fiore | bloomington's literary & arts magazine fioremag.

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 fiore | bloomington's literary & arts magazine
LAUREN HUGHES is born in Miami, Florida, and
currently resides in Bloomington, where she is finishing
up her last year of course work for a Doctorate in Music
from Indiana University. From an early age became
interested in art and comic book artwork. She began
drawing, illustrating, and developing her own characters
using influences around her to shape her work. Hughes
works mostly with pen and ink, pencil, and marker.
DICK BATKA is an up-and-coming photographer from
Bloomington, IN who has a desire to capture the world in
a unique way. His work embodies a clear fascination with
the built world and the way humans interact with it. The
photographs featured in this issues, were taken while
observing IU's Parkour and Free Running club practices.
DAVID HASSELL’s work is a tactile reflection of his
fascination with the amorphous nature of ideologies and
how they shape the dynamic of social systems. Visual
metaphors emerge as he synthesizes features of these
highly nuanced concepts. How he renders these
metaphors, both in the physical construction of the
elements and within the viewfinder, is sculptural in nature
and oriented in design. “The elements within my
photographs are mostly identifiable objects, serving as
common symbols. I use these recognizable elements to
exercise our innate predisposition for image acquisition,
‘creating visual logic’, which is intuitively more
comprehensible than linguistic interpretation. To be more
suggestive than definitive, I compose the symbols into a
visual code with a veneer of ambiguity. This stimulates not
only acculturated associations, but also the interplay of the
observer’s cache of personal associations to coalesce an
intimate expression. I establish an internal unity within the
panorama of my work by limiting the information to just
the essential elements and organizing them within a
geometric template. Consistently implementing this
process keeps the coherency intact throughout the
maturation of this body of work,” declares Hassell for
Fiore.
CLEVELAND DIETZ II lives in Martinsville and works
at a factory in Bloomington. He is a 22 year old college
drop out.
ROSEMARY PENNINGTON is a graduate student in
IU’s School of Journalism; she’s also the coordinator
of the Voices and Visions Project. Oh, and a mom. In
what little free time she has she writes poetry.
SARA BROOKS received her Bachelor of Fine Arts
degree from the University of Oklahoma in 2006. She is
currently pursuing a Master of Fine Arts in Photography
from Indiana University, where she is also an associate
instructor. Brooks was recently awarded the Student
Award from the Society of Photographic Education and
became certified in Permaculture Design from the College
of Graduates of Permaculture.
ABBY L. HANSEN is a 26 year old redhead who just
graduated from IU in December 2009
with a degree in Spanish and has no idea what to do next.
She also studied Creative Writing and Studio Art. She
have been writing for years and will continue her
complaints on paper until she can no longer hold a pen...or
until she get bored. Lol.
ERIC MOORE is a 20 year old from Louisville, Ky.
He’s interested in natural healing and Amazonian
shamanism. He traveled to Ecuador three times to take
part in indigenous healing ceremonies. He plays violin,
guitar, and banjo.
MATTHEW WENGER is a graduate of the University of
Arkansas, lives in Bloomington, claims to be a poet on his
tax forms, and will write you a post card.
LOREN GURMAN studies cartography and hopes to be
the first to map the world. He has contributed to Fiore in
the past, and primarily writes music and lyrics for local
band Gardendale & Berkley. He even composed this bio.
CHAD REDDEN currently lives in Indianapolis, Indiana.
His work has appeared in analog and digital publications
such as Escape Into Life, SixSentences, Bianncle, and [sic].
ANTHONY J. INGRAM is a student at IU, learning how
to save the world. he likes trees, Hemmingway, rock 'n
roll, and ice cream. he hopes you like his stories.
NATHAN D. BROWN is a writer and photographer from
the Sprinklesburgh, Indiana.
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JENNIFER MOLICA (AKA JENFISH SUPERSTAR)
is an Indiana multi-artist who photographs, paints,
illustrates, writes, and performs. Her work on stage has
earned her kudos around the indie/fringe theater circuit in
the American Midwest. Recognized for her comedic wit,
which ranges from "seen it too late to avoid it" sarcasm to
delicious rant, Jen makes light of human sexuality,
disarming her audiences with laughter as she escorts them
serenely through subjects they'd otherwise regard as
taboo. She is a veteran of several Ladyfests, has shown
her work at the Leslie Lohman Gay Art Foundation in
NYC, has produced a solo show at the Waldron Center for
the Arts, given lectures on her work at academic
fiore
conferences, and has been rejected from too many
graduate schools to count. In early 2004, Jen toured
Bloomington's literary and arts
with Mouthy, a women's queer spoken word ensemble
that included Rose Tully and JT Newman of Chicago, and
magazine
Elizabeth Whitney of NYC. She's also perused her home
state with the likes of Tony Brewer and Joseph
P.O. Box 1613
Kerschbaum in a poetry trio called Stendhal's Syndrome. Bloomington, IN 47402
She resides in Bloomington with her spouse Vin, child
Blasto, and her pets. She enjoys eating vegan food and
pushing envelopes. Editor and Publisher:
LANDON CALDWELL LIVES IN BLOOMINGTON. Crisia Miroiu
LEVI SHAND, a South Bend, IN native, earned his editor@fioremag.com
undergraduate degree in 2009 and is presently awaiting a
kind word from fiction MFA programs around the country.
He's a fan of travel, craft beer, cats, live music, cooking,
big water, and his nephew.
Art Director:
STEVEN WOODS is a writer living in Franklin, IN and a
Thomas Phelps
graduate of Wabash College where he studied English and
Philosophy. Currently, he is pursuing an MFA in Creative
thomasphelps@gmail.com
Writing from Butler University. He has a beautiful wife,
three children and works as a medical sales recruiter.
Staff:
JENNY GIBSON is a volunteer for WHFB's Spanish
Language Public Affairs Program "Hola Bloomington", a Ben Black
member of the world music group "KAIA", and lead
vocalist for the electronica band "The Synthesis". Landon Caldwell
JOY SHAYNE LAUGHTER, Bloomington native, re- Eve Eisenberg
settled in her hometown in 2007 after 20 years in Seattle
and one year in New York City. She has been a Earley Mckenzie
playwright, office manager, documentary film producer,
screenwriter, non-profit leader, actress, snake handler, Georgia Perry
freelance journalist, editor, cartoonist, house cleaner,
house-sitter, food entrepreneur and now fiction writer. Tyler James Perry
And all without ever owning a car.
Tony Brewer
KELLY WILSON lives in Bloomington, Indiana. She is
currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Indiana Caitlin Zittkowski
University, where she also teaches courses in Creative
Writing and Composition, and serves as Assistant Director
for the Indiana University Writers Conference.
AMANDA FACK enjoys exercise, science podcasts, and
animals of all types. She would like to write and illustrate
children's books someday, and is currently working on her
first story.
EARLEY MCKENZIE, although he enjoys engaging in
all mediums of art such as painting, drawing,
photography, and prospectively sculpture, he considers
painting to be his area of expertise. This is because he
loves color, and he feels as though painting allows him to
best manipulate it. Using color and drawing the human
body, more specifically females’, are his two loves when a
canvas is presented before him. He think the female body
is beautifully mysterious and is worthy of being extolled.
JUNIOR MCLEAN, from the Bronx, of New York City
and then Anderson, Indiana and traveled back, self taught
for over 13 years, he is a freelance graphic designer since
1996 and a cover artist for gaming, fantasy, and sci-fi; his
illustrations also include fractals
RAOUF BISHAY is born and educated in Egypt with
Business School, he immigrated to the USA in 1979
where he married his wife for 30 years Kristin Bishay
from Columbus IN and took Bloomington, IN as his home
town. “Two of my great passions in life are travel and
photography. I believe that travel broadens one's view of
the world. Travelling to different countries, and
experiencing different culture. Seeing the beauty, and
sometimes ugliness, of the world has helped me
understand that all of our lives are at once interconnected
and individual. This made me appreciate my own home
on the cover
The cover was created based-on
and the helped me become more understanding and
tolerant of other people and other countries. I look at
photography as a distilling of reality into a person vision, David Hassell’s “Mconomy”
as such I try to capture in my photos how I felt at the
moment that I took that photo,” declared Bishay for Fiore. illustration work
CRISTINA NEMEROVSCHI is a Romanian writer and
rock critic, an amazing woman and a wonderful friend.
She currently resides in Bucharest, Europe, with her © 2009-10 fiore. All rights reserved.
spouse, Alexandru Nemerovschi-Voicescu and their dog,
Natasha. Contact editor@firoemag.com for more
info, or visit fioremag.com.
fiore | bloomington's literary & arts magazine fioremag.com

Her First Color brushed her teeth and chose her

clothing as before (they seemed
startled her that she pushed
away the work in front of her,
--Joy Shayne Laughter
to be dark – she at least knew and stared straight at the wall.
darks and lights), she gripped Jenna worked among books and
T here once was woman who
lived a reasonable life. Jenna’s
the heavy door handle at the
great library and opened the
newspapers, tall stacks of paper
firmly bound in armor of
door to her workroom as she had cardboard and leather. She had
forty years on Earth had caused
for years, she made no change in always liked the smell when she
no comment, quick intakes of
opened the armor and
breath or sudden silences.
parted the vulnerable
She was reasonably
leaves. She liked the
intelligent, reasonably
neatness of the printing,
successful at her chosen
the tidiness of black-on-
work, reasonably well off,
white that meant words,
reasonably happy. But one
knowledge, and
day she realized, as if
understanding. Jenna
grabbed by the hair, that she
knew all the words printed
did not see colors.
in her library. Whenever
This alarmed her, for
she was introduced to a
suddenly something at the
new word, she only
foundation of her life stood
needed to stare at it a little
exposed as an unreasonable
while and soon its
uncertainty. Had she ever
pronunciation and
seen colors? Or were
meaning would be given
“colors” just something she
up to her.
picked up from other people’s
The thought that
conversation? She couldn’t
emerged in her was this:
remember. With her family
that this talent for printed
dead or far away, she had no
words meant only that she
way of finding out. She
was susceptible to other
knew the words “red,”
peoples’ memories,
“orange,” “chartreuse,” and
whether for colors or
knew that one never allowed
her actions, yet every something else. She could not
those three to be seen in each
movement, no matter how see colors because she had no
others’ company. But could she
precise and necessary, only colors of her own to see.
detect those colors in, say, a
shielded the void that should Jenna stood up and went into the
bouquet of many kinds of
have been this thing that was stacks, a vast room of shelves
flowers, if no one told her the
missing. engorged with books. She
colors were there?
As time passed and Jenna picked out several that described
This discovery pressed on
continued to brush her teeth, things with many colors.
Jenna. She knew about color
choose her clothes and open the “The rosy-fingered dawn,”
blindness. That was genetic,
door to her workroom at the she read. “Black, black, black is
biological, chemical. She knew
library, she grew accustomed to the color of my true love’s hair.
this was different. She might
the sense of living a clockwork When the blue of the night
visit a doctor, and whatever they
masque. She clung to that, but meets the gold of the day. The
would say to each other, what
just as a dishful of living sunset’s slow fire chained scarlet
was missing in Jenna was
microorganisms grows and to deep blue.”
something different.
develops to the point that it The last one made Jenna turn
That she could not find words
suddenly re-organizes into a and look out her window. It was
for this different thing, this
different form, one day the alarm late afternoon (said the clock
essential absence in her,
colonizing Jenna’s mind and the shadows); she would go
increased the feeling of alarm
blossomed into a thought. It so continued on page 5...
until it colonized her days. She

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 fiore | bloomington's literary & arts magazine
Chocolate The Artist
Covered
--Jenny Gibson
his huge wretched hands,
cracked
calloused
reached into my body
cracking sternum, peeling ribs
back
with a snap
wrapping white grip
around my core
yanked the crimson mass
pulling it free with one hand
gutting my breath with the
other
began colouring his palette-
his paints, my life’s molasses
pump, squeeze..
Yellow
squirting on to the wood
I saw stories in its reflection
my image swimming for a few
seconds
he handled me like a messy
tube
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moved on-
Blue
somehow I knew it would be
next
rushing from my heart’s mouth
It came giggling...
wet powder pleasures
life from drought to drench
Black now, thick
onyx and shining
it hummed in opaque ribbons
warmth - - stillness
Red
I swear I heard it sigh
before its drops licked the
artist’s hand
it was the only hue that
glimmered on his skin
he tilted the wooden palette,
as the oils ran together
they began to ignite
he bent and poured
their fire fingers into my
chest, replacing
heart, sealing ribs and gluing
skin together
with one warm caress from
neck to belly
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 fiore | bloomington's literary & arts magazine
...continued from page 2
for a walk by the water and see a sunset for herself!
Soon, Jenna stood at a railing at the water’s edge,
wrapped in her reasonable raincoat against the
evening wind. The light slowly faded, and Jenna
turned her head left, then right, then left, looking
for evidence of a sunset, or even of a sun. “Scarlet
chained to deep blue,” she said to herself. But she
saw no such thing.
Jenna began to panic. She reached for the
railing to steady herself, and twisted her hand
around its length; at least she could feel things.
Cold, steel, railing, hard, round. It was getting
darker, and she still didn’t know if she was seeing
a sunset. A small stairway caught her eye; it led
down to a little dock sticking out into the water.
Jenna hurried down the steps and out to the end of
the dock. She did not care if it was a reasonable
thing to do or not.
At the end of the dock she turned around and
around, looking at the sky, looking so hard she felt
her eyes growing large, heavy and hot. “Scarlet,”
she whispered. “Blue. Gold. Chartreuse. Red.
Orange.” She could feel the words in her mouth.
But still she could not tell if they were in the sky.
Please, she prayed to the sky, let me be susceptible
to colors.
Her stomach twisted and rose inside her, as if
roused from sleep by her agitation. It was not
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nausea, but something different. Power. Jenna
wrapped her arms around her middle, but the
disturbed power welled into her throat. Jena
doubled over and a harsh, awful sound escaped
from her lips – and at that moment she felt her hot,
swollen eyes change. Two tears fell into the water
at Jenna’s feet.
Then the power did become nausea, and Jenna
vomited into the bay.
When she straightened, she saw the island.
It was dark and fuzzy in the twilight. She
hadn’t noticed it when she was combing the
horizon for colors.
Someone cleared his throat near her, and Jenna
turned sharply. A wrinkled man in a hooded jacket
and watch cap sat in a rowboat tied to one side of
the dock. She hadn’t noticed him before, either.
“Goin’ somewheres?” he said, a sound like
gravel under wheels. One cluster of wrinkles
pulled up in a little smile.
Jenna pointed at the island. The boatman
nodded and waved her into the boat. He untied
them from the dock and pushed away.
As she sat in the stern of the rowboat, her
astonishment clothed by the smell of the water, the
sound of the boatman’s oars slipping and pulling
through the waves, and the broad clarity of the sky,
Jenna realized that this was her first color. Its
name was Going toward the island at twilight.
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 fiore | bloomington's literary & arts magazine fioremag.com

Ben And Nick In The The Rapture.

Ai sl e ! Ben: This Is It is a concert film, but it is

constructed from filmed rehearsals of a tour that
Michael Jackson was on the verge of beginning
E when he died, earlier this year.
p
i Nick: It’s since been discovered that, at the time of
s his death, Michael Jackson was on everything but
o skates. However, in the movie Michael Jackson is
d at the top of his game physically, and still a total
e badass on stage. So it turns out that drugs are good
for you.
#
Ben: If you can avoid dying.
2
3 Nick: Yeah, but that caveat applies to everything.
Our next movie this month was Where The Wild
Things Are. I cried during this movie. But I always
cry when I can’t stop yawning.
(November 2009)
Ben: Watching Where The Wild Things Are is like
This Is Where The Wild being at a really boring party, where nothing
Capitalists Are…Murdered! happens, except everyone at the party is a member
of the band from Showbiz Pizza.

Nick: This movie tells the story of a boy dressed

Nick: Ben, let’s talk turkey.
like a wolf, who, after having a fight with his mom
and his sister, sails to an island to hang out with
Ben: Is it time to renegotiate our contracts again? I
The Banana Splits.
demand that I retain all of the movie rights to my
review of G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra!
Ben: The boy then becomes the King of the Island,
by telling the Wild Things that he possesses a
Nick: It sounds like you’re set for life, Ben. But I
“Sadness Shield” that can “keep out all of the
was referring to the fact that this episode we are
sadness”.
celebrating Thanksgiving!
Nick: Alert readers will recall that this is exactly
Ben: Or as God likes to call it, “Thanks Taking”.
what led to the election of Barack Obama.
Nick: So we’re planning to roast up a cinematic
turkey, stuff it inside a duck stuffed inside a "I can't believe that Roger
chicken, all of which will then be placed inside the Ebert gave this movie three
Weiner Mobile and launched into The Sun. stars."
Ben: This year I’m thankful for four things, I call
Ben: Okay, simmer down there, Ron Paul.
them The Fantastic Four: my family, my friends,
The Thing (by which I mean, my penis), and
Nick: Then nothing happens, then more nothing
Jessica Alba.
happens, and then they build a fort, and then more
nothing happens.
Nick: Our first film this month celebrates a hot
new trend among celebrities: dying. Now, I am not
Ben: If Michael Jackson’s doctor had just shown
a scientist, so I don’t know why all of these
him this movie, then he would have slept like a
celebrities are dying, but I think that it might be
baby.
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fiore | bloomington's literary & arts magazine
Nick: But you’ve got to hand it to them, Ben, the
filmmakers did capture the essence of childhood,
in that, as I recall, childhood was soul-crushingly
dull.
Ben: I can’t believe that Roger Ebert gave this
movie three stars. Especially since me and the Rog
have always seen eye-to-eye on the concept of
chocolate cake.
"The other night some guy
tried to tap my ass!"
Nick: Next we watched the most horrifying film
ever to not be presented by Tyler Perry: Halloween
II. This is the Rob-Zombie-directed sequel to his
2007 remake of the classic horror film of the same
name. It's pretty much what you would expect:
some dude in a rubber mask stabs many, many
people to death.
Ben: The message: if you are going to stab many
people to death, wear a rubber mask. This protects
against blood-born pathogens such as Mr. Hyde
and Body Snatcher Invasion. Also herpes.
Nick: At the big Halloween part at the end of the
movie there was a ghoulish stand-up comedian
which made me realize the potential out there for
Halloween-themed stand-up comedy:
Frankenstein's monster is here, everyone. There
haven't been this many different body parts in one
person since Paris Hilton's birthday party!
Dracula is here with The Brides of Dracula. Drac,
you are an old guy with three girlfriends: you are
the Hugh Hefner of Transylvania. And I'm not
saying he's on Viagra but just now I went in to hug
him and I almost got stabbed in the heart with a
piece of wood!
Ben: You realize, Nick, those aren't real monsters
and you're just roasting a group of crying trick-or-
treaters in costumes that you’ve been holding
hostage since Halloween.
Nick: Speaking of Halloween costumes, Ben, I
can't help but notice that you are wearing a barrel
held over your torso by suspenders.
fioremag.com
Ben: Yes, Nick, the economy has gotten so bad that
I've had to start buying whisky in bulk. This is how
they sell it at Sam's Club.
Nick: So, you're wearing a barrel full of whiskey.
Isn't that dangerous?
Ben: Only at fraternity parties. The other night
some guy tried to tap my ass!
Nick: And so it is in these hard economic times
that Michael Moore's Capitalism: A Love Story
couldn't be more relevant. The basic thesis of the
film is that capitalism, as a system, is ultimately
harmful to society and anti-democratic.
Ben: And to silence anyone who might accuse him
of having a simple-minded, even fairy-tale-like
view of the free market, Michael Moore brings in
economics expert Wallace Shawn. Seriously.
Nick: Really, Michael, you're going to have
derivatives explained to me by a guy who couldn't
even figure out which cup the poison was in?
Inconceivable!
Ben: Also, the title is never quite explained.
Nick: I thought it was supposed to mean that
capitalism does to America what two people who
love each other very much do to one another on
their wedding night.
Ben: Yeah, capitalism, stop acting like you're going
to tenderly feed me cake, only to moosh it in my
face!
Nick: Ben, I must say here that as a devout
Libertarian, I believe that government intervention
is what caused the market to collapse.
Ben: Yes, and as a devout Branch Davidian, I
believe that government intervention is what
caused David Koresh to be on fire.
Nick: This calls for a drink.
Ben: Hey, get your Silly Straw out of my bunghole!
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 fiore | bloomington's literary & arts magazine fioremag.com

She Is Pure
--Jennifer Molica

She’s in the beauty

aisle, gabbing on her
I-Phone
Staring at the age
defying skin creams
like a zombie
Not knowing which
brain to eat first
Tracing containers
with French manicured
hands
Smelling like l’eau
d’ stank
I sneeze unnoticed as
she praddles on
“Oh I don’t know what
I want to do, let’s
just meet at
Kilroy’s…”

I’m tempted to swat

the eye gel from her
and tell her what
really happens:
That shit’ll do you
no good, sister. I’ve
seen what happens in
the end.

We are born warm,

covered in goo
Prayed over
Thoroughly cleansed
Swaddled with a cap on and television Collecting pools of
our heads Loving and breaking blood under the
Latched to our momma’s hearts with surface of the skin
breast Wreckless abandon,
Cradled in the arms of selfish interests We are Prayed over,
those who love us forever mourned
And put in a crib We deteriorate And thoroughly cleansed
Sometimes quickly With simple soap and
We grow up Sometimes slowly flowing water
Cryingeatingsleepingshi But we die, we all die Tehara hi, tehara hi,
ttingcooing Cold, often sitting in tehara hi
Finding the right our own filth Swaddled with a cap on
words to make others Once supple apple our heads
happy cheeked faces and taut Held for the last time
Rebelling with bodies by the ones who loved
Noyesnoyesnoyesno Become topographical us
Searching for maps of And placed into a
ourselves in equal Scars casket
doses of books, songs, Stretch marks and With a little dirt
Blemishes from Israel
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fiore | bloomington's literary & arts magazine fioremag.com

A C R OW S T A B S T H E
D IR T A N D P U L L S U P A
V O LE
--Matthew Wenger
She is a naked spider
on palms and toe pads tense.
I am beneath and into her
like a letter.
We hold the image of each other
as hands
and run away into the joining
get lost get lost get lost
together.
Her sex is a thing woven into her,
wind on the water’s surface.
The curious cutpurse pursues her
through the streets of chiaroscuro
caped and cockpouched and candelabra’d.
God is a strange hat
whose owner you can’t imagine.
God is a game warden
and rabbits pad their burrows
with obituary clippings.
God is a meteor of chocolate and diamonds,
so hold on,
I’ll get a washcloth to wipe that off of you,

A dv i c e T o T hos e W ho G i v e
A d v i c e In P o e m
--Loren Israel Gurman
A renowned teacher of painting or, say,
developmental communicative science,
whatever that may be,
I would guess
does not title a painting, or,
the culmination of research
in the field of developmental communicative science
with the words,
‘Advice To’ somebody
with the hope that their work will actually help that someone.

Yet poets, with their severest narcissism or,

most extreme self- assurance,
or wit,
or something,
give advice in the form of poem
repeatedly,
over and over again,
repeatedly,
with, it seems, the sincerest hope that
their poem will actually help someone.

Their radiant, perfectly crafted strings of word pearls flow together

and combine
at last to make a wondrous, epic,
flawless blanket
with a beauty only paralleled by the songs of gods, or
mona lisa, or
something professors frequently admire.

But I ask you, how could anyone have any use for a blanket of
pearls?
Those shiny, cold spheres of aesthetic derivation do nothing to
warm anyone in the coldest night of any kind of uncertainty.
Just like the melodramatic sentence you read prior to this one.

So I beg of you,
you masters of syllabic consonant,
you phrase sculpting deities,
you Frank Bidarts and Billy Collins’-
Stop giving advice in the form of poem.

How?
I do not know.
I also do not say.
And now, that dark feeling in the pit of your stomach will teach
you how I felt about your empty offers of advice.

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Just when I was in the mood to

go to the seaside…

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I Want You to
Fuck Me

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fiore | bloomington's literary & arts magazine fioremag.com

Letter To An Old Lover

--Landon Caldwell

What happened meant nothing. I am not sorry. I am happy it meant nothing. I want to sing because it
meant nothing. There is beauty in it because it meant nothing. Sing with me. Do not cry. Sing. We sang a
song of chemistry, physics, biology, cosmology, the zodiac and religion, and et cetras. And what a
beautiful song, one rarely heard. The commotion of social stigma, car horns, religious fanatics, high
school health teachers, and politicians is too overwhelming often times to hear the song. It is one of the
most beautiful works of art the human can feel. The way your body felt, your ass and tongue and hands
and legs, your breasts. Why not be proud? the key is to let go. Enjoy yourself, not take things too
seriously. That is when things became serious matters for a reason. How often can you connect with a
friend in such a way that is instantaneous? It was all so spontaneous. Are you having trouble with my
point? Okay. Think back to the room. The bed unmade, clothes scattered on the floor, books everywhere.
Can you picture it? No? Think harder. The shrub crawling up the window. The street light outside. The
blinds pulled open, letting that street light in. You turned on the light. Twenty thousand people
asleep outside. Dogs barking. Where had we been before hand? Was it the lake? Pardon me if it wasn't, but
for the sake of the matter at hand, I will simply say it was. We were at the lake, drinking bottled-beer
and smoking on the rocky beach. Those other people left the fire going for us. Einstein had a copy of
Tropic of Cancer in the back of his car and I reread the last page. You were astonished until I told you I
had already read the book months ago and went on my shpeal of the importance of the book, its
importance to me. But back to the most important matter. We had all been staring at the fire for so long,
the darkness seemed to be closing in. Witching-hour. I can't recall the moon. I recall looking up at the
sky. It was like everyone shut their lights off, a pre-modern sky. Every star twinkling and how I wonder
what they are up above the world so high like a diamond in the sky...I was the first to look up. My mouth
moved in a dumbfounded way, forgetting every word I knew, save the one that forced its way out, Fuck,
the only word I spoke the rest of the night. Maybe that is why it happened. It got into our brains and
planted a seed into the soil. It needed fertilizer. Our minds must have known this, simultaneously shot
by Eros, the god of Fuck, we saw each other immediately thereafter. The following thing, cigarettes, my
house, my room, naked, bed, and bodies taken over. The mind shuts down in shooting off. Ecstasy. You
could have been anybody. I could have been anybody. It makes no difference. Just two beautiful bodies
clanging against each other in the dark in the most natural of rhythms. Do you understand yet? I hope
so. We were singing, that is all we were doing. Singing to the dawn. We were welding architects singing on
the job. Now here am I singing, "I am I am I am I am," pen in hand welding and singing. Singing to the turn
of evening, singing to you and nights of weeks ago, melting it all down, merging in song, "Fuck," the only
word I have ever known. Isn't it all a beautiful song?
If only I heard this song more often, the song of care-free. And what a world I have created in this
song, the blinds pulled shut on the windows. The windows cracked open to let in the cool air and rain.
The rain watering the neighbors garden, so I can pull up the blinds and look out for a few hours after
sex. I open the blinds. Heiros Gamos. What a healthy game. Witching-hour is over. A deck of cards is
scattered across the table. The Queen of Hearts next to the ashtray. Love-sick. Home-sick. Happy. Happy
that I am at the desk in my underwear. Happy that I am alone. Happy and care-free from the bout of
Heiros Gamos. Fuck--a healthy sport, consent is the only rule, good exercise, easy on the body, safe with
the proper equipment.
I stand in my underwear in front of the window looking out. The day and what to do with it? If only
everyday could be this way. One day. Someday. This woman, she understands Heiros Gamos, no attachments,
etc. She understands the rules or lack there of and follows with a deep seated passion. Today I will see
her and smile and we'll have a nice long talk, as if nothing happened, because really nothing happened
and she understands. I'll see her and say, "Hello," and, "You look nice today," and, "What about this
weather we've been having?" and, "Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow?" All this means
understanding and not taking the whole bit too seriously.

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Interview with
Lauren Hughes
by Crisia Miroiu
Who is your favorite comic
character? Is he a source of
inspiration for your drawings?
Werewolf, he was my
favorite. It was so cool the
way this character was when
I was growing up. He was
some kind of a bad ass, didn’t
take anything from anybody,
no one really liked
him…When I grew up, I liked
Superman, I don’t know why,
now I think he is pretty lame.
It’s not really that much to
him, an alien guy and that’s it,
he has no genetic mutation
as X-Man. I loved X-Man as a
teen! Also, I liked Wild Cats,
Ninja Turtles – the graphic
novel (I discovered them in a
book store, way before they
came out as a cartoon, I
instantly said: “Awesome!”)
Spiderman - I don't like him
as a character, but I like to
draw him. It’s easy to draw
him because of the suit. If
you make a mistake, the suit
is kind of hiding it.
How did you start drawing
comics in the first place?
I started when I was kid. In
high school, I wanted to
pursue art, but my mum
talked me out of it because
she wanted me to do music.
As I had no art lessons, but
music ones in high school it
was more realistic, too. After
high school, I took a break
from drawing, being
swamped in school and
everything. For a while I drew
only cards for my friends but,
at some moment, it just came
to me, started drawing again
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and rediscovered how fun it
was.
How did you regained your
inspiration when you started
drawing again?
At the beginning, when I
started drawing again, I let
myself inspired either by old
characters, either by
something I liked and I tried
to draw, too. Because now I
have more time, I try to
develop new characters.
However, I don't focus on a
certain power, for me it's
more about the way I'd like
him to look, the different
techniques I might use.
Do your comics tend to focus on
the art or dialogue?
I focus only on the drawing
part, I don't do text. I thought
about it but it's hard
developing a story. Also, I'm
not very much into drawing a
series of some character.
Usually, if I drew them once, I
try afterward drawing
something new, to do new
things.
How do you usually present your
characters?
I try to show them doing
things. When you are
drawing, and don’t have a
line, people cannot say much
about your characters, so I try
to show what my characters
can do, without using writing
for that. I focus on poses of
the body that can suggest an
epic happening. I do
minimum costumes ‘cause I
like them when they look very
simple.
What’s inspiring you now?
Stuff I’ve seen around town,
but only stuff I like or I think
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it’s hilarious. I’m sometimes
inspired by my roommates
and I start drawing them and
making them looking like
superheroes. I love the
drawing I made inspired by
one of my roommates – the
one with the guy with a dog
holding a beer on a cliff with
a funny face – he’s my
roommate. He always makes
that face, he loves beer, he
loves his dog. I think the
drawing catches very well his
personality. It came out well,
I had time, I didn’t feel rushed
or stressed.
Have your drawings changed
over time?
I didn’t do backgrounds, now
I actually like doing them, I
think it tells more a story that
only a character. Generally,
my drawing got more
complex, in high school I
didn’t pay a lot of attention, I
was figuring it out somehow,
now I put more thinking into
it, I’m concerned about
different things, different
expressions. I’m not
interested in only drawing a
character, I want more, I look
for something behind the
picture, a story to make it
interesting. It became more
than just drawing a
fiore | bloomington's literary & arts magazine
superhero. As I’m drawing
different innovative things
come to me that are just
great to set up a cool
situation!
Do you read or collect comics?
What kind of comics arouse your
interest?
I’m reading comics, I collect a
little bit, too. I buy only things
I really like, things I can use
for my own drawings. Now I
have around 100 comic
books, ‘cause I’m sort of
choosy. When I read comics
I’m very picky about the way
they look. I like them to look
as realistic as possible, I like
detailed comic books. I had a
huge collection back in high
school, when I was living in
Miami, but the hurricane
came and spread all my
comics over the lawn. I was
discouraged, but I started
again.
How do you think comic books
have changed over time?
I think the story in lime is a lot
more complex, art works
came a long way, too, they
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expectations. If I mess up, I
don’t have to worry about it,
it’s only mine, I can start over
again
Are you part of a comics club? Is
there such a group in the town?
In high school we had a
comics group, we got
together, we draw,
exchanged opinions and
advises, talked about it a lot,
what we were drawing and
how we were drawing, how
we did that and that. Being
around people with same
interest is a lot of help, you
have the chance to see what
other people and to leant
new stuff. It’s hard when you
look at some pics, we don’t
understand how some things
are done. It’s inspiring.. You
don’t know how it got there,
it’s just a picture on a page.
It’s also important to get
feedback from people who
are more detailed now, are doing it, not from your
instead of using marker or friends who don’t know a lot
paint, they do them in about that and who don’t do it
Photoshop, also. Also, I have actually. It’s really helpful. I
the feeling they are more miss a lot having the chance
adult, I’m not sure if kids to talk to someone about my
should read them, they are drawings. But now I don’t
more violent, it’s so much know a lot of people doing
blood in graphic! drawing comics anymore.
Is there any connection between
your music and your art?
I don’t mix music
with comic –
music is
academic, the art
thing is something
fun I do to get
away of
everything else.
It’s a hobby I don’t
have
expectations, I
just and sit and
draw. I do it
usually to calm
down, to express
myself in another
way than implies
all the
professional
expectations.
About drawing, I
have only my own
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grandparents remember
of Japan's icky past.

Thailand’s per capita domestic rice

consumption
Ranges between 150-170 kilograms of rice per
year
You figure children are inherently picky eaters
and eat maybe ¼ of what an adult would
So my guess is their average would be
around 37.5 kilograms
Which translates into 82 lbs.

Globalization in the east has

altered the petite youth in Asia
to forms with double chins
and pot bellies. A survey
released by China's Ministry
of Health found that the
obesity rate in children has
risen 8% The solution? The
same string of fad diets that
plague the US: a
On the other side of the world, mathematical system
Kum-Sa asks her ap-ba to read involving zapping fat,
the tale of the horangi and the reducing calories, huffing
toki. aspartame, axing bread, and
getting no exercise.

Wake up! There’s no denying that Hello Kitty

remains hot-hot-hot in Japan. From tee-shirts
to toasters everything imaginable dons the
face of the adorable creation by Sanrio.
Sparkly pink packaging has run the
gauntlet, and teens from Taipei to
Singapore just can’t get enough
of that cotton candy fluff
despite what their
parents and

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David Ball
--Steven Woods

David Ball was not unattractive. He was not in shape, nor was he fat. He was not articulate but he was
approachable. He had the habit of looking straight into a woman’s eyes and demonstrating an unspoken
vulnerability. David Ball was a predator. Women he met would often recount the seduction in a manner one
would share an embarrassing dream with a good friend. Events and conversations were blurred and often times
incongruous. Nevertheless, excitement would underlie any regret and an almost imperceptible smile would
sweep across the woman’s face, as she would recount the actions that led to their seemingly inevitable tryst.
While David Ball never had much luck at bars or the gym, he found his preferred Serengeti to be big box
bookstores. He would stalk the Borders and Barnes and Noble with regularity and stop into smaller,
independent book stores on occasion. From trial and error, he knew the hunting was easier if the stores served
coffee for no particular reason other than the women felt more comfortable and, when talking, the warm cup
provided a subconscious security
blanket. Literally, the coffee
satisfied three of the senses – all
very pleasant so the women were
automatically more vulnerable and,
therefore, more susceptible to his
advances.
What’s more, David Ball would
not venture to simply ANY
attractive woman drinking coffee in
the bookstore, there was definitely
a type he found most likely to
engage. Regardless of age, he
prowled indiscriminately among the
stacks of self-help books. The
subject matter was secondary to
these women eager to find
answers. Sure, David was more
versed in some subjects than
others. Obviously, he would steer clear of the Lesbian and Gay section unless no other prospects existed.
Normally, he found he was most successful in Depression, Divorce, Surviving Cancer and other such titles and
shied away from women browsing in the Management section.
“Excuse me,” he would begin, “May I squeeze by you?”
Typically the women would automatically hold their coffee higher than David’s shoulders to make sure the
hot beverage did not spill and ample room existed for the two bodies to negotiate the passage without
touching. Usually, no words were exchanged at this point but an indifferent, kind smile.
At this point, David would bend down to one knee and begin perusing the books on the lower shelf. He
would sigh and lower his head. For effect, he would sometimes run his fingers through his dark, wavy hair
(empirically, he had great hair). He would sniff and feign soft, near silent crying. If the woman continued to
stay close, he would proceed, otherwise he would linger for a moment longer and then retreat back to the
magazine racks and await a new target.
The woman was immediately on alert. Women in the self-help section had a keen nose for bullshit, if only
at this moment – standing in this area represented the very threshold of independence, of being assertive, of
being proud, of being free – whatever. “Are you Okay?” the woman would ask with a hint of incredulity.
Kneeling, David Ball thought of sad things and then looked up into their eyes, his own misted over with
manufactured tears, and ask, “My sixty-seven year old mother was just diagnosed with breast cancer, it’s Stage
Four, so it’s pretty bad. I don’t know what to do.” It sounds crazy, but David holds the look. He allows a few
tears to spill down his cheeks. He DOES NOT look away – that’s the key. Unashamed of his emotion, he looks
dead into the woman’s eye. In a split-second, it’s done.

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F i c ti o n a l
A c c o u n ts
F r om a S em i -
A u to b i o g r a p h i c a l
W or k of
R e fe r e n c e
--Nathan Brown

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