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cacophony

“Onions have layers. Orgres have layers. Onions have layers. You get it? We both have layers.”

- Shrek

a creative endeavor by carson einarsen, mel mignucci and carlie schwaeber

madison horne

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Often, I will pass the spots where I have beenPeppered around town, with my soul within

And I thinkWhat is now covered in snow had onceBeen green, and what was green beforeNow trapped under ice

“I had stood there once”And kissed“I had layed there once”And kissedI had kissed there beforeAnd thought I would never kiss again

And I stand here nowAnd I have kissed againAnd I have moved over the spot time and againAnd again, I am differentThan who I was back then

And I realizeI was wrongI have done all the things I thought were impos-sibleBut the memory of a feeling

And the residue of meaningThe love that remainsAnd coats my insides and the body They fillIs still thereIt is there, still

And stillThe location that once held all of thisThe words, the deceit, and the stricken laughsAll of that (as I had mentioned above)Though now empty, Is changed forever

The SpotSammy Key

Running FogCarlie Schwaeber

“I’m scared”We sayBecause if you leave, I stayAnd I hurt and you hurtSo it’s best we don’t move, don’t feelBecause If you feel Feel you will too muchLove too muchFall down too hardBut we will bloomBecause we don’t shy awayAnd suppress we shall notAnd those words steer them awayNot for who she felt forbut who she becameThey see a different faceThey forget why they stayedWhy they loved, why they caredA face too youngPhased by a love you can’t Nurture Nurture like you did with each baby you heldyou kissed, you bathedThey supported her artHer honest artNow freezingin fear of opinion Like her bodythat to you seeks perfectionTo me summons destructionBut halfway there she says she is But she is I And I is she Combined and confused Fraternal body of same cellI’ve becomeGlazed and covered Masking secrecyTo you and to meTo her and to she.

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Madison Horne

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Morning Shine

Mega-large Cup

R o o m , G i v e M e S o m e by Carson Einarsen

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Midterms

Demanded Curve

R o o m , G i v e M e S o m e by Carson Einarsen

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If I was a lawyer I’d sue the entire Unicorn population. My Gosh?! (I’m sure you’re thinking), what could he possibly sue the entire Unicorn population for? Fraud. That’s right, Fraud. Unicorns have deceived us (the entire human race) for thousands of years, and now they about to put the final step of their plan into action. But first, let me prove my point by go-ing back in time. Very far back. Unicorns were first noted by the Greeks. They did not appear in myths however (heavens no!). You see, that was all part of their plan (they didn’t want to end up dead like all other characters in those stories), so instead they caught the attention of natural history writers so that they appeared to be ‘plausible’. While that actually worked, and people of all ages were searching for uni-corns (t-shirt sales were way up), their popu-larity soon dropped. This was mainly in part because no one could find a unicorn (mainly due to their party by night, sleep by day life-

style). However, due to a WikiLeak about the effects of unicorn horns (when ground and mixed with pepper), the unicorns started to get hunted. As a result they all moved to India, where, according to racial stereotypes, they fig-ured they would be able to be unnoticed within the large indigenous population. This was not the case however. Old unicorns had long goat beards, lion tails, and cloven hooves... not to mention the blatant horn glued to their heads. Ipso-facto, unicorns were forced to flee once more. But not before they had left their mark: jewelry and statues all across India and the Middle East contained references to unicorns and their popularity spread. Now on the run, the unicorns had one question to answer; where do you go if you don’t want to be found? Don’t know? Let me rephrase that for you. Where do you go if you want to be stealthy like the shadows and be able to kill a man with your pinky? Yeah that’s right. Japan.

The Uni-spiracy:Unicorns, Indians, and Shoguns. Carson Einarsen

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And so the entire unicorn population made their way to Japan to learn the ways of the ninja and be able to avoid detection while still spreading their parasitic unicorn ways. I mean think about it; where’s the one place that you have never heard of unicorns be-ing sighted? Japan! (and also South America, Easter Island, South Africa, Antarctica, and Canada... but those are stories for another time). While training in Japan they learned how to properly take care of themselves and shaved off their beards and trimmed their tails (though that was mainly so they could fit in the the ninja costumes). However the life of the ninja unicorn took a turn for the worse when the Shoguns started realizing the potential of ninja uni-corns and tried recruiting them. This would have been fine, except the Shogun could not find them (on account of them being ninjas) and had to hire people to track them down. This resulted badly when the ninja unicorns thought hunters were after them again and decided to flee Japan. They went as far away as they could and ended up in Europe. Having undergone count-less years of hiding and training, the next gen-eration of unicorns decided to be a little more lax (youth in revolt!) This is when the theory of unicorns being tamed by virgin maidens was first noted. This was not however true, it was simply a result of unicorn partying life. Some have even claimed that the Middle Ages were to unicorns what the Sixties were to rich white boys. I think probably the less detail I go into in this section the better. Needless to say after that fewer and fewer appearances of them are noted. This is in part due to STD’s and in part due to the growth of cities and industries which they greatly took part in. Wait, wait, wait! I thought you were talk-ing about suing the entire unicorn population! And some conspiracy theory?! I’m confused! (Says the average reader). so Well don’t be. I do intend to sue the entire unicorn population. For they are about to perform the last part of their five thousand year old plan. In one word: Domination. In two words: World Domination. That’s right, those horny horses are devious. Just think back. Originally unicorns

were the most sought after beasts because of their awesome horns. In India they influenced architecture and jewelry so much so that they became a household (or mud shack) name. Just look at Japan, the leader in cute little animals and apparel! “Hello, Hello Kitty!” And who decorates the coat of arms and crests of over a dozen European nations? UNICORNS (Harold III to be exact). And now, in the infor-mation age, where are they? Well they’ve already won over the female population because of their charismatic allure. They’ve got a strangle hold on both gamers and internet nerds with their classic hit, Ro-bot Unicorn Attack. Even the giant population of YouTube (or is it UTube) has been har-nessed by the powers of Charlie the Unicorn). And they obviously have a strong hold on the flamboyant community. Even little girls have been seduced (metaphorically) by unicorns because of the terrifying My Little Pony series (originally named My Little Unicorn, though the figures had to be changed because of horn injuries). Even lovers of the TV show The Office (US) have been sucked in by the sinister catch phrase “My horn will pierce the sky!” Though their next step is all the more devious and terrible. The unicorns are try-ing to take control of the male population under the age of 10! They have recently sold the rights to the entire unicorn population to Nintendo to appear in the next Super Smash Brothers title as a playable character! So many young boys will be sucked in by this innocent and intense game and be molded into believ-ing that unicorns can beat Captain Falcon (an impossibility I assure you). This is why I’m suing the unicorns. All they have told us is a lie. They are not elegant beasts, but instead devious masterminds with a head for partying. If you have ever been wronged by a unicorn contact me at lawyer-againstunicorns@unispiracy.com. Remember, unicorns are corny and horny, but real life role models are cool at the pool.

Deep Horn

Based heavily on Wikipedia. No Citation Need-ed.

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I found out tonight I’m very good at teenager. I can be obnoxious with the best of them and apolo-gise profusely afterwards, mak-ing up for spilled ketchup in the carpet with a near 20% tip, or as close to 20 as i can scrounge from my friends who are al-ready sitting in the car, waiting to get driven to the book store to loiter professionally. I’m ex-tremely good at saying fuckit waiting to turn left and taking a scenic night drive, screaming “I CALLED HER ON THE PHONE

AND SHE TOUCHED HERSELF” with my Charlie. He’s a good kid. I’m very good at judging the comic books section of barnes and nobles, badly, because they don’t have a single book by Craig Thompson and who does that even? We made the 8 year old run away for reading Naruto. Sorry, kid. I flirt with baristas who look like an SNL character and I can’t decide who. My friend flirts with me, when very clearly i want to make fuck with a boy who dances, not a girl who sings.

s e p t e m b e r

Sorry. I love you though. We choose to continue the next day, rather than take the risk of split-ting up, or ending up on some couch bored watching MTV. I pity the kids who sit in someone’s liv-ing room getting drunk and slop-py, keeping their voices down to make sure the neighbours don’t find out. Let them get drunk but don’t make me feel bad for get-ting high on the hoarseness of my voice, screaming along to the albums of my youth with the best friend that science made, wait-

ing for the moment to never end. I drive up the hill I know so well asking is this it? I want to get lost, end up in Boston or Maine or in a Canadian Tuxedo sitting in front of an ice cream store cross legged and graffitting the sidewalk with our presence.

I haven’t been happier since the last day I spent with my best friend, without the bittersweet truth of parting.

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p e a c h e s At first it was just the skin. I hacked and con-vulsed and shuddered and the skin, a little shriveled soft thing, popped into my hand. The first time it hap-pened, I stretched it out and held it up to the light. It was a veiny fabric of red and orange and bright, springtime yellow. I examined it briefly, then threw it away.

When next it hap-pened, the object did not dislodge itself so easily. It re-mained caught in my throat for a good many minutes, during which time I hovered over the toilet, overcome by waves of nausea, sweating bullets. When it appeared finally, with a retching noise and a sick, wet thud on the ground, it dawned on me what had happened. A small peach sat on the linoleum in a puddle of its own juice. I stared at it. It looked

like any other peach. A crack had split the peach up one side, and the pulp oozed out. It looked perfectly edible, juicy even. I stuck my foot out and nudged the peach. It slid to the left a fraction of an inch. I picked it up. It had the heft of ripe peach, solid in my hand. Its skin was damp but undeniably cov-ered in soft fuzz. I brought it closer to my face, to my mouth and nose. It smelled like cobbler, tea, every itera-tion of peach essence that has come to qualify its scent.

It smelled good, ripe, and at that moment I wanted noth-ing more than to take a bite of the peach and lick the soft pulp from the side and the juice from where it slid down my hand. But the nausea came up again, and another one fell out of my mouth and rolled onto the floor. I looked at the pair of peaches on the floor. I wondered where they came from. I wondered what to do with them. They filled the room with the smell of peach, so ripe they were. I

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put them on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet and nearly retched again. But instead, I washed my hands and adjusted my tie and went to work. I tried to imagine how I’d explain the peaches to my wife. She was sleeping when I left, but would wake up soon. She wouldn’t go into the medicine cabinet. Her doctor makes her leave her medicine in the kitchenette now. But she’d smell them, oh God how she’d want

them. She’d just smell them, I reasoned. She’d never find them. I continued the day mindlessly, stamping papers without abandon, my eyes locked on the second hand on the clock ticking closer and closer to five. I took the metro home at five-fifteen. Inside the metal canister it smelled hu-man, like sweat and perfume and sneakers worn for too long. It was packed to burst-ing with suits and briefcases.

We all silently begged for fresh air underground. Ascending the stairs into the last vestiges of day-light, I heard a familiar call. “Get your fruit, get your fruit… oranges, peaches and pears, fifty cents a pop, get ‘em while they’re hot,” said the fruit vendor on the cor-ner. I walked up to his stand for the first time. His stand sagged under the weight of his fruit and the summer heat. It looked as if

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he had not sold even a lime today. His face was wrinkled, stubbled with grey, and sweaty hair peeked out from underneath his cap. “Why do you charge fifty cents for every piece of fruit?” I asked.

“Same as you,” he respond-ed. I widened my eyes.

“Excuse me?”

“Same’s you, putting on a suit and tie every day in this heat. I gotta eat.” He began to yell his slogan again. No one stopped. “But I guess nobody else has to.” The man smiled, revealing a missing tooth. His face was rough, but kind. I took a peach from the pile and put a fifty-cent piece into his hand. “Good luck,” I told him.

“Same to you,” he said, and touched the brim of his hat. I tucked the peach into my briefcase and began to walk towards my apartment.

In my apartment my wife was leaning, belly out, against the breakfast table, which at night became the dinner table, and was also sometimes a bridge table, being the only real table we owned. Her stomach was engorged with seven months of our cells commingling underneath her sweater. She had made pasta.

It took a few minutes into the meal for her to ask me about the peaches that were now rotting in the medi-

cine cabinet. I took another mouthful of pasta and chewed it and swallowed it. I fingered the stem of my wine glass. “It was an accident,” I said.

My wife looked blankly at me.

I leaned over the table, over the plate. I stuck my index finger in my mouth among the food remnants and searched for my gag reflex. Spitting and choking around my finger, I felt the nausea and the lump rising. A min-ute later, it was out, rolling onto the tablecloth.

“Ta-da,” I said, dropping the syllable as if I were ashamed to have said it.

She picked up the plates and took them into the kitchen-ette. It was comical to see her in there, for she was about as wide as the pass-able space itself, and moved with a certain awkwardness only known to women grown too large for the spaces the once comfortably occu-pied. She could no longer bend over the oven or the dishwasher, and so I baked bread and I washed dishes. But tonight she stacked our plates up and washed the glasses carefully, washing the red out of mine and the water out of hers. She did not dry the plates.

She walked back over to the table that served all pur-poses and took the peach up from where it rested. It had

already dried on top. She washed it on top of the din-ner plates and dried it on the bottom of her shirt. She brought it to her mouth and took a bite out of it.

“Thank God,” she said. “All I wanted was a peach to-day.” She ate the rest of the thing down to the pit, licking her fingers afterward. She popped the pit in her mouth and sucked on it until the pulp was gone.

“How’d it taste?” I asked.

“The best,” she answered.

“Try this,” I said, and took the other peach out of my briefcase. It looked pale and flat in comparison to the one I made.

She took a bite and shook her head. “It’s not ripe.”

I slumped in my seat and looked at the tablecloth. It was checked green and white. I straightened it, not thinking of anything else.

“Tell me if you make any more,” my wife said, walking away from the table. “I want to make a cobbler.” She went into the first bedroom and closed the door. I knew she was going to read.

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She opened her screen porch to find a dull sky and wet pavement. She zipped up her red hoodie and stepped barefoot onto the gravel, closing the screen door lightly be-hind her. She ran around the side of the house where the grass poked between her toes. She felt the rain coming down harder on her shoulders so she ran fast to the front lawn where she stepped over the curb, hands flailing out, sprinting up the culde-sac composed of raised ranches and neatly mowed lawns. She was at the top of her street now, facing the busy road where she paused to make sure the rushing drivers who had nowhere in particular to go would care for her existence. She was breath-ing heavily now. She turned left and ran a few feet down to the always ironic “Peace-ful Lane”. Her feet were sore and slightly numb from the rough gravel and her baggy jeans were sticking tight to her thighs, but she kept running. There was no breeze but the humid hair forced the rain to combine with her tears. She stepped onto the grass which was slightly overgrown but it felt soothing on her torn feet. She looked at the white picket fence lining the garden of the blue house and climbed over it, shaking it violently with her adrenaline filled hands. She was now on an unknown street but she didn’t care. She was kneeling down now, her insides folding over and over and her eyes closed so tight that it scrunched up her face. She opened her mouth letting herself openly sob and let all of the com-pressed tears release themselves.

Going Carlie Schwaeber

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Film will never dieMelanie Mignucci

The sound a mod-ern point and shoot makes when it takes a picture is meaningless. It is a record-ing of a recording of a shut-ter opening for one sixtieth of a second. It is tinny, hollow, soulless. It is like the camera is coughing rather than etch-ing a moment forever into its memory. It doesn’t bother me that millions can now enter into the art of memory that was once proscribed but to few. That the common man is able to look back and ob-serve what was once but is no longer. No; it bothers me that this act is undertaken without soul, without signifi-cance. That their maker is no more involved in the mo-ment than the preservation of it. I was at a party the other night and I saw more dSLRs out than drinks. This speaks to a more personal matter than to what I have alluded. Holding a dSLR has become more of a status item than an instru-ment of remembrance. This is irksome not only because it devalues the art of photog-raphy, but the art of memo-ry. When I pick up an SLR, no matter what format,

I feel its weight heavy with hundreds of thousands of memories aching in each revolution of the shutter, stretching the film across the sprockets. The lens focuses as though it were the joints of a spry old man. Slowly but carefully it takes care to find its way to its desired point. It is the caution with which one takes a film cam-era that leaves the memories indelible in the memory of the maker. A film camera is taken to preserve the one memory that best captures the spirit of the moment, rather than take a thousand pictures of every hollow ex-perience. My memory already is fading at seventeen. I don’t relish the idea of growing old and losing the fragmented thoughts I have left. But keeping an archive of prints allows me to pause, flip through my life as though it were a book, and re-experi-ence what had slipped, shy, into the dusty corners of my consciousness. Philosophers theorize that without memory, men would be no more elevated than animals. Our ability to remember allows us to make a conscious decision and ignore our outmoded an-

imal instincts. Art, therefore, is an extension of our con-sciousness in that it allows us to access memories that may have been forgotten. Art is the most human resource that we have. And therefore we must take our time with it, savor it, expound upon it, or else we are destined to a hard drive bereft of soul, and memories that evoke noth-ing.

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“My memory already

is fading

at 17.”

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Photos by Mel Mignucci

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She took off her glass-es, stood up, walked over to the coffee pot, walked away from the coffee pot, grabbed her pack of cigarettes, closed her laptop, picked up the phone, put down her phone, then re-opened her laptop. Okay, one thing at a time. She could do this.First, her mother’s email.

How have your eating habits been, Maggie? -Mom

Those words pierced into her eyes and stabbed her insides one by one. Especially that last word; “Mom.”

My eating habits are identical to my relationship with you. Fake, scarce, and empty. -Maggie

She stared at the email. Cracked her thin fin-gers. Erased the email. Re-wrote, “Fine.” Sent it, a tear rolling down her cheek in the process. She didn’t mean to be so stubborn and overly emo-tional today. Usually she could handle her mothers ruthlessness with the help of her coffee and cigarettes. She walked over to the window, leaned over the sink

and cracked it open. With her black coffee in hand, she looked out the window at her boyfriend, Mike, who was outside on a lawn chair. She remembered buying this shitty house with him. They didn’t care about anything at the time. They didn’t care what color the house was, how dirty the carpets were, or how small the lawn was. It was a purchase based off that bullshit saying, “as long as we’re together, we’ll be just fine.” Now, just looking at him pissed her off, and she thought about what her mother always says: “You wouldn’t fight if you didn’t care. And if he pisses you off unlike anyone else, you know he’s a keep-er.” She knocked on the window and mouthed the words, “Come in.” They hadn’t made very much conversation the past few days. They were pissed off at each other. Pissed off at their lives. Maggie had given up on eating long ago and Mike had given up on making Maggie eat. And, Maggie could relate almost anything back to her lack of food, so for the sake of his mental health, Mike avoided conversing with her all to-

gether. Today though, Mike would make up his mind. Today would be the day that he would decide if this once functioning relationship could ever work again. “It’s your turn to feed the bird,” Maggie mumbled, still staring at her laptop as Mike walked in. With no response Mike walked over to the ancient bird, whose rainbow feath-ers were a little out of place today, his obese body dispro-portional to his head. Mike looked into the bowl, notic-ing that there was already food that the bird hadn’t eaten from yesterday, which was unusual seeing that the bird had an excessive eating problem. Mike listened to Maggie though, grabbing a handful of bird seeds, open-ing the cage, and placing it into the bowl. Then he walked over to the sink and put his mouth under the faucet, letting water pour into his mouth like a foun-tain. Maggie, hearing the faucet, turned around to look at Mike and rolled her eyes. “Could you please get a glass or something? That is so disgusting, Mike. You aren’t the only one who uses that sink.”

M a g g i e a n d M i k eBy Carlie Schwaeber

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“Okay, okay calm down.” He wondered around the kitchen. First at-tempt. “Whatchya writing, Mags?” He went around her back, kissing her on the cheek. She stopped typing. “Why are you so hap-py?” She turned and looked into his eyes. He shrugged. Her long brown curly hair was resting messily on her chest. He just stood there, placing her hair behind her ear. “Okay, umm, anyway, are you going out tonight? Cause I have a shit load of work to do and I need quiet.” “I don’t know, I was thinking we could watch a movie or something.”She shook her head, turn-ing back to her computer. “Oh, Mike. You are just too funny.” “What did I do?” “A movie? When was the last time we sat and watched a movie?” She started typing. Mike watched her skinny fin-gers prod away. He watched her thin wrists, bony but firm as she typed. He had forgotten about that tattoo she had on the lower part of her wrist, a parrot. That was

probably the last conjoined decision they had made, get-ting that tattoo. He had held her hand with each press of the needle. Mike remem-bered the exact day they had gotten the tattoo, because it was the day after they had purchased their bird, the only thing they had ever raised together. “Okay, well why don’t we, I don’t know, go to the boardwalk or something.” “Why?” “Because, I want to.” “Why?” “Because, Maggie, I want to spend time with my girlfriend. Is that okay?” The bird was slapping its wings against the cage but they didn’t hear. They kept looking at each other. “Well what do you wanna do, go eat dinner somewhere and order me a plate of nothing?” “Don’t bring food into this Maggie,” he said walking towards the refrigerator. The bird stopped slap-ping, but it looked cold. It’s oversized stomach made its tiny head look more promi-nent and its blue feathers were sharp and frazzled. “What else do you want me to say. I’m the reason we aren’t working

out, right? I’m the reason you go out with your friends at night instead of staying in with me. I’m the reason that you are embarrassed to show me off to anyone because I look sick, right?” Her voice raised with each question. She was scream-ing now still looking at her computer screen but not typ-ing anymore. He slammed the refrigerator closed and turned around. “Maggie. Shut. Up. Look at me.” She looked. “Why are you doing this? What did I do? Did I force you to eat? No.” The bird was slapping again. It’s old wings violently pushing on the crate, it’s throat squeak-ing, sucking in air. “Did I ever once tell you that you aren’t beautiful? No. Have I been cheating on you? No.” The bird was throwing up now. “Why aren’t you cheat-ing on me, Mike?” She was standing now. “If I am so bad why are you still with me?”The bird fell over. “Well, I thought I was in love with you, and you know what, I still am. But this is just too much.”“Then leave.”The bird didn’t move.

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By Carlie Schwaeber