween two months earlier. For two whole
months, the world’s most notorious supervillain had been dead and nobody had the slightest clue. The greatest trick the devil
ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist; DOOM convinced us for a short time that he hadn’t died, even releasing
several feature verses from beyond the grave. Not only that, but Dumile, maybe the first rapper to consistently wear a mask,
passed on a day where people everywhere spawn masks to conceal their identities and cosplay as characters. The villain’s
skullduggery never seems to end.
MF DOOM is one of hip-hop’s most important, talented, enigmatic, influential,
and hilarious figures to ever grace and impact the genre, and is by
default my favorite rapper. His footprint on today’s musical
landscape cannot be overstated. From having an influence
on three generations of musicians (from Odd Future to
Joey Bada$$ to Mos Def to Questlove to Lil Uzi Vert
to Drake to Thom Yorke of Radiohead), DOOM
concocted a legendary career from the caverns
of his own mind and forever altered the music
industry. None of my favorite current-day artists
would exist without him. But even beyond his
impact, DOOM’s music stands on its own as
startlingly imaginative, cerebral, whimsical,
and inimitably original. Many make music
that sounds like DOOM’s, but DOOM
made music that sounded like nobody
else’s. DOOM is a one-of-one, the stuff
of Stan Lee comic books, science
experiments gone wrong, stoned studio
sessions spent guzzling beer, penning
rhymes, and watching Adult Swim. My
life and so many others would not be
the same without DOOM.
This is an ode to the metal-fist
terrorist who holds heat and
preaches nonviolence; the killer who
loves children, and is well-skilled in
destruction as well as building; Mr.
Bent, who’s at where your sister
went; the man who stretched the
boundaries of creation with his metal
fingers, silver tongue, and evil charm.
This is an ode to MF DOOM, one of the
most creative minds to grace the planet.

THE METAL-FACED VILLAIN’S ORIGIN STORY
Every supervillain has an origin story, and MF DOOM’s
could have been ripped straight from the pages of a Marvel
comic. Dumile officially began his music career as part of
KMD, a group he created with his brother DJ Subroc and
another emcee, Rodan (who would later be replaced by
Onyx the Birthstone Kid), in 1988 in Long Beach, New York.
He went by Zev Love X then, and was only a teen when
the group got signed by Elektra Records and released their
first album, Mr. Hood. The music was lighthearted, bouncy,
and politically-aware; he and his brother were just having
fun, making the music they liked to hear and seeing some
commercial success along with it. Dumile wasn’t yet wearing
a mask—Zev Love X was still green and happy-go-lucky, a
future desperado living carefree before the evil ways of the
world bent him toward vengeance. Then, in 1993, while in
the thick of recording their second album Black Bastards,
exactly that happened: DJ Subroc was tragically hit by a car
and killed while crossing the expressway. He was only 19
years old. Dumile finished the record alone and played it
from a boombox at his brother’s funeral. Set to release in
1994, Elektra Records suddenly and unexpectedly shelved
the album indefinitely, deeming the album artwork’s black
Sambo character hanged from a noose in a game of
hangman too controversial. The record label gave Dumile
$20,000 and the masters to the record, sending him on his
way. In the midst of tragedy, a supervillain began to take
form.
The next three or four years of Dumile’s life are shrouded in
mystery. As the legend goes, he almost entirely disappeared
from the music industry and was on the verge of
homelessness, spending most days writing, listening to jazz,
and drinking whatever beer he could afford. His wife would
bring him a sandwich during her lunch break; every morning
he would see his son off to school. After going through
immense trauma, it seems like this was Dumile’s step back
from the world, to grieve, regenerate his powers, and plan
his schemes for world takeover. And then, he reemerged.
Around 1997, Dumile began anonymously performing
at New York City open mics with women’s stockings over
his face to conceal his identity. Exit Zev Love X. Enter MF
DOOM.
In 1997 and 98, Dumile released a handful of 12” singles
(“Dead Bent,” “Gas Drawls,” and “The M.I.C.”) under his
new alias MF DOOM on legendary radio host Bobbito
Garcia’s Fondle ‘Em Records imprint. The music was rawer,
more inebriated, presented with the perfect amalgam of
spontaneous stream-of-consciousness and mind-jarring
intricacy. The drums were unquantized, the looped samples
woozily dreamy, the lyrics hilarious and ornate and recondite.
Ditching the women’s leggings, DOOM began donning a
metal mask, at first a plastic Toys-R-Us-purchased WWE
Kane mask spray-painted silver, and later a stripped-back
and suited-up version of the Russel Crowe Gladiator mask.
And then in 1999, the supervillain presented his mission
statement: Operation: Doomsday, one of underground
hip-hop’s most imaginative theses ever created, and the
beginning of a shocking career renaissance.
A street-smart nerd in every sense of the phrase, Dumile was
an avid fan of comic books, cartoons, science, literature, and
hip-hop. Boiling all these things down into one, he took on
the persona of Doctor Doom, a fictional Marvel supervillain
and archnemesis of the Fantastic Four. In the comic, Doctor
Victor Von Doom attempts to use his scientific genius to
rescue his mother from hell after she dies in a deal with the
devil gone wrong. While constructing a machine to bring her
back to life, a horrific explosion occurs, terribly disfiguring
Victor’s face. Just like that, Victor becomes Doctor Doom, a
masked and misunderstood supervillain with a heart of gold,
dead-set on world domination.
Dumile’s repurposing of the persona worked to convey the
deep-seated emotional trauma he underwent in adolescence,
growing up in crime-addled Long Beach watching his brother
and several friends die before adulthood. The similarities
between Dumile and Doctor Doom’s journeys are uncanny,
and wielding a wildly-expansive imagination, Dumile decided
to write from the supervillain’s perspective as if Doctor Doom
popped out of the pages, copped a bottle of Olde English
and some loose Phillies from the bodega on the corner,
and decided to kick a few rhymes during his transcendental
sojourn as an in-the-flesh entity.
38

There was a possibility Dumile’s blasphemous stratagem could’ve
come off corny, a jokey gimmick attempting to fuse comic book lore
into hip-hop sensibilities—a slightly-tweaked rip-off of Wu-Tang. Except
here’s the thing: it wasn’t. It was the opposite of corny. It was strikingly
disparate. It was funny. It was honest. It had never been done before.
In fact, it had been done in direct opposition to the boasting and
keeping-it-real era of late-90’s and early-2000’s hip-hop, where street
authenticity and lavish opulence were king. Jay-Z was big pimpin’; Puff
Daddy was victorious. Before that, N.W.A reported on poverty and
crime from the streets of Compton; Mobb Deep penned hard-boiled
autobiographical grit. Either gravelly and intrepid or sumptuous and
silk-lined, hip-hop wasn’t fiction. It was real-life rags to riches, soundtracked
by cinematic, grand instrumentals. And in utter defiance,
DOOM decided to pen semi-fictional tales of magical-realism over
chopped-up, off-kilter, glossy soul samples that were simultaneously
mischievous, clever, impressive, vast, and meaningfully heartfelt.
Operation: Doomsday is like a kaleidoscope: a wonky, beer-goggled,
beautifully colorful world of refracted light, taking the every day and
transmuting it into oddball lunacy, hyper-detail, free association
silliness, and surprising truth. The drunken exploits, braggadocio,
street violence, and endlessly smooth-talking women out of their
clothes were all there—but it was like nobody had ever done before,
unspooling from the mind of a metal-faced comic book character. And
almost immediately, DOOM had a cult following of language-loving hiphop
nerds who laughed when DOOM used words like “Zoinks!”;
that shout-sang along when DOOM shakily crooned the
lyrics to a sample of soul group Atlantic Starr; that would
debate the meaning of endless entendres and obscure
references until hell froze over. As Mos Def once
famously said, “DOOM rhymes as weird as I feel.” Also:
“Do you understand the majestic gift that is Operation:
Doomsday?” Underground hip-hop had a hero in the
form of a supervillain. Sometimes, it’s impossible not to
root for the villain.
From there, DOOM’s star – concealed under a metal
filter, pouring out from square eye-holes and malt-liquorrusted
mouth-piece – would only shine brighter.
DOOM’S UNRIVALED PEAK
If Operation: Doomsday was unprecedented – the weird comic-strip comeback story nobody saw coming – then the next
five years of DOOM’s career were next-to-impossible. Starting in 2003, DOOM came back with another alter-ego—a threeheaded
dragon named King Geedorah, based off the nefarious Godzilla enemy. As DOOM explained, King Geedorah was an
extraterrestrial being sending communications down from space based on what he observed of Earth’s happenings. Take Me
to Your Leader is DOOM’s showcase as a producer, finding Dumile’s voice on only a handful of songs but his ingot-covered
fingers on all of them. Hectic space sounds, jam-packed samples collaged over each other, and his friends’ quick-witted raps
make Take Me to Your Leader an odd, ever-entrancing entry in DOOM’s catalog. Next came 2003’s Vaudeville Villain under the
name Viktor Vaughn, a younger, more energized version of Doctor Doom who trades in the mask for youthful exuberance and
delinquent shenanigans. Vaudeville Villain may be DOOM’s tightest, most precise rapping ever, an evil laboratory containing a
mind-boggling amount of internal rhymes, turns-of-phrases, and astute shit-talking that underscore the character’s adolescent
arrogance preceding the maleficent twist that forges a true supervillain. Mm…Food came in late-2004, Dumile again rapping
under the MF DOOM alias within a loose concept album of completely food-themed double-entendre rhymes; and in 2005,
DOOM teamed up with producer Danger Mouse to release the Adult Swim-sponsored The Mouse and the Mask, a cartoonladen
joke-fest that feels like a dorm room stoner’s wildest dreams come true. In only a handful of years, DOOM unleashed a
fury of dense, complex, insanely creative weirdo hip-hop albums that would take years to fully dissect and appreciate. And right
in the heart of this run, in early 2004, DOOM released the album that would define his career, gaining him the most acclaim and
attention any underground artist can receive without being signed to a major label. That album is Madvillainy.
39

On Dooms
day, ever since
the
DOOM and legendary producer Madlib came together under
Stones Throw Records (the eccentric independent label out
of Los Angeles that would birth the era’s least pretentious,
most important subterranean hip-hop records) to form
the super-duo Madvillain. Madvillainy is an otherworldly
concoction of multi-layered, ever-evolving beats – largely
sampled from arcane Brazilian records and madcap jazz
– paired with career-defining writing that sees DOOM
spinning his craziest fables yet. An acid-laced morning of
cartoons and cereal, if the cartoons were made by surrealist
communists and the cereal was radioactive (shout-out to
Anna Parisi for that analogy), Madvillainy is simply one of
the best hip-hop albums ever created, catching two of the
most peculiar, incredible creative minds at the height of their
powers. As Jeff Weiss writes in his amazing profile of the
making of Madvillainy, the duo lived together in a rented
house in Los Angeles for a handful of months; Madlib stayed
in a windowless concrete basement coined the “bomb
shelter,” while DOOM strolled around the house writing his
absurdist anecdotes and fourth-and-fifth-dimensional yarns
in between “doing bong hits on the roof in the West Coast.”
The two barely spoke—they seemed to communicate
through telekinesis, creating a beamed-down outer-galactic
world by merging their two streams-of-conscious rivulets into
a single, stranger, more daring channel of misfit artistry. The
result immediately shook the worlds of underground rap,
music critics, and anyone who had a taste for imagination
and experimentation. DOOM was already heralded as one of
the most bizarre, enigmatic, remarkable rappers working—
but after Madvillainy, he became the stuff of hip-hop folklore:
your favorite rappers’ favorite rapper.
40

DOOM’S LEGEND, LEGACY, & IMPORTANCE
MF DOOM entered my life during my senior year of high school. I had recently discovered the wordier, more introspective
side of current-day hip-hop, and I was devouring whatever I could get my hands on. A couple of months prior, during the
summer before my senior year, my friend Dave had introduced me to Doris by Earl Sweatshirt; after listening through the
album countless times, dissecting every line to its fullest extent, tracking down every interview with Earl, I found out about
the immense influence an album called Madvillainy had on Doris. Some dude with a mask apparently left a ginormous
impact on Earl, inspiring his entire style and career. What the fuck was that all about?
I still remember sitting on Dave’s treadmill in his basement as we pressed play on Madvillainy and heard the opening lines of
“Accordion”: “Living off borrowed time the clock ticks faster / That’d be the hour they knock the slick blaster / Dick Dastardly
and Muttley with sick laughter / A gunfight and they come to cut the mix master.” That string of outrageous, cryptic words
would change my life forever.
What makes DOOM so extraordinary is how much fun he has with words. He culls the depths of the English language, using
diction and verbiage most writers and wordsmiths wouldn’t dream of touching. There was no word too weird, no phrase too
outdated, to be dolloped into DOOM’s lyrical gumbo. He imbues a certain whimsy into his work that only a rare creative soul
can capture. He’s unafraid of being an outcast, of being himself, of interpreting life in the way only he knows how; he doesn’t
feel the need to explain his strange ways to anyone, and instead, dives fully down the rabbit hole of his imagination, chasing
the furry tale of inspiration wherever it takes him. The result is breathtaking sentences—indelible creativity showcased
in endless perplexity and laughable wonder. To listen to DOOM is to enter an entirely different universe, to become fully
submerged in another man’s mind as he winds through the twisting curves of reflection, reverie, and the application of his
favorite art to his own life. DOOM pens his autobiography inside the panels of a comic, conjuring the mysticism and infinite
possibilities of cartoons, science, and indie hip-hop. DOOM broke all the rules of rap—he showed yet another way to twist
words into abstract self-expression.
Like the greatest science-fiction writers, DOOM is an elite world-builder, never over-explaining the set-up but expecting
(requiring) the listener to become entirely enveloped in the universe to understand it. And they always will, just because it’s
so much fun. DOOM is a constant reminder of the importance of play, the magic of words and escapism, of being whisked
away into a verbally-constructed cosmos that enthralls, enlightens, and delights. DOOM’s music displays the reasons to
write and read and listen, to want to make art that lessens the strain of existence, that shows the beatitude of creation.
DOOM’s music shows why we choose to pick up a pen, pick up a book, pick ourselves up out of bed every morning and
choose to live and breathe and be a part of this strangely beautiful, oddly gratifying, sometimes painful but always interesting
experience of existence. MF DOOM’s music makes me happy to be alive. As Bob Kaufman once wrote, “Creation is perfect.”
DOOM’s art embodies this fully.
In an era where every rapper chose to be themselves, DOOM chose to be somebody else. He inspired three generations of
musicians and writers. His music means the world to me and countless others. His art will live on forever. Thank you, Daniel
Dumile, for a beautiful life. Rest easy Villain.
what
bro
womb
- MF DOOM,
“OPERATION
DOOMSDAY”
i 'm
m y
till
ther
that's
nt
whereback
we
my
tomb willsay
41

When I was 16, I stopped existing. Or, at
least, that’s what it felt like.
I don’t know exactly what caused it. Maybe it
was my grandfather’s death, maybe the start
of a personal identity crisis, or maybe it was
something else I don’t even remember. But at
some point in the distant memory of November
2016, something changed in my brain seemingly
overnight; a thread snapped, a light went out,
and whatever reality I had been a part of cracked
beneath me and spit me out into an unfeeling
void. Every day became a groggy nightmare—
dull and distant, like I was sleepwalking through
someone else’s dream. I was trapped inside
my own head and nothing on the outside – not
my surroundings, my friends, or even my own
body – was real anymore. Most of the time, I
sunk back into my own mind, unsure of how to
do anything else, and let the days pass by in a
blurry haze. But every once in a while, I would
snap. With my hands curled tightly in my hair to
keep myself from punching angry holes in the
wall, I silently screamed out for help. I begged
anyone who might be listening to let me back into
reality—to reach out a hand and guide me out
of this existential nightmare. Of course, it never
worked, so eventually, I would have to gather
the pieces of myself up, jam them back together
into a vaguely humanesque shape, and retreat
back into my foggy head. Maybe I’ll feel normal
tomorrow.
The only company I ever found inside my clouded
head were the unanswerable questions swirling
around in the mist. Am I real? What about the
world around me? Do I have a purpose?
Over the years, I’ve learned to cope with these
feelings. They’ve become less of a terrifying
mental ailment and more of a constant way of
being; feeling a little detached from reality is
my reality. But no matter how comfortable I
become with the way I navigate the world, the
unanswerable questions still remain. What is my
purpose? Why should I want to keep fighting to
be a part of this reality?
I think the struggle to find purpose and to feel
purposeful is one that affects most of us. We
don’t know why we’re here on this planet, in
these bodies, or what we’re meant to do with
birds,music,and
our precious time here. We try to find meaning
through our jobs and relationships, but we never
truly escape the nagging existential question that
festers in the back of our skulls: Why?
I remember the first time I ever experienced
existential dread. I was young—young enough
that the hours past midnight were still unfamiliar
and frightening to me. In this memory, I am
tucked away in the familiar creaky bunkbed in the
cramped upstairs bedroom of my grandparents’
house, my sister and cousin fast asleep on
beds below me. My gaze flicks back and forth
nervously between the ceiling hovering just
inches above my head and the old clock radio
to my left, its bright red numbers staring back at
me. They tick further and further past midnight,
leaving me feeling more and more unnerved
with each passing minute. Everything feels
wrong. I shouldn’t be awake. These hours past
midnight aren’t supposed to exist, not really, and
accidentally stumbling upon them has lead me
headfirst into a world that doesn’t quite exist.
Despite the room’s tiny, cramped interior, the
world has never felt so big and empty. Despite the
two other children crammed into the room with
me and the constant white noise of cars rushing
past on the road outside, I’ve never felt so alone.
If I close my eyes, I think the world might swallow
me whole.
The only thing that kept me company that night,
holding my hand and gently guiding me out of the
terror that gripped my very core, was the radio. All
night, familiar soft rock songs drifted lazily from
the staticky speakers, melting into the night’s
hazy atmosphere and filling the suffocating
emptiness around me. Between comforting
songs, the soothing voice of a late-night radio
personality floated out and flooded my skull with
soft words like, “You’re listening to after midnight
radio…” It was as if the radio knew that I was
scared, and it promised me that I wasn’t alone.
Ever since that night, however long ago, music
has been a comfort in the face of existential
dread. It’s grounding and sometimes, within its
surreal soundscapes and nostalgic melodies, it
carries a strange understanding of the way things
feel inside my head, capable of expression that
words alone can’t achieve. But over time, I’ve
realized that music also functions as an answer
to the age-old question: What is my purpose?
42

existential dread
words by taylor landry
art by ember nevins
I listen to a lot of music, and most of the time it’s just
sound that keeps me company. But every once
in a while, something about a particular song –
whether it be the instrumentals, a certain lyric, or
the sound of the singer’s voice – resonates with
my being at just the right frequency, and for just
a second, I feel truly alive again. This happens
most frequently with the music of my absolute
favorite singer, Sufjan Stevens. Sometimes his
music strikes just the right chord and it’s like
my brain clicks back into reality, if even just for
a second. I find myself so filled with cathartic
appreciation that I remember to keep fighting to
exist. Just being here, listening to his music, and
feeling alive is enough. In those moments, I have
a purpose and I know exactly what it is.
But there’s another type of song that also serves
to give my weird little life purpose, and that’s
birdsong. Upon visiting home recently, I found
myself inexplicably entranced by the constant
visitation of birds to my family’s bird feeder. In
an instant, my eyes were blown wide open to
a whole world I had been previously blind to,
and I latched on as if my life depended on it. I
researched the most common species of birds in
New England so I could start identifying them by
appearance, behavior, and song. I excavated my
bright yellow childhood binoculars from the mess
of memorabilia in my bedroom so I could get a
closer look at the birds too shy to visit the feeder.
I kept a growing list on my phone of the species
I managed to identify, running out of the room
like an excited child to inform my family every
single time I identified a new one. I felt like a kid
again, wonder and excitement starting to thaw
the glacier of numbness in my mind.
When I’m watching the birds – appreciating their
quirks and making an effort to identify them – I
feel a sense of purpose sprouting out from the
fog. I’m here to pay attention, to learn, and to
interact with the world around me. I’m here to fill
the bird feeder up with fresh seed every morning.
I’m here to listen to a song – whether it comes
from the headphones in my ears or the throat of
a blue jay – and feel it echo through my bones.
These purposes aren’t groundbreaking in the
way that we often hope for, but I don’t think they
have to be. It’s enough to just exist.
Over the years, I’ve come to understand that I probably won’t ever feel completely “normal” again. I’ll probably always
feel a little bit disconnected from my surroundings. But finding purpose? Finding a reason to keep fighting to exist, even
as just a tiny part of this endless universe? That really doesn’t need to be so terrifying. It can be as simple as a new song
coursing through my veins or a chickadee waiting expectantly for a fresh helping of sunflower seeds. She’s appreciative of
my existence; why shouldn’t I be?
43

We
Marvel
WORDS
THE PAST AND PRESENT OF
A SEACOAST ROCK BAND
“We are prone to marvel at things,” said Rainor Vigneault,
the lead singer and guitarist for local psychedelic
rock band Marvel Prone. “There’s something about
existence that is really mysterious. A lot of times I find
myself absorbed with the beauty and mystery of being
in this world, to the extent of my detriment. I’ll be more
consumed with the sounds of my guitar than the laundry
that’s been piling up in the corner for months.”
“We are Marvel Prone,” Vigneault said with a smirk.
This eclectic coalition of Seacoast musicians has held
a variety of different members and identities over the
years. Formed in 2014 with Peter Dubois and Riley
Webb, Vigneault is the last standing member of the
original band. Though the band has two albums packed
with original songs, their beginnings were rooted in
covers of the members’ favorite songs.
BY
SHANE JOZITIS
Marvel Prone’s music has since become harder and
heavier due to former bass player Lukas Labrie’s
progressive rock inspired bass licks, and McPherson’s
heavy-handed approach to the drums. This shift in tone
is apparent in their song “Blue-Eyes, White Dragon” from
their latest album, She Hits Me. The song is grounded
with a grungy drum beat accompanied by a searing
guitar riff; a mix described by Vigneault as Tom Petty’s
“Runnin’ Down a Dream” and Nirvana’s “School.”
McPherson’s explosive drum beats and new bassist
Alex Amann’s syncopated riffs are indicative of their
influences. Most notably, McPherson says the band
Rush was a main driver for his interest in drumming.
“I idolized Neil Peart when I was first starting out,”
McPherson said. “More recently I’ve been loving the
band Genesis, and Phil Collins has quickly become one
of my favorite drummers. Not to be a knob, but I can
sense some elements of his playing in my own style.”
“Originally the name of the band was DAVE,” Vigneault
said. Marvel Prone later cycled through band names
like Supermoon and Webb Tone, a tribute to former
bass player Riley Webb.
“At one point we called ourselves Lightswitch for some
reason...which was probably the worst idea,” Vigneault
said, laughing.
Now under Marvel Prone, the band consists of Rainor
Vigneault on guitar and vocals, Alexander Amann on
bass, Meghan McPherson on the keyboard, and her
brother Ed McPherson on the drums, a positive addition
to the group in Vigneault’s eyes.
“It was great meeting Ed for
the second album because
he brought a ton of creative
ideas to the songs I’d been
sitting on,” Vigneault said.
“He really brought them
to life. It goes to show
that a band can still be a
band even if the members
change.”
Similar to McPherson, Amann draws influence from
Rush bassist Geddy Lee, along with famous rock bassist
John Paul Jones from Led Zeppelin and Oteil Burbridge
from the Allman Brothers and Dead & Company.
On the opposite end of the spectrum lies Ed’s sister,
Meghan McPherson, who cited the keyboard sounds
from 80’s pop tunes as her main inspiration.
“I’ve always loved 80’s pop since I was a kid,”
McPherson said. “When you listen closely, there’s so
many similarities between that and progressive rock.
People laugh at me when I say that but when you dig
into those synth lines and modulations, it’s absolutely
mind blowing.”
Marvel Prone is currently working on a new album,
expected to release in 2022, so long as the pandemic
doesn’t intervene.
“Right now we have an album cover, but no songs,”
Vigneault said.
The album cover, designed by local artist Evelyn
Bollinger, is a bright orange canvas with abstract
44

PHOTOGRAPHY BY
MAX SCHOENFELD
are
Prone”
designs scattered throughout. “11:22” lies in the middle of
the cover art in a jagged font.
“It’s just one of those times that you see on the clock, and
I notice it more than other times,” Vigneault said. “Some
people see 4:44 or 3:33 and it’s their favorite time, but
11:22 is the one I always see, and everytime I see it I
think to myself, ‘Does this mean something?’”
The concept for their upcoming album revolves around
a psychological breakthrough and transformation that
Vigneault experienced a couple of years ago.
“I’ve been reading this book by Carl Jung called
Psychology and Alchemy, so there will be some chemical
themes involved,” Vigneault said. “It’s gonna be weird,
but really fun.”
Marvel Prone recently returned to the live stage after
a short hiatus, popping up at Seacoast venues like
The Stone Church in Newmarket and The Big Bean in
Durham. After witnessing the young coterie of musicians
in person, it was clear that despite revolving members
over the years and absences from the stage due to the
pandemic, the energy and excitement fostered by Marvel
Prone remains the same.
Long-standing fan Lauren Hellman gave her thoughts on the
band following a recent performance in Durham.
“Marvel Prone is an incredibly diverse band as far as the
genres,” Hellman said. “From performing at house shows to
bars, they’ve definitely made a name for themselves in the
area, and their social media presence is a big asset to their
popularity. I’ve seen them perform covers as well as originals
many times, and their energy as a group really shows during
their performances. I’ve listened to and played many of their
originals on my radio show, and it’s really impressive to see
how seamlessly they’re able to translate a studio recording to
a live performance.”
With limited venue capacities, catching the band live is
trickier than it’s been in prior years. Luckily, Marvel Prone
has a slew of music available through Spotify, Apple Music,
and Soundcloud, all great ways to enjoy their music from the
comfort of your home and to support musicians during the
pandemic. Albums and songs may also be purchased for
digital download via their page on Bandcamp.
Be on the lookout for their next album, expected to release
November 22, 2022.

seth burton

jesse dejager

jesse dejager

jack bouchard

seth burton

jesse dejager

catrina marr

caitlin durnbaugh

catrina marr
jesse dejager

If you follow the Cocheco River
seaward, you’ll come to a
bend, where the river emerges from
the midtown sprawl of Dover and
snakes around a section of old brickadorned
industrial buildings. On the
far bank, there’s a stretch of lawn,
soft in summer, frozen in winter,
complete with riverside picnic areas
and a maritime themed playground.
It’s a bright little park, kempt, and a
popular spot on a sunny day. But, if
you continue down the river just a few
dozen feet beyond the end of the lawn,
the scenery changes dramatically.
Across a poorly paved road lies an
even more poorly paved lot, and on
this lot rests the haphazard remains
of a skatepark.
Okay, it might not be that bad, but it’s
a pretty sad excuse for a skatepark.
In case you haven’t visited Dover’s
only skatepark recently, I’ll catch you
up to speed. Built in the mid-90s, the
park looks its age. Little more than a
jumble of small street features on a lot
that looks and rides like it hasn’t been
repaved in the two-and-a-half decades
since it was built, it still attracts
skaters—if only because it’s the lone
skatepark around. It does have a nice
wooden halfpipe, a smooth newer
addition to the park that contrasts with
the rest of the cracked and weathered
terrain. Unfortunately, the sad
appearance isn’t just confined to the
infrastructure. It’s not unlikely to find
needles discarded under the halfpipe
deck, or to see the dangerous sparkle
of broken glass strewn under a ledge.
It’s not the worst park out there, but
it’s old and rusting and definitely
doesn’t have the best reputation. I still
remember asking a UNH skater I met
as a freshman if the Dover park was
worth checking out and genuinely
being told that he’d rather go skate a
tennis court.
I know this all sounds pretty bleak, but
fear not; an unlikely savior has come
in the form of a $3-million housing
development agreement. If you’ve
been through Dover in the last couple
of months, you’ve probably seen or
heard massive construction vehicles
rolling and digging through the newly-
K
WORDS BY
JALEN ANDREW
PHOTOGRAPHY
BY
JACK BOUCHARD
+ DANI DANIS
P U
56

I C K
Dover's ballad for a new skatepark
S H

shred so
gnar toda
!!! very gnarly indeed !!!
58

me
y !!!
leveled gravel fields that are all that’s left of what used to be the tree-covered bluff
overlooking the skatepark and downtown. These desolate fields are primed to give
rise to nearly 500 new residential units in the form of apartment and townhouse
complexes in the coming months. The concept plan for the development was agreed
upon at the start of this year by Dover City Council and a Boston real estate company
who plan to build this new suburb on Cocheco River’s south bank, right where Dover
skatepark currently resides.
So how is this a good thing? Well it turns out a lot of people skate in Dover, and
replacing the only park around with an apartment complex wasn’t a super popular
move. After what must have been many angry complaints from many angry skaters,
Dover City officials agreed to move a mile or so over the river and up Portland Ave
to build a brand new skatepark near the woodland-enclosed softball field known as
Guppy Park.
The initial design rendering for the new park was unveiled in October 2020, and wow;
comparing it to what Dover has now is like comparing a Motel 6 to a Ritz Carlton. It’s
designed by actual skateboarder and landscape architect Brad Siedlecki who founded
Pillar Design Studios in 2009 and has since built dozens of high-quality custom skate
parks across the country, all the way from Texas to New York.
“There is a major difference between a skatepark that is properly designed and built
by skateboarders for skateboarders, and skateparks that are selected from a catalog
like a playground,” says Siedlecki. This love for the craft shows front-and-center in
his designs.
The new park is laid out on 15,000 square feet of beautiful, smooth concrete. It’s
designed court-style, much longer than it is wide, plenty of room for putting together
long, flowy lines. The entrance to the park is a hubba-flanked seven stair, complete
with handrail. The rest of the park is spread across two interconnected levels with the
upper portion housing a couple manny pads and ledges while the lower portion gives
rise to rails, ramps, pyramids, a quarter pipe, and a curved halfpipe. There’s even a
pretty big clover bowel off to one side, perfect for long, pumping transition sessions.
According to Dover’s Recreation Director Gary Bannon, the proposal for the new park
is currently in the survey phase, while the location in Guppy Park is being mapped
out and finalized. The plan is to have all the geotech reports and survey work sent
in to Siedlecki and his team at Pillar Design Studios by the end of March and then
have the design and cost finalized over the course of a few months before beginning
construction. As for the money side of things, Bannon estimates it could cost upwards
of $500,000, but a good portion has already been allocated by the City Council and
more fundraising is in the works for the near future. Bannon confessed Dover Rec
might sell features from the old park to fund construction of the new park, explaining
that it’s unlikely they’ll be able to reuse anything from the River Street skatepark.
Apparently, people have already expressed interest in buying some of the current
park features, so if you want to take home a little piece of history – a chipped concrete
slab or rusting flat rail perhaps – you better act fast.
With a design so ambitious and modern, it might take some time before any ground
is actually broken. The current goal is set to have the park completed by the close of
2021 or beginning of 2022, according to Bannon. But whatever the timeframe ends up
being, I for one am stoked to see Dover taking skaters seriously and proposing such
an awesome upgrade to an outdated park.
59

art by alyssa doust
words by
caleb jagoda
60

the washedup wizard
doesnt need a scrub
W
hy does my physical body melt off my bones into a puddle of piddlepaddle drivel, pick itself up off
the concrete curvature, gain a mind of its own dime and doing, and go to the store like a misplaced
shadow on a cloudy day—an impossible missive misnomer garden gnome?
why does he buy a pack of cancer sticks and a golden bottle of colt fortyfive just to start the self-destruction
all over again?
why does he overheat in his meat suit
and enjoy his minor comforts which only
detriment his delicate delineations of
miracle existence when every second
is closer to his last?
why does my own body build itself
back up like a maple tree made of
meat and blood and bones and other
oddly possible amazingly architectured
ephemera entities?
who’s the real person of real people
and who’s the shadow person in
human clothing?
whose shadow am i wearing
today? tonight? tomorrow?
yesterday?
who am i if i don’t care
who is who and instead sit
on my stoop and observe
the world in happy sleepy
cement stoop stoned
philosopher somnolence
and drink a golden elixir
forty and allow the malt
liquor to make warm
unspooling summer evening
music with my molecules?
i’m just another washed-up
wizard, too orangutangannul to
do anything with my omnipotence,
letting my starcluster galaxyladen hat
droop over my looping eyes and letting
my magic intermingle with the malt liquor
melting my belly
let them peddle the next revolution; let me leave
the strings untangled and dangling, content not to
be the knot they once were, the snarl they once
gnarled, grimaced by the brain matter they once
were potatomashed into—i eat my potatomash,
you see, and enjoy every airplane spoonful of its
buttery cargo
the stoop wizard in the drooping hat swooping off
balance all topsyturvy, watching the cars whizzing by
with their incessance and necessities and grumbling
stomachs; not i, said the wizard, demystifying his
wand, gutting it, sprinkling stardust and moonbeams
into it, rolling it perfectly imperfectly into a divebomber
delivering only peace, and smoking it as the fat
doobie it always was but never knew to be true
the washedup wizard who never wears tightywhiteys
– especially not gasolinesoaked ones in this eightbit
sidescrolling hellhole – and lets it all hang loose, for
every second is closer to his comfiest
61

EPISODE ONE: PILOT
Iwas once told my life could be a sitcom. My bad luck
never ceases to amaze me. On a micro level: my shoes
untie when I run, my tire pops on the freeway, I submit
my homework to the wrong class. The list goes on with
anecdotes that at the end of the day don’t really matter, but
make for sitcom gold. So let me write a few episodes for you.
My best friend and I just got back from the trip of our lives:
one week in Namibia, one of the most desolate countries
on earth, located in southwest Africa. We barreled through
the entire country in a truck and camped in the desert.
When we touched back down in Cape Town South Africa,
where I was studying abroad, I guess life had to ground
me, keep me humble—I started to feel sick. Must be from
traveling and adjusting back to my normal routine? Right?
Nope. It was unbearable. I couldn’t stop sleeping. Round
the clock nauseous, I fully lost my appetite. I went to the
hospital where they told me I had African tick fever. Yeah
that sucked but they prescribed me antibiotics and I was on
my way. When I got to the pharmacy and handed over my
prescription, the pharmacist told me it was an illegal script.
Should’ve known. It was essentially a scrap of paper with
the name of the drug and the doctor’s signature, akin to a
forged note dismissing you from high school that your friend
with good handwriting wrote. She calls the hospital and they
tell her it’s legit—which I don’t know if that’s legal but she
kept telling me she felt so bad I had tick fever so maybe she
just wanted to help me out. She looks up the recommended
antibiotic and it doesn’t exist. In fact, it hadn’t existed in the
country for the past 10 years. She’s not even sure if you
could find it on the continent of Africa. She spends close to
an hour finagling the system, making calls, looking stuff up
(sweet, sweet girl—I’ll find her when I go back and buy her
a drink). How am I spending this hour? Sitting in the
corner in a cold sweat, trying to stay conscious and
not throw up. I’m granted four different prescriptions
that will hopefully cure me and I leave.
Maybe two days later I start noticing my mouth is
swollen, to the point that I can’t eat hard foods. My
wisdom teeth start actinnnn up. I hit the dentist.
Dentist tells me I should get my wisdom teeth out. I’m
thinking hellll nawww, I’m not getting these bad larrys
out while I’m abroad. She prescribed me some sort of
antibacterial mouthwash (with a legal script) and after
about a week they kind of felt better but I still couldn’t
really eat solids without putting my front teeth to werk.
In the midst of my toothache, I get contacted by Bank
of America saying there’s been some sus activity
on my account. I go on to check it out: 3,000 bands
spent in Namibia, someone stole my credit card
info. Classic. I got the money back but still are you
kidding? Anyway, I’m well now but I still get a ‘letter
of demand’ email like once or twice a week from the
Cape Town ER because I never paid the medical bill.
I think it’s like $40 but I can’t afford that right now. I’ll
drop my Venmo at the bottom in case anyone wants
to contribute—anything helps.

EPISODE TWO:
DUE DILIGENCE
Health & Wellness hits my line, lets me know I have the covid.
That’s fine, everyone I know has it or had it. I wait it out for 10 days:
getting 500 steps a day, shuffling back and forth between my bed,
the fridge, and the couch; a vicious cycle, like any good quarantine.
I get out on a Thursday. My first night back in the game: carry the
one, it’s gonna be a fun night. I can’t let people down, I gotta go
hard, drop enough heat at the bar to make up for any time missed.
Honestly just tryna help the economy ya know? I do my diligence,
put in my time and somehow make it home from the bar to continue
the fun. Again, and I cannot stress this enough, I am only doing this
because I can’t let my peers down. Three a.m. rolls around and I’m
still vibing, mind you I’ve been penting this energy up for 10 whole
days so yeah I’m amped, I’m workin, I could punch a wall. So I do.
Surprise shawtayy! Knuckle hits the beam and my hand goes limp.
So I throw some ice on that thang (frozen veggies, not a Rolex)
and now it’s 4:30 a.m. and I’m like okay I can’t move it and it’s pretty
swollen. Close my eyes and wake up to experience a morning sent
from satan himself. I have an exam, an Italian exam (tha gabagool).
Took the exam with my left hand and 1/3 mind capacity—passed it.
My friends drive me to urgent care (thanks guys). I walk in looking
like I got hit by a U-Haul, probably smelling like low tide (wouldn’t
know though, lost my smell from covid). I tell nurses Linda and
Christie what happened and Linda starts running her mouth. “Isn’t
that something boys usually do?” Like first of all Linda—what’re you,
a misogynist? It’s 2021, women punch walls too. And second: check
your vibe. Leave your sass at the sliding door...the audacity on her.
Whatever. They put me in a cast and sent me on my way. Been
sporting that thing for the past month.
EPISODE THREE: I’VE GOT THE
POWER
So I’m on a walk, right. It’s like a six mile walk so I’m three miles out
and my phone screen just stops working, shits the bed. I give it a
few minutes and still nothing so I try to restart/power it off with the
side buttons but I can’t slide the screen to fully turn it off. So I hit the
volume button and the power button and hold it down—if you do this
and hold it down long enough it calls 911. I was not aware of this
at the time so I did indeed call 911 and couldn’t hang up because I
couldn’t touch the screen.
Side note: no one picked up. Like how the hell does no one pick up
when you call 911? They literally have one job. Their sole duty is to
answer phones. It’s just fitting that I called 911 and no one picked
up. ANYWAY.
The call ends and I’m just walking on the outskirts of Durham
wondering if the police take missed calls seriously. Mind you I can’t
change the song because of the screen (or even pause it) and it’s
shuffling all my music. What song comes on? “I’ve Got the Power.” I
use Siri to call my friend who proceeds to call the police station and
tell them not to look for me, not that it mattered in the end because I
was never even on their radar. Phone has since been fixed, but my
life is still a joke.
Venmo: caroline-fitzgerald-6
63

I ’ M
G E T T I N G
O L D E R
64
words by Evan Ringle
Photos by dani Danis

Ipainted my room this weekend. I covered up the electric blue walls of my bedroom with variations of
beige. I cleared my room out of all the things I’d collected over the years—clothes, shoes, books to
make the blue paint I had picked ten years ago disappear. Some of the things I moved out, I moved out
permanently. Like my desk that was as old as the paint on my walls, and the shag carpet left in my closet
floor from the previous owners. Replaced with a new desk, laminate flooring, and a futon, I changed
the bedroom that hadn’t seen such an interior transformation since I was 13. And it made sense; only a
13-year-old would pick out the ugly shade of blue that I chose for my bedroom.
I want to be clear right now, this is something I really wanted to do. I didn’t feel any obligation from my
parents or pressure from my sister to change anything. I did it because the blue didn’t feel right anymore.
Neither did the battered old desk and the lack of a dresser—my clothes being kept on a wire shelf for
the last decade. I’m getting older. And if my more youthful self would have objected, frankly my dear, I
don’t give a damn.
When I think about the biggest ways I’ve changed since I was 18, the most noticeable difference comes
from how I expected to see myself at this point in my life, and what actually happened. When I was 18,
I expected that by the time I turned 23, I’d have an apartment in Boston or New York, working for a film
studio or Rolling Stone. I would be in my first professional year after graduating from Emerson College,
where I earned a degree in Film & Television, and I’d know all the local artists and all the important
players in the film industry. I’d be one of the winners. And all I can say is, thank God that stopped being
my standard, because imagine how fucking boring all of that would have been.
Think about the sort of people who immerse themselves in the entertainment industry. They’re needy,
manipulative, and if the last five years has shown us anything, it’s that most of them are sexual predators.
But before I knew any of that, I wanted it for one reason, and I’m pretty sure I even knew it when I was
18. The word vanity explains all of it: the desire to be accepted and wanted by people who I thought
were impressive. I wanted to be famous, and I wanted to be wealthy. I wanted this to show all of my
classmates in high school that I wasn’t a burnout like they thought, that I had something to offer.
I still think I have something I can offer to people. But what I think I’m capable of giving hasn’t just
become more grounded in reality, it’s become more meaningful. I can offer love, friendship, and sincere
advice to my loved ones who need it. I can offer myself. Over these years, I’ve learned that careerfocused
standards for ourselves take us away from what really matters. My work does not define me.
The amount of money in my bank account does not define me. The way I treat people defines me. And
to have a meaningful life, I’ve learned that if I truly want to impact the ones around me and do something
worthwhile, it’s going to come from the way I care for the people I love.
65

I think a lot about being a father now. I used to distance
myself from the idea when I was younger, and think to myself,
“I’d never have kids, they’d get in the way of my success.” I
settled for imagining myself as being the cool uncle, shifting all
the responsibility of having kids to my sister, so I could be the
motivated and successful one. But as I’ve been getting closer
and closer to graduating, and I’ve been forced to think about
what success in my life would really look like, I can’t think of any
greater success than being a good parent. I’m not exaggerating;
I’m not trying to come off as sentimental. I have a deep and
profound desire to raise my own kids, to the extent that it matters
more to me than pretty much any other facet of my future.
I sometimes even think about myself as a parent with my
children. I see kids at the grocery store I work at and imagine
taking my own kids grocery shopping. My dad used to take me
grocery shopping every Sunday, and before we’d go, we’d get
breakfast together. I think about making breakfast for my kids
on the weekends, stacks of pancakes and hash browns. I can
see their faces and I know their names, even if I haven’t chosen
them yet. I love my children and I haven’t even met them yet.
That’s how committed I am to being a parent.
I still love all of the things I did when I was younger. I’m still
obsessed with gangster films, The Beatles are my favorite band,
and I can still crush a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream in three
minutes. But what getting older has done is made me able to put
these things in perspective and hold new levels of appreciation
for them. I’m much more deeply in tune to how art moves me
beyond the aesthetic appeal of a gun shoot-out or a pretty
melody. I can balance the things I enjoy without indulging to
excess, and I can save my time for things that I truly care about.
So now I sit on my new sofa in my beige room, and I look at
the things I kept. My bookshelf with a decades-worth of graffiti
made by my friends that I didn’t paint over. My Kurt Cobain
and T. Rex poster that I bought when I was fourteen, and my
collection of guitars that extend as far back as age nine. The
things worth keeping, I’ve kept. The things worth tossing have
been successfully tossed. I’m still getting used to throwing out
unnecessaries—I’m not perfect at it. But if I’ve learned anything
from the last five years, it’s not only important to let go and
change. It’s imperative. I like the color beige, and it doesn’t
mean I’ve become boring.
“
Over these years,
I’ve learned that
career-focused
standards for
ourselves take
us away from
what really
matters. My
work does not
define me. The
amount of money
in my bank
account does
not define me.
The way I treat
people defines
me. And to have a
meaningful life,
I’ve learned that
if I truly want to
impact the ones
around me and
do something
worthwhile,
it’s going to
come from the
way I care for
the people I love.
”
66

67

words by jasmine
art by julia
ph
GNOSTIC

taudvin
n armijos
otography by dani danis
Ipull my dark hair out from the long string around my neck and drop the cool jade
at the end of the necklace from my Tante Kari under my shirt. It rests on my
belly button; the external reminder of my first source of life. The jade warms quickly,
blending into my skin and centering me in the present. My friend laughs and pokes
my stomach.
“It’s your little belly button,” she says. I laugh too but remind her I’ve already got one
of those.
“Yes, and this is your new one!” she says definitively. From beyond the branches of
the tree we are playing under, a whistle blows. Students rush indoors. I feel better
once the jade is tucked away; I know that I am safe.
At home, my dad tells me that my mom has left for work. “She’ll be back late at
night,” he says. “You’ll see her in the morning.” My three-year-old heart stutters. I
run to the living room window and climb up on the windowsill. My mom’s car turns
the corner and disappears. Quickly, I take a deep breath in and close my eyes.
Pleasepleasepleaseplease, I think. Guardian angels: keep my mommy and my family
safe.
In that moment, I feel with a sudden enormity just how much I have to lose. It feels
inevitable. My left fist clenches tight of its own accord, holding the safety of those I
love within.
Years later, driving to college, I look over at my mom and hesitate.
~
~
“I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this,” I say, “but I’ve always felt like I lost something
huge in a past life.” My mom reaches over and grabs my hand from the driver’s seat.
She looks less surprised than I expected.
“Mmm, you told Tante Kari that when you were really little,” she says kindly. “Tell me
about it.”
~
Sitting in a chair, I squirm. I itch at the edges; I feel too big and too small. I’m
claustrophobic. My soul is too big for my body. I know this dance well. I throw a leg
over the arm. I stretch and crack my back, and my shoulders, and my knees and
ankles, and my neck and wrists and hips and collarbone. I turn to my stomach. I flip
over upside down onto my back, with my legs up on the wall.
I settle with my chest on the floor, my butt and feet up behind me on the chair. My
arms stretch out ahead. That’s better.
~
69

In the deep midwinter
Frosty wind made whole
Gazing fondly at my family bathed in the glow of Christmas lights, I mishear the lyrics
of a favorite winter song. I know they aren’t correct, but I don’t care. I like my lyrics
better.
My grampa sits at the piano, improvising a Dixieland jazz accompaniment to the
choral CD. Nothing about this is religious; we never celebrate Easter and I don’t learn
until I’m nineteen that Jesus’ last name isn’t Christ. It’s love, and it’s magic.
As the CD spins and the next song begins, my dad comes in from his sit and joins us.
He’s calmer after meditating, happier.
“You know, this right here is a bit like Zen Buddhism,” he says. “Just sitting.”
“And snuggling!” my mom proclaims, and I snuggle deeper into the family pile.
One month after I turn twenty, I wake up in my dorm room and everything feels
different. Calm. I don’t feel lonely, but I am more alone. The incessant train of thoughts
running through my head is silent. The claustrophobia is gone. For the first time in my
life, I have enough space and time.
My abs are mysteriously sore.
~
It feels weird. The day is more real than any others that came before. I look at the
leaves, notice how I walk, listen to people speak. Is this what everyone normally feels
like? I’m sure I look confused all day.
~
I call Kari from my dorm room, lying on the floor. I don’t know what to believe, but
her words have always felt right. Plus, she has a degree in biology; her identity as a
scientist makes me want to trust her. When she picks up, she starts laughing almost
immediately after saying hello.
“When your mom said you wanted to talk to me I was like, ohhh boy this is going to be
interesting,” she says through her laughter. It’s contagious, and I start laughing too.
70

my soul is too
big for my body

When I finish explaining, Kari seems to have an answer.
“I think you’ve had a soul re-negotiation,” she says. She thinks I’ve let go of the past,
slightly changed my purpose in life. In these few hours, on the phone and into the
evening, I decide to believe her completely. I suspend my disbelief.
We talk for a long time, and she asks my guardian angels about my past lives, about
those feelings of great loss and claustrophobia. She tells me what she senses: an
immense power in ancient, ancient Egypt. An entrapment, a lack of ability to move.
The age feels right; the power feels right. I don’t know what to think about Egypt.
Somehow mediums come up during lunch.
“Oh, my aunt is a medium,” I say, offhand. “And a scientist.” Intrigued, my friends
pester me for more information.
“Do you believe any of it? Does she talk to dead people?” someone asks. I hesitate.
“Ah, I don’t know.” I brush the question off. “She talks to angels.”
According to a 2016 study, 8.5% of college students identify as agnostic.
Raised with the choice to believe, my place of worship is the wind against a spotless
blue sky, my worship music and dance. My religion is the known and unknown; I
believe in the present moment, the love I feel and give, and the ground beneath my
feet. I trust myself and the knowledge that the unknown is unknown.
But sometimes, I believe in angels.
~
~
~
73

EAR
ROST
S
BITE ME
nowflakes trickled down like autumn leaves,
frozen by winter’s frosted tongue past my fourthstory
window. Warm serenity shrouded me as I
imagined the crackle of a fireplace behind me, a
necessary mindset as I was tucked away in cold
isolation. Trails of snow lay like sloths amongst the
tall oak trees, like Scarface had sneezed on our
small New Hampshire town and buried us.
ADVENTURES IN SEASONAL DEPRESSION AND SELF LOATHING
74
Words by Shane Jozitis

Whenever winter rears its frigid head, I’m reminded that my
hands are untethered, and I better keep trudging if I want
to see what’s on the other side of this darkness.
It’s a cold gray landscape sprawled out in front of me. The world feels still, but far from silent. Talk of books
and bags and games fade away amidst the rumble of plow drivers and my mind retreats to distant days: days
spent with the girl who first made me feel alive, with whom I fell in and out of love; waddling outside wrapped
in five pounds of snow gear to play soldier in the snow fort my father carved for me with his snowblower, and
abandoning my post to defrost my frozen nose with a bowl of chicken noodle soup; growing old enough to help
the family shovel snow, and getting yelled at for not doing it right. How could I possibly screw that up? The
answer is a cold shrug with a dash of tough love. You’re a man now, act like it.
Winter is an ashen fog of memories. Snowflakes fall around me, each a past experience that I hope to catch
with my tongue, so maybe I can taste the sweetness of winter once again. Now clean off your car that you paid
too much for, and shovel the sleet so you can go to work. Make the tires on that Chevy twirl and strike a patch of
black ice in hopes that the spins will feel like an amusement park ride and incite childish laughter. Contemplate
eating the pink salt sprinkled on your sidewalk, but shy away because you’re too old for candy now. Winter
mornings used to taste like hot cocoa and syrup; now they taste like black coffee and mud.
Winter’s hollow winds cry an old memory of mine, somewhat traumatic yet swaddled with the soothing safety
that I yearn for in darker days. It’s Halloween of 2011, and the anticipation of candy bars and that one house
that gives out fucking juice boxes is quickly punctured, not by suspected razor blades, but by the piercing howl
of an imminent Nor’easter. We were 30 minutes from home when flakes started to fall like little atom bombs,
sending my Uncle Chuck’s house party into a frenzy and spilling us out of the front door.
Perched on a steep hill, the family station wagon released a muted sputter that carried us away, cascading down
Merrimack Street before veering left down Beacon. There are a lot of questionable decisions surrounding that
night, especially turning down Beacon. It’s a long, slanted hill, glazed with thick ice and broken tree branches
on that particular night, waiting to be conquered by a brave soul with a death wish. It took a mere 15 seconds
before we struck that first ice patch, sending my family into a slight fishtail that followed us as we descended
into what felt like hell.
It was pitch black, but by some miracle, we had made it to the highway. My eyes stayed closed up until that
point. My father traversed Daniel Webster Highway with gusto, which looking back was probably his best
attempt at a poker face. Snowflakes shot down at us like a cluster of arrows, a scene my mother would later
describe as the Millennium Falcon shifting to hyperdrive. My parents were Han and Leia, and I was a young
Chewy.
Even though I couldn’t see beyond those dim yellow headlights, I felt safe because my father was steering the
ship. He was like a superhero that could journey the darkness with ease—but I’m on my own now. It’s pitch
black, and I can’t see where I’m going. Whenever winter rears its frigid head, I’m reminded that my hands are
untethered, and I better keep trudging if I want to see what’s on the other side of this darkness. I don’t think
my father could see where he was going either, and that brings me some relief. He reflects on that night with a
certain hesitance and an underlying smirk that whispers triumph.
The truth is, winter is beautiful, but that grace period only lasts so long before the ugly side of the severalmonth-long
cold snap is turned up and spit out by the plow. Little mountains of white powder, tarnished by the
salt of the earth and the mud underneath our boots. Try not to look. Keep imagining that fireplace behind you,
and pretend it’s the sun. It’ll come back soon, and you’ll be able to see once again.
75

garden of eden
by julian armijos
Garden of Eden is inspired mainly from the story of The Garden
of Eden in Genesis. The Garden of Eden is not meant to be
taken religiously in its interpretation even with this undertone.
Rather, Garden of Eden focuses on the vices of human nature.
The girl figure hugs and embraces the boy, the girl being Mother
Nature. Humans, with child-like minds, dug a knife in her back
for the selfish pursuit of truth. Tempted by greed, and dangerous
individualism, humans are disconnected from the natural world
led by false truths. Blinded by our actions of self-interest, the
truth and real knowledge imbedded in the world could never be
reached again. The Garden of Eden represents this narrative and
the actions that cast humans from a connective state thrown into
a world of selfish desires.
77

How
internalized
homophobia
damages
the bisexual community
I
If you’re anything like me, navigating queer
relationships as a bisexual woman is no easy feat.
Although many of us know we’re attracted to women in
some capacity years prior to dating one, it’s very, very
hard to find validation in that attraction alone. Looking at
a woman through the lens of a woman is much different
than looking at a woman through the lens of a man.
I was fortunate to grow up in a home where my parents told
my siblings and I that being gay was okay; yet I still struggle,
feeling like my sexuality isn’t natural. I can’t imagine how
someone in a homophobic home may feel.
How does internalized homophobia affect the bisexual
community specifically?
Growing up we’re taught women are supposed to be sexy;
so when I looked at woman and thought, “Wow, she IS
sexy,” it wasn’t some big revelation in the way it should
have been. Instead, it was “Yup, that checks out. She
looks just the way she should and men are lucky to look
at her in a way that is natural and Catholic.” I’d soon come
to find there was nothing natural or Catholic about me. I
liked the look of women. And not just in the way that the
male gaze taught me to in movies. I didn’t think, “Men
definitely think she’s beautiful” anymore. I thought, “I think
she’s beautiful.” I looked at women through the lens of a
bisexual woman, and I liked what I saw.
If it weren’t for internalized homophobia, that would’ve
been it. I’d be set on the road to coming out, finding a
girlfriend, living happily ever after in our gay cottage
with our adopted babies and rescued farm animals.
But for many bisexual women in the queer community,
that life is so far off from their reality because of,
yes, outward homophobia and discrimination; but
nowadays, more intensely and harder to dissect,
internalized homophobia.
What is internalized homophobia? Do I hate gay
people? Is that possible as a gay woman myself?
According to MedicalNewsToday’s article “What To
Know About Internalized Homophobia,” it “occurs
when a person is subject to society’s negative
perceptions, intolerance, and stigma toward
people with same-sex attraction. They then turn
those ideas inward, believing that they are true,
and experience self-hatred as a result of being
a socially stigmatized person.” Consuming
ideas that being gay is wrong, a sin, gross,
predatory, etc., from a young age skews queer
people’s view on their sexuality. Gay people
are compared to pedophiles; they’re labeled
as sinners.
Even in an accepting environment it’s hard to
dodge negative ideas about homosexuality.
In a country where white men hold a substantial amount of
power in continuing discrimination and misogyny, both socially
and systematically, bisexual women – especially WOC – face
specific consequences. Not only are they objectified because
of their sexuality, but invalidated. Bisexual women do hold a
level of privilege, especially white women, myself included,
and it’s imperative that we acknowledge the way bisexual
women are able to “opt out” of homophobia when they date
a man. They face less discrimination than a bisexual woman
would dating a woman. However, their sexuality still stands
regardless of their current partner’s gender, and people seem
to get this very simple concept confused. When I first came
out in high school, girls would tell me I was only faking it to
get attention from guys. Boys who I thought were my friends
constantly told me I wasn’t a real bisexual until I ate pussy.
They managed to invalidate me and sexualize me in the same
sentence.
Because women in general are so invalidated by men, they
often compete with other women for attention from men.
I used to be this way until I dismantled my internalized
misogyny. What I’m saying is: straight women may
discriminate against bisexual women because bisexual
women are especially sexualized, and male validation is
almost a commodity for teen girls. Because men want
women’s sexuality to be palatable for themselves,
they objectify bisexual women by watching lesbian
porn, telling girls to kiss each other at parties, asking
to have a threesome with lesbian couples, etc.
All of these instances invalidate the legitimacy
of bisexual women’s feelings toward women
and further push the narrative that bisexual
people don’t exist, or exist in only some
sexual capacity. These outward aggressions
manifest into internalized homophobia. The
narrative that women exist and perform in
fake queer relationships, solely for men’s
sexual pleasure, damages the LGBTQ+
community immensely. It tells us that
we operate in terms of male validation
instead of our own free will.

“ I looked
at women
through the
lens
of a bisexual woman,
and I liked
what I saw. ”
words + art by Hayley Barnhard

80

What does the manifestation of
outward homophobia look like on
the inside?
How many times have you heard a bisexual woman say,
“I could fuck a girl, but I don’t think I could see myself
dating one”? When first hearing that, some might find
it offensive and misogynistic. It sounds problematic. It
sounds like bisexual women are only fetishizing the gay
female experience. And as a bisexual woman myself
who felt that way for many years, I faced lots of shame
in this ideology. I didn’t want to only be sexually attracted
to women. It wasn’t something that I wanted instead of
loving one completely. I wasn’t “trying on” bisexuality as
an aesthetic or a trend that made me practice some form
of oppression; it was all that I knew. I knew how to be
sexually attracted to women; it was innate. It was a part
of my identity, and thanks to the male gaze, I learned that
women were sexual – and oftentimes overly sexualized
– beings. No one has to learn how to sexualize women
today. We pick it up in every form of media we digest; in
magazines, porn, movies, TV shows, books. It’s taught
in schools when we have to change our shirts in case
boys can’t focus because they’re too busy looking at
our prepubescent shoulders. Women are supposed to
be hot, but only for the sake of men. Being bisexual is
hot, but only for the sake of men.
As a baby gay, I didn’t think that a romantic
monogamous relationship with a woman was
possible for me, but not because I didn’t want it. It
was because I didn’t know what that looked like.
And when I did see what it looked like in the limited
queer content I watched growing up, they always
had some sort of crisis to deal with as a gay person.
They faced discrimination by their peers, they were
called slurs, they were kicked out of their homes,
so on and so forth. Why would someone voluntarily
subject themselves to that treatment when they
could just hide their sexuality and continue to
date men? For many bisexual women, this is the
hardest part about being bisexual. It scares a lot
of people away from coming out and living as
a proud queer woman. Internalized homophobia
keeps bisexual women in the closet. It tells us
that our lives will be so much easier if we just
hide these cute little feelings we have toward
women. They aren’t valid anyways. Especially
in a misogynistic culture.
Women’s feelings toward women aren’t
legitimate. Or…at least that’s what we’re
told as young impressionable girls. A man’s
girlfriend can hookup with another woman and
many people don’t consider that cheating.
Instead, it’s just hot. Being a woman with
a woman sexually is the only acceptable
way to function as a bisexual. It’s hot until
it’s not for men anymore. That’s when you
switch from a target of oversexualization to
a target of discrimination. Holding hands
with your girlfriend in public is only okay if the
men watching can also picture themselves
being your third. Nothing in a misogynistic
culture is for you—even your own queer
relationship.
So, we know what internalized
homophobia looks like, where
do we go from here?
It’s easy to hide who you are, and it’s easy to
continue living a lie. Coming out is a long and
grueling process that you, as a queer person,
are going to practice with every person you meet
until you die (LOL). It’s daunting, and a lot of times
for bisexual women, it seems unnecessary. But
if you want to shed off some of that internalized
homophobia, coming out is a great start. It’s scary
and you’ll face all sorts of scrutiny from family, friends,
coworkers, homophobic people you went to high
school with, etc. But once you start allowing yourself
to love who you want to love outwardly, internalized
homophobia starts to subside. Until we stop shaming
queer people and spewing hate backed by the same
priests who molest children, we will continue to struggle
with these feelings of self-hatred and invalidation. But
internalized homophobia can be dismantled with time
and acceptance. Gay people aren’t pedophiles. Gay
people aren’t unnatural. Bisexual people exist. Bisexual
women aren’t performers. As cheesy as it sounds, the
cure to internalized homophobia is living authentically
and loving who you love.
81

Words by Caroline Hanna
Art by Julia Gomes
SEAGULL
Seeing castaway
humans was
always a bad omen. All of Nellie’s friends
were superstitious birds, but she didn’t
believe in crazy things like that. Albatrosses
were always worrying. Whether it was about
their territory, their babies, food; they were always
squawking about something. They had crazy bird tales
about accidentally pooping on humans, which was bad
luck, whereas a red sunrise was good luck. They never
made sense to Nellie. She would rather spend her days
exploring and seeing the world than sit in her nest and
squawk at other birds. Her mate Orville never liked
Nellie going too far. She always had to be back before
the light went out.
Today, she wanted to fly around and see where she
would end up. She wanted to fly on the open ocean
instead of staying by the coast. She was flying for quite
SHMEAGULL
82

some time when she stumbled upon a small boat in the
middle of nowhere. They saw her before she saw them.
Then something caught her eye. It was a group of men in
a small boat. They clearly saw her before she saw them.
They were pointing and yelling at each other, and smiles
seemed to grow on the men’s faces. Nellie wondered, what
were these humans doing in the water? In such a small
boat? She circled the men to scope them out. Who were
these men? Everyone knows humans don’t belong in the
ocean. Nellie could see that the small boat was crammed
with four men, two oars, one tarp, and no food. These men
were skinny and frail.
Nellie landed in the water not far from the boat. All day she
swam around the boat. The men eventually calmed down
and sat in the boat talking with one another. However, one
of the men was staring at her with wild eyes. They looked
like they were going to pop out of his head.
Eventually, the sun was starting to disappear, and Nellie
knew the sharks were going to arrive anytime now. She
knew it was time to go back home.
When Nellie arrived back to the mud mound where her
nest was, Orville was waiting for her.
“Have you been sitting on that egg all day?” she asked.
“Well yeah, you weren’t here to incubate it. Did you get any
food?”
Nellie shuffled her feet. “Uh, no.”
Orville sighed. “What did you do all day?”
“I was out exploring. I found humans. They were castaways.
They’re on a little boa—”
“Nellie, humans are bad luck, you know this,” Orville
interrupted. “I get a bad feeling about castaways. They
always bring trouble.”
~
The next day, Nellie found them again. Not too far off from
where she found them the day before. Everything was the
same—however, the man with the crazy eyes was gone.
The men were quiet today. They made notice of Nellie,
but they were not excited. They were lifeless. Nellie, in her
boredom, decided she wanted to find the man with the wild
eyes.
She scoured the water for the man. Why would they leave
him behind?
A few miles away from the boat, she found what was left
of his body. A good portion was picked through by other
animals. Nellie wasn’t too hungry, but she took an eyeball
for a snack. It went down nicely.
Nellie flew back to check on the men, but they were gone.
The boat was still there but the men were nowhere to be
seen. Whatever happened to the man with the crazy eyes
happened to the men. Nellie thought it must’ve been the
sharks. They were the most dangerous animal, but when
they were done eating, they always left enough food for the
birds. The men’s bodies were probably floating in the water
somewhere. Maybe the boat will have clues.
Nellie swooped down to the boat like the detective she
was and landed on the tarp that was now covering the raft.
Maybe she could find the men and save them. She could
prove to her friends that castaway humans aren’t bad luck.
When she put her little orange feet on the tarp, it sank a
little. Then it sank a lot. Then the sun was gone. It was
night. She had to go home. No. It was the tarp. The men
betrayed her. Then, she couldn’t breathe.
83

ember nevins

words by marlies amberger
art by ember nevins

This is what happened. Elena and her friends arrived at Barrio, the bar on Seventh Street, following
the strangers who were already streaming into the building with fervor. Although it was only 9:30,
the seedy, beloved bar filled quickly. The evening vibrated in front of them. It was a Thursday in the crux
of October.
Elena and her roommates, the beautiful Brooke and Ruby, waited in line for ten minutes before the
bouncer asked them for their IDs. Elena’s heart lurched every time she used her fake identity, which
claimed her to be a twenty-three-year-old hailing from Scranton, Pennsylvania. When Ruby ordered
them, Elena protested. “There’s no way in hell those will ever work,” she had argued last semester when
Ruby screamed gleefully, texting her cousin to order two for each of them. But in their quiet college town,
where underage drinking and excessive partying were almost required to reside, dark nostalgic college
bars like Barrio did not take second glances at poorly printed licenses. Their fake IDs were scrutinized
by the lazy bouncer and swiftly returned. The delighted roommates flounced into the bar.
Barrio was decorated like a dive bar just off the freeway of a highway town after the road has been
closed for several years. The physical bar was slowly sinking into the floor on its left side. The shelves
of alcohol behind the bartender reached the high ceiling, half-open bottles of vodka shrouded with dust
from unuse. There were scant decorations on the wall above the standing tables, some ancient photos
of owners from the good old days looking down on the students like patron saints. A light layer of grime
lovingly encased the tables and chairs in the center of the room. Barrio’s saving grace was its sprawling
space, a luxury of expanse, which was converted into a dance floor on the weekends. When the lights
went out, it didn’t matter much what Barrio looked like anyways; a dance floor was a dance floor, and
the students were just elated to be there, alive.
There were about forty people congregated around various tables in the bar. Elena, Ruby, and Brooke
promptly rushed the bar and ordered three double vodka cranberries. Elena smirked at Brooke as she
traded her card for their drinks. They made their way to a table squeezed into the corner, a sanctuary
in the crowded space.
“Every time that works, I get as excited as I did the first time,” Elena gushed.
Brooke laughed and missed the straw on her drink, her small stature grossly affected by their pregame.
“It’s a miracle!”
Elena watched the stream of people entering the bar. Thursday nights were beloved at Barrio, a college
town ritual passed down by students and legacies and urban legend itself. She saw two people from her
English class enter the bar and she waved.
“You’re so popular, Ellie,” Ruby joked.
Elena laughed and waved her statement out of the air. “Want me to introduce you?”
Ruby scoffed and tossed her endless charcoal hair behind her, pieces falling forward to frame her face
like a movie star on the set of a famed film.
“What do you guys want to do for Halloween next weekend?” Ruby asked.
“Is it alright if my friends come and visit us?” Brooke asked.
“Which friends?” Ruby asked.
“Laren and Sophie. From high school. You guys will love them, they want to go out with us. They both
go to Endicott.”
Ruby gasped. “Isn’t Laren the one who stole your boyfriend junior year?”
Brooke rolled her eyes. “Don’t remind me,” she groaned, downing the rest of her magenta liquid. “Listen,
that was so long ago. We fought about it then but we’re good now.” She shrugged.
Elena nodded. “I don’t care. They sound fun. Next weekend I have to finish my marketing project before
we go to the bars, though.”
Ruby dismissed her with a wave. “Ellie, you’re a genius. You’re going to be saving our fucking lives in a

few years. Who cares about a marketing paper? It’s not even for your
major!”
“It’s a project,” Elena corrected her. Ruby turned to Brooke and widened
her eyes.
“Can you believe her?” Brooke looked up from her phone in surprise.
“Take the compliment, for once!” she yelled, exasperated. Elena was
flushed and fell silent, smiling into her glass.
Ruby, always holding a flame for dramatic flair, plopped her phone onto
the table and sighed.
“Guys, don’t you just feel so old? Like, we’ve been out of high school for
two years. I barely know anyone who still goes there since my brother
graduated,” Ruby lamented.
“Time is moving too fast this semester,” Brooke agreed. She turned to
Elena. “Can you believe break is only a month away? We’ll be home
before we know it.”
Ruby twirled her hair absentmindedly. “Ellie, you’re welcome to come
home with me again if you want,” she said, forcing nonchalance.
Her offer hung in the air for too long and sliced the energy in their
corner. Elena took a sharp breath and forced a grin. She finished her
drink.
“I think the band is about to start playing. Come on!” Elena yelled,
pulling Ruby and Brooke away from the table.
Patrons joined the roommates in pushing the chairs and tables in front of
them aside. A dance floor, open and free, appeared before them. Elena,
Ruby, and Brooke swarmed the makeshift stage, packing themselves
as close as possible next to strangers, waiting for the band to arrive.
The three of them stood, impatient, Elena shifting her weight from foot
to foot. Her phone vibrated in the depths of her purse as the band tuned
their instruments. The bar was illuminated by streams of light darting
through the room. Elena’s face glowed lavender.
“How do you know him, Elena?” Ruby asked. Elena pivoted to see Ruby
gesturing indiscreetly at a man who stood against the wall that was
looking toward them. He was tall—tall enough that Elena could make
out his face despite the strangers threatening to walk in her line of sight
in the crowd. His face was young but his eyes – which were locked with
Elena’s – held an unwarranted air of familiarity. Perhaps it was purely
the alcohol, she mused. Elena waved and the man nodded at her and
grinned. He finished his drink, placed it on the bar, and walked away.
Elena turned to her friends.
“I don’t,” she told them.
“I’m bored! I’m going to get us more drinks! Finish that!” Brooke yelled,
pointing at Ruby’s glass before weaving through the crowd. She
disappeared and Elena lost her in the throngs of people. She shrugged
and turned back to Ruby.
All at once, the lights dimmed and a resounding chord filled the room.
The crowd pushed further toward the makeshift stage and cheered,
roaring with adoration.
“Who’s ready?” the guitarist yelled. Elena and Ruby grabbed each
other’s hands and squeezed tight. This was what they had been looking
forward to all week.
The lead singer nodded and the band began to play an upbeat song
raging with energy and angst. The people in Barrio became one, pulsing
with the rhythm. Elena and Ruby twirled each other around their small
space on the crowded floor and laughed. Brooke returned with another
88

round of drinks. The roommates whooped with joy and toasted each
other.
The music ebbed with the night, drinks and dances passing through
Elena. She was avidly enjoying every aspect of the revelry. The room
blurred as she swayed methodically to the band’s songs. She moved
through the music, charmed like a snake. Time passed (how much,
Elena was unaware of) and the band ended a song on a resounding
guitar solo and announced they were taking a short break.
Elena turned to her roommates and found the man from the bar strolling
toward her. She turned to Brooke and Ruby, wiggling her eyebrows and
smiling big.
“I’ll be at the bar!” she exclaimed to them, turning to meet the man in
the midst of the crowd.
“Want to get a drink? I don’t have one,” she proposed.
The man smiled and took her hand, guiding her through the throngs of
people. They stood at the bar, trying to get the bartender’s attention.
“Oliver,” the man said, reaching out to shake her hand. Elena, surprised
and intrigued, shook his hand vigorously. “Elena!” she yelled.
The bartender nodded at them. Elena asked for a cider and Oliver
ordered too, handing the man his card.
“What a gentleman,” Elena proclaimed. Her voice whistled below the
conversations around them.
Oliver shrugged and handed her the cider. “I try.”
Elena sipped on her drink. The cold assaulted her lips and she steadied
herself on the bar. She studied Oliver as he paid for their drinks. He
stood tall, with a smooth and sensible demeanor behind his posture.
His olive coat turned black in the darkness and he shifted his weight
from foot to foot.
He turned and grinned at her. “We didn’t have to leave the dance floor,
you know.”
“I wanted another drink and you wanted to talk to me. No time like the
present!” Elena said a bit too loudly. Oliver smirked.
“Do you go to school here?” Elena asked.
Oliver nodded. “Obviously. How else would I know about Barrio? I don’t
think anyone other than college students would come here voluntarily,”
he said.
Elena knew he was trying to make a joke, and that joke wasn’t all too
funny, but she laughed anyway. She was sipping on her drink and was
happy to talk to Oliver.
A hand on her shoulder caused her to turn. Brooke and Ruby were
behind her.
“How’s everything going?” Brooke sang, but dual concern and intrigue
filled her gaze. “You’ve been gone for a few minutes.”
Elena realized the band had begun playing again. She turned back to
Brooke and smiled reassuringly.
“This is Oliver,” Elena announced. Oliver shook their hands and Elena
gave Brooke a nod. She was present and she was okay. Brooke smiled
in return, clearly eased.
Elena smoothed the edges of her skirt and turned to Brooke and Ruby.
“Why don’t you guys go back? I’ll be there in a second,” she assured
them. “I’m having a good time,” she murmured in their ears. Ruby
squeezed her hand and the two of them returned to the inner depths
of the crowd.
“It’s nice that your friends are looking out for you. There’s some weird
people out there,” Oliver remarked. Elena nodded in agreement, looking
at the invisible trail they left as they reentered the dance floor.
89

“They’re the best. They’re like family. My sisters.”
“Speaking of family, my brother owns this bar,” Oliver said.
Elena’s eyes widened.
“What a flex!”
Oliver shrugged, but he was pleased by her reaction. “He’s
twelve years older than me and bought this place with his
buddies after he graduated. I grew up running around here.”
Elena stared at him. “Why did you pay for drinks then, if your
brother owns the bar?”
Oliver laughed ruefully. “Just because he owns it doesn’t mean
he gives me special treatment. He’s still my sibling. Wouldn’t
yours do the same thing?”
In the distance, far but somehow nearby, Elena heard the band
startup.
“This is my favorite song!” she screamed. Elena pulled Oliver
to the dance floor, stumbling into the crowd. They found a
small nook for themselves and they danced. The lead singer
moved into the crowd, punching the air with her microphone.
People were screaming, like primal animals, but they were
laughing too. It was an uncapturable scene, one that must
be experienced wholly, and only then can it be understood.
For the students in Barrio, for their little college town, this was
everything.
Everything was vivid. It was entirely blurry. Elena and Oliver
swayed to the song. Elena was aware of the crowd pushing
them toward each other, the lead singer straining to belt out
a high note, the sound of yelling and cheering and love and
drunkenness encapsulating the room. She was enjoying it.
She was cognizant of the otherness occurring. His lips made it
to hers. She pulled away, abruptly.
“I’m going to run to the bathroom,” Elena said. Stumbling
toward the back wall, she burst into the bathroom, reached for
the stall door, and sat in a hurry. She was relieved and yet she
was still confused.
Elena wasn’t stupid. She knew precisely what Oliver’s goal
was. Perhaps it was something she was interested in too; she
was still pondering at that moment, but nevertheless, she could
at least enjoy herself regardless of what was to come next.
This is what she decided.
She flushed the toilet and went to wash her hands. They were
heavy and stiff. She gazed up in the grungy mirror and thought,
“How is this even real?” Her reflection was distorted in the
streaks and grime on the mirror. Elena touched her eyelid and
watched her reflection do the same. She was not connected
to the woman she saw. She shook her head and pulled her
eyeliner out of her purse.
Pulling the cap off unceremoniously, Elena went to reapply her
makeup. She watched someone else’s hand scale her eyelid,
like a mountain, and drag the pen to the side of her eye. Her
reflection reworked the smudge. Elena knew the woman she
was watching was drunk and was impressed with her fine
motor skills at such a time.
The work ceased and her makeup returned to normalcy. Elena
watched, entranced, as the reflection put her makeup into her
purse and returned to the mirror. Her gaze pierced Elena. She
smiled. What did she know? Elena forced herself to smile back
and she moseyed out of the bathroom, humming a simple
song.
She cut through the crowd and searched for Oliver. She found
him centered, observing the crowd and sipping his drink. His
eyes punctured the night and he stood as a stoic statue might.
“Sorry,” they both exclaimed. There was a reserve of worry in
Oliver’s expression.
“No, I’m sorry about that!” Elena yelled. Oliver hesitated. Elena
smiled and took Oliver’s open hand. He smiled back at her
and held her close. The music became an ocean that overtook
them. Together, they rode the wave. It was effortless and free
to be dancing there with someone right above the caliber of
complete stranger.
A fog appeared in Elena’s vision. She felt the music envelop
her and lead her movement. Barrio faded away and it was just
Elena. She felt pulled back by something. It was far away and
hard to discern. She kept dancing.
“Elena! You’re missing a call!”
Elena heard these words but she chose not to listen. The night
at Barrio was merely dawning. She was dancing and she was
drunk and there was nothing else.
Seconds passed and then Brooke appeared, repeating the
dreaded words. Elena reached out to her and enveloped her in
the sanctuary of her small arms.
“Brooke, dance with me!” she yelled. But Brooke pulled away.
Elena found herself focusing on her roommate’s face. It was
etched with worry. Elena dropped Oliver’s hand and stood limp.
“Come here!” Brooke yelled, pulling Elena toward the bar.
Elena stumbled but agreed to follow.
“Are you okay?” Elena asked. Behind them, the crowd cheered
and begged the band for one more song.
“Are you?” Brooke replied. She put Elena’s face in front of
Brooke’s phone. Two missed calls from Luke. Shock overflowed
in her gut. Elena’s eyes snapped up and she stared at Brooke.
“Why did he call you?”
Brooke paused. “I think you should go outside.”
A moment passed. Elena was there, but her mind was murky.
She had no coherence, no single thought. She could only gather
90

missing puzzle pieces that had no definition, no relevance, no
complete image at the end. Two calls from Luke.
She made her way to the door, miles away. She pushed past
the edge of the crowd, the drifters who were talking at the
edges of the room, the couples hooking up in the corners.
Elena threw herself into the door and found herself engulfed
in the frigidity of an early autumn morning. She wrenched her
phone from her purse, walking around Barrio to its sordid back
parking lot. Her only company remained the moon.
She opened her phone. Seven missed calls and one voicemail.
All from Luke. She swore and redialed.
A young man answered the phone. A voice Elena loved like her
own filled the silence. Elena’s body filled with relief, then dread.
“What happened?” she asked, even though she knew.
The voice struggled to answer her question. It was the answer
she expected. Elena’s eyes were heavy and she struggled to
keep them open as she answered. Her head spun and she had
the urge to retch.
“Fuck. Luke, are you sure?” She leaned against a white SUV
to steady her fickle legs.
Elena closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temple.
The alcohol coursed through her, tempting her mind to drift.
Would you blame her for drifting at a time like this?
A sharp tone brought her back, drawing her into the lonely
parking lot, her bare legs shivering in the cold.
And then, through the fog, an accusation: “Are you drunk,
Elena?” Luke snapped.
The venom in his question brought tears to prickle the edges of
her eyes. She slouched further against the car.
“I’ll be home first thing tomorrow,” she slurred, staggering
toward the front of Barrio. She cut through the bushes and
flowers adorning the facade which had wilted and folded
against themselves in the crisp October air. “I’m so sorry,” she
added hurriedly. She let it hang in the air as she hung up.
Elena’s mind began to clear. She began to focus on the
insurmountable number of tasks in front of her: find Brooke and
Ruby. Explain the situation. Call an Uber. No, walk and drink in
the cold harsh air, savor its pain in her throat, and try to sober
up. Take a cold shower. Pack a bag for a week—two weeks? A
month? Then try to sleep this treacherous night off. And then,
after a moment of hesitation, go back, she concluded.
She shook the terror off her shoulders and flung open the door
into Barrio.
Elena dashed to the bar, at the edge of the crowd, and scanned
for her friends.
Frantically, she searched, but her height cursed her and she
couldn’t see beyond the strangers in front of her. She ran to
the back of the room, by the stage. The music blared in her
ears and her body vibrated with the bass. They were not there.
Panic bubbled in Elena’s throat and her heart fought its
enclosement. She ran into the crowd, pushing people and
running into strangers. Someone grabbed her hand.
“Hey, what happened?” Oliver yelled. The sound was
overwhelming and Elena could not focus.
“I need to find my friends. I have—I have to leave here,” she
replied, grabbing his arm. She turned in the crowd, frantic.
“Go. I can find them and let them know,” Oliver replied. The
worry in his eyes struck Elena.
“Will you?”
Oliver nodded, and Elena believed him.
Oliver walked with her toward the door. “Are you okay walking
back?”
Elena nodded. “I’ll text Brooke and Ruby too,” she told him.
Oliver looked through her. “I hope everything is okay.” His
sympathy grounded Elena and she felt a sob of gratitude rise
through her throat.
“Thank you. My father just died.”
Elena squeezed his arm and stepped out of the bar. She felt
a sense of urgency to get home, but nothing could be done
until the night ended and she was sober once again. Adjusting
her purse, she found her footing on the sidewalk and walked
toward the street. The night was not asleep but it began to
wean, people swaying and strolling toward their rides home.
They danced along the sidewalk, a dance Elena did not know
and could not try.
Elena walked a few blocks and took off her heels. She trekked
barefoot, being careful to nurse the blisters forming at the
creases of her heels. Her mind raced and yet there was nothing
to ponder. “My father is dead,” she thought. Elena could not
bring herself to say it aloud.
Her body shook with dread as she walked. Each step took her
closer to the next task. She lost track of time, focusing solely
on the horizon. Elena stared straight ahead. Her purse jangled
at her side, her phone now silent, a silence so loud that her
ears rang.
Her racing thoughts guided her through campus and half
an hour later, her apartment building came into view. Elena
pushed her way into the building. She trekked up the stairs
and fumbled with the keys for a bit. She took an unsolid breath,
then unlocked the door. There was much to do. The drive back
home was a long one.
91

When the cheese phalluses at Big Auto Corporation decided to move forward with the repossession of my SUV,
they effectively turned me into a part-time bus passenger around the triad of Portsmouth, Durham, and Dover.
The other part of the time was spent: A) walking from Durham to Portsmouth to hold onto my valued civilian employment,
then back again, or B) walking from Durham to Dover to take the Coast bus to Portsmouth. Then the return trip. Option A
took five hours each way, six when there were snow and ice obstacles; Option B was the easier walk, roughly two hours each
way. From Dover, I could pick up the Coast bus to Portsmouth. I used the college bus whenever possible; unfortunately, the
majestic Summer of COVID led to no college bus service, and the preceding winter break reduced service.
I had offered Big Auto three payments at once when my tax return came in during February of
2019; no dice.
Mind you, the walks are not all negative. I have often received rides from nice kids
from my college who see me out there on foot. I burn calories;
as an Army veteran, I’ve often done ruck marches of
similar distances, both on active duty and as
a reservist. I have seen magnificent sunrises
and sunsets, night skies filled with stars,
varied indigenous wildlife. (I once was
walking in the dark to Dover when I passed
within a few feet of a large deer in a wooded
area near someone’s house. The deer was
startled and bolted, and I almost soiled
myself!) My mind runs free as I remember
significant times in my life, some pleasurable,
some not. I play games in the ambient room of
my mind, satisfying my SportsJones by compiling
lists of my favorite all-time professional athletes
in each of the major sports.
I remember one time on the Portsmouth to
Durham walk during summer months when I
walked past the abandoned campus of Great Bay
Community College. I had an urgent need to relieve myself;
occasionally this is remedied by nearby construction sites with portajohns.
Not today. I walked past the concrete barrier in front of the abandoned college building
and sought out a convenient tree. Wouldn’t you know it, a patrol car belonging to the Stratham Police Department swung
in at just that moment. I was finished and waved to the cop as I walked back to the road. He rolled his window down and
asked: “Were you just looking for a place to take a leak?” He was friendly and concerned enough. I instantly explained that
I was not loitering, just without a vehicle and trying to get home. I resisted the urge to go on a rant like probably every other
guy who has ever been stopped by police.
(“Man, I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I’m still a drilling reservist in the Army, I have a master’s degree…”)
Anyway, the policeman offered a bottled water and was just stopping to see if I was okay. I thanked him and proceeded with
my walk home.
Now to my intended story, within a story. On a pre-COVID early January day, having just returned from a family visit over
the holidays and having taken the C&J Trailways bus to the Portsmouth bus station (and too stubborn to pay for a taxi, two
of which were available), I struck out on foot through the fading sun of the winter afternoon, along Route 33 toward the
Stratham Traffic Circle and Route 108, which would take me back to Durham. There I would be home safe in one of the
graduate dorms, as I was in a two-year program.
By the way, do not let me paint myself as a complete victim. My intensified pedestrian status is a result of my not paying
bills on time. Furthermore, I have had one UNH professor and one family member offer to give me a used vehicle, with no
payments needed. I still prevaricate, as I prefer not to pay extra money for parking passes and insurance and service and
tags and yearly taxes. Also, to be honest, I am becoming something of a tree hugger in my older years. I would rather not
use my hard-earned money to feed combustion engines that produce emissions that burn a hole in the ozone and assist
global warming. I am, like, the most liberal conservative olde whyte guy with a military background that I’ve ever met.
So, as I walked along Route 33 that late afternoon, the air grew colder, the sun disappearing slowly yet deliberately. I made
a stop at the McDonald’s across the intersection from the TA truck stop in Greenland. I kept the meal small as I knew I had
92

a long distance to walk still. As usual, the looks I got from people driving past me were real choice. I had liberal silvertips
rubbernecking as they passed me, surveying me with judging eyes.
(Okay, I don’t know for sure if they were “liberal” or “judgmental”; in fact, a lot of the people who have helped me with food
and shelter insecurity in the recent and distant past look much the same as these folks.)
I picked up Route 108 close to the Stratham traffic circle and headed toward Newmarket. I knew that once in Newmarket,
there was an Irving station where I could use the restrooms and maybe get some coffee or an orange juice. Then from
Newmarket (which I enjoy visiting because I lived there many years), it is only about an hour and a half walk to Main Street
in Durham, and then my residence hall.
Along Route 108, I believe it is in Newfields, there is a gas station on the right and a Dunkin’ across the
street on the left. Shortly after there is a narrow bridge that goes over active railroad tracks. These
tracks are frequented by the Downeaster and the occasional freight train.
As the bridge in question is narrow and only two lanes, one in each
direction, I on this evening chose to walk down an embankment and
cross the railroad tracks themselves. I observed an abandoned
train station, about the same size and appearance as the Dairy
Bar in Durham, on the other side of the tracks. It cast a kind of
lonely, melancholy mood over the scene.
The tracks themselves had a light cover of snow and
ice over them; the rail bed was kind of elevated on a
running line of gravel as well.
I stood and looked in both directions, watching
and also listening for trains. All was quiet.
WORDS BY
DOUG
RODOSKI
ART BY
JULIAN
ARMIJOS
93

I now stood about a yard away from the small gravel hill and the
tracks. Again, I checked both ways, watching and listening. As
I stepped forward to quickly cross the tracks, I clearly heard a
strong disembodied voice command, “Don’t cross the railroad
tracks.”
Disregarding my own advice, I stepped up onto the raised gravel
and checked both ways. Then went across the tracks.
I went down the other side with no incident. Then I walked a few
steps and that was when the Downeaster train seemed to come
out of nowhere and glide behind me – perhaps twenty feet behind
me – heading south.
I had not heard it coming. Nor had it slowed down at all, at this
abandoned train station. Twenty feet is not ten feet or five feet;
that being said, the train was damned close, and I had not seen or
heard it coming because, I presume, there was a bend in the route
of the tracks through trees nearby.
Friends and family and the UNH community, knowing of my
three Iraq deployments, would probably speculate about reasons
for my being there had I been struck down by the train. Was
he depressed? Did something unsettling happen to him on his
deployments?
All the while, the truth would have been very simple. I was only
trying to walk home, because: the cheese phalluses at Big Auto
Corporation decided to move forward with the repossession of my
SUV.
Do I sound angry? Then maybe because that is what I feel from
time to time. After the train passed that close to me, I walked a
good three hundred yards toward Newmarket before the cold dark
feeling left my bones. A cold feeling independent of the dropping
temperatures. I tried to unsee images of myself after being hit by a
moving train, images complete with separation of body parts and
no immediate bleeding due to the violent impact. I tried to fill my
mood instead with cool sports thoughts, and the hot meal I would
have for dinner when I got home, and other ambient visions.
This had been different than a couple of other “Oh crap, this
is it!” moments in my life. These include, but are not limited to,
mortar attacks on our base in Iraq; the time I worked briefly as a
commercial diver in 1986 and my air hose got fouled and I could
not surface. In both instances, I had the help and support of my
buddies.
94

Not so with this train incident. I was alone, and it was damned cold
and dark.
Later that evening, as I unwound to ESPN and relaxed in my
graduate dorm, I reflected on how lucky I was. I repeatedly told
myself, until I listened, that I was not trying to hurt myself. In other
words, cut my nose off to spite my face, as I was angry about not
having a vehicle.
With the regular buses running again, I rarely must go to these
extremes anymore. I do a double-check every time I have to walk
somewhere. (Is it better to wait for the bus later? Should I call a taxi
today?) I recalled one time I walked all the way back to Durham
after playing hockey at Dover Ice Arena, carrying my hockey stick
and bag. Such extremes, as I look back on the train incident, are
perhaps my way of drawing the line, when I am done with people
or circumstances taking things away from me. First the vehicle
repo; then my mother passing away from ALS, a horrid disease.
Then COVID-19 took away live classes and college interaction
that students of all ages enjoy. COVID took away a lot of our other
freedoms as well. All through these stressors, I continued to find
a way to make it to my Army unit for drill weekends, and keep
playing hockey, and work in Portsmouth, and enjoy being part of
the UNH community. And being the positive influence that young
people at my college respond to.
While looking about for the words to capture my mindset after
the trials and travails of the past two or three years, I found the
following legend in several places, among them the Nanticoke
Tribe website. It reads as follows:
The Tale of Two Wolves
One evening, an elderly cherokee brave told his
grandson about a battle that goes on inside people.
he said “my son, the battle is between two ‘wolves’ inside us all.
one is evil. it is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed,
arrogance,
self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority,
and ego.
the other is good. it is joy, peace love, hope, serenity, humility,
kindness, benevolence,
empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.”
the grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his
grandfather:
“which wolf wins?...”
the old cherokee simply replied,
“the one that you feed.”
95

The Ghost of
the Drywall
Meaghan Scottie
Words by Meaghan Scotti
96

Bruised knuckles. Broken bones. These are the issues
currently plaguing editors of Main Street Magazine,
the student-run UNH organization. It started with Main Street
Content Editor Evan Ringle. Known as an even-keeled and
happy-go-lucky member of the group, many were shocked to
hear that Evan broke his hand punching a wall. I caught up
with Evan to try to understand how and why he chose to do
something so extreme…or what came over him.
“I’m not really sure what happened. It was like I wasn’t myself.
One minute, I was sitting on the couch, and the next my fist
was colliding with a wall. Unfortunately it was concrete, so
I ended up with a pretty bad break that needed surgery. I
don’t know why I did it. But not only that, since then I still feel
the urge. Even now some part of me wants revenge on that
wall.” The concern in Evan’s face was evident; it worried me.
What happened to Evan was weird no doubt, but nothing
that couldn’t be explained away. I assumed it was an isolated
incident. That is, until the fateful night of February 19, 2021,
when fellow editor Caroline Fitzgerald found herself in an
unsettlingly similar circumstance. Upon first glance, this can
be chalked up to your typical college white boy rage, but
then the same thing happened to Caroline, and things got
more complicated. Two people in the same organization
involved in this out-of-character action? Something didn’t sit
right with me.
“This isn’t something I’d do. I really can’t explain it. It started
out as a typical night, just hanging with my roommates,
when suddenly, I found myself standing on a chair in the
apartment across the hall with my fist going through the
ceiling. I don’t know how I got there or why I did it.” She got
quiet, and something was clearly troubling her. I urged her
to share her story, knowing that the only way to understand
these puzzling circumstances was to piece together all of the
available facts.
“This is going to sound crazy…but I know that wasn’t me. It
was my body and I have the cast to prove it, but that wasn’t
me who punched the ceiling that night. And since then, I’ll
wake up in the middle of the night, standing in that same
room with my fist ready to go through that wall again. I don’t
have an answer to why this keeps happening.” The distress
in her eyes was visible. I knew she was telling the truth. It was
clear that Caroline didn’t go there on her own volition. One
might guess that, perhaps, there was an obvious explanation
that wasn’t as bizarre as it seems. A good amount of college
students can attest to not understanding their own foggy
actions after a night out on the town. I asked Caroline about
the likelihood of this possible influence thinking it was the
simple answer to the perplexing event. Her answer surprised
me. “I’ve never had a drop of alcohol in my life. I live a life
of stone-cold sobriety.” But if that was the case…then what
happened?
I was becoming increasingly concerned. I had heard similar
tales before, but was hoping these two incidents had other
explanations. At this point in the investigation I had to come
to terms with the fact that my fears were likely true. I was
getting in deep over my head, stepping into the realm of the
paranormal. After going over the facts with both Evan and
Caroline, the answer was crystal clear in front of me, and
couldn’t be easily explained away as I had hoped. It was a
classic case of possession, but not just by any malignant
spirit. This was no poltergeist; this possession was by The
Ghost of the Drywall.
I had heard legends of UNH students experiencing this same
phenomenon in years past. And not only is it bone chilling;
it’s bone breaking. It all starts with the story of a young man
named Ebenezer “Knuckles” Thompson, born in 1846. He
was a member of the first class of UNH in 1866. Some called
him by his name Ebenezer, but most knew him by “Knuckles,”
because the guy was known to throw a punch or two.
He may have physically left campus, but his ghost has
remained for almost two centuries. Students claim to feel the
punch of a hand that isn’t there, or hear the unmistakable
sound of knuckles crashing through drywall only to look and
see a fully intact wall. But why is he still around?
Now having confidently identified the phenomena as a
possession, the next step in my investigation was to make
sure that The Ghost of the Drywall wouldn’t be making a
return. I contacted local priest Father Stromboli about his
work with exorcisms and possession. Father Stromboli
explained to me his work and prior run-ins the community
has had with this particular ghost.
“Oh yes, Ebenezer,” he sighed. “It’s been a while since
anyone has come seeking my services, but I knew he would
be back. He’s not an easy ghost to get rid of. There’s a lot of
energy there.”
I pressed on. “As an expert in this field, why is it so hard to
get rid of him? Can you get rid of him?”
Father Stromboli took in a meaty breath, and let out a
meatier sigh. “Well, it’s a complicated process, but having
researched possessions such as these for some time now, I
am confident that I can rid UNH of this spirit once and for all.
In the past, I’ve used my own hypotheses and experimental
methods, which most of the time prove successful, but he
almost always returns to claim more victims. But with my
carefully seasoned meaty methods, I think he’ll be gone for
good.”
The certainty in his voice was reassuring, and time will only
tell how Evan and Caroline will fare in the future. Will the
exorcisms work? Can Father Stromboli truly banish this
spirit?
Evan and Caroline have scheduled exorcisms with Father
Stromboli to be sure they are rid of the ghost of Ebenezer
“Knuckles” Thompson. I have planned follow-up interviews
with them to check in and see how they’re doing and whether
or not they’re still experiencing these paranormal encounters.
“Knuckles,” I’m afraid, has a meaty date with destiny.
97

A BULL, A PIG, AND
WALK INTO A CAFE.
Astartled-looking, wide-eyed chick is seen tumbling
from his breaking shell. Beneath him stands another
quirky chick, wielding bacon on a fork twice her size, with a
piece of shell covering her eyes. A pig barista is covered in
tattoos; a blue bull sniffs beans; a delighted rooster inhales the
steam from her coffee. Donuts seem to fall from the ceiling.
No, this isn’t my personal Adult Swim-fueled sleep paralysis;
these images can be found painted on the walls of Rise + Grind,
Durham’s newest breakfast joint owned by the town’s coveted
Hop + Grind. All of the art comes courtesy German artist Falk
Houben.
Houben has an affinity for off-kilter animals, something obvious
to anyone who’s seen the Grind murals. “They’re kinda edgy,
they’re kinda mean…but still not too mean,” he said with a small
laugh. “I love to create animal characters, just because you can
give them so many different traits and they can do whatever you
want. An animal can get away with so much more stuff than if it
were a human, you know what I mean?”
Houben’s creations are tucked into every nook and cranny of the
cafe; the hidden hallway outside the bathrooms was transposed
into a brick alley, and a taco-loving paint-pig watches patrons as
they wait to pee. With no help, Houben painted 150 square feet
in an astonishing ten days. “But, you know, it’s like super long
days; probably fourteen-hour days,” the artist added. “The thing
is, you get in a flow when you have a big project like this.”
On the last day, Houben couldn’t help himself. He went over to
Hop + Grind and added more paint to the walls.
The folks at Rise + Grind know how to treat an artist, which
may explain Houben’s hard-working attitude. The artist, who
currently resides in Colorado with his wife, was flown out and
put up in a hotel room to make the coffee shop’s mural happen.
During Houben’s stay in Durham, he ate lunch and dinner at
Hop + Grind everyday. “I ate myself through the entire menu,”
he said with a laugh. His favorites? “The Hot Chick and Hog
Marley.”
Initially, Houben connected with Hop + Grind’s owner and chef
Bobby Marcotte in 2018 to create a personal tattoo design.
Looking back, this was only a harbinger of things to come; just
a few years later and Houben’s art has become a staple of both
the Peabody and Durham Hop + Grind locations. And when the
newfound, beloved Rise + Grind came to fruition, it was a nobrainer
whose artwork would grace the walls.
Houben’s first mural for Marcotte found its home in Peabody. The
original plan? One small mural. The outcome? Two large ones.
“Me and Bobby were really getting along very well,” Houben
explained. “From then on, we were like, ‘You know what, let’s do
this thing together, the whole brand development.’” And that’s
just what the pair’s doing now.
“It’s not just a boring brand logo,” said Houben. “They’re custom

A ROOSTER
..
words by sadie burgess
photography by jack bouchard
and unique and handmade—just like the food is.”
Houben enjoys putting messages into his artwork. In Rise + Grind, these
include references to Chef Marcotte’s first-born daughter, Alanna, who
passed away from cancer when she was thirteen. “Peace Love Alanna” has
been painted in pink smoke on the air duct. Pigs are inked with “f#%k.cancer”
tattoos and her birthday.
“But he really turned this disaster into a positive energy,” Houben explained.
“He raises about $150,000 a year for St. Judes.” On St. Patrick’s day, the
company hosted a charitable 5K road race. References to this charity work
can also be found throughout the mural (best bet: check the pig tattoos). As
for his personal favorite piece of the Rise + Grind art, Houben said it’s the
three animals in the corner: the bull, the rooster, and the pig. “But there’s so
many different ones,” he added. And he’s right; everytime I enter, I seem to
find a new detail I hadn’t noticed before: “forkinoff” tatted on a pig’s ear, pink
steam circling the restaurant, dripping donuts cascading down the wall.
However, my favorite piece of the mural has not changed: the aforementioned
chicks. The same can be said for Dana DiCola, the general manager of all
three Grind locations. Houben laughed upon hearing this. “You know, the
chicks were super spontaneous,” he said. “The chicks, we didn’t even plan
on. I just kinda freehanded that. But people really, really love the chicks. And
that happens sometimes. You can plan as much as you want, then you have
a funny idea and all of a sudden it becomes a favorite.”
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