I cant understand why people are frightened of new ideas. Im frightened of the old ones.

-John Cage

March 25th, 2014

Volume 3, Issue 4

Scotty B

Grace Smith

News, or something like it.

HAPPENINGS
This wasnt very easy. But it wasnt hard either.

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Where Are They Now The News Ticker

Student woke up and everyone was gone. Arent you impressed we got our shit together on St. Paddys day? Our next issue will probably be April Fools themed or something. I actually cooked something for once. Its nice enough outside to walk to the smoke shop again. Mark puts a little effort into his comic this issue. Student finds decayed squirrel carcass and is reminded that our time at Beloit is fleeting. Chris Fink has juggalos in his family. Woop Woop. Admitted students visit Beloit Tron holds their first meeting in Peet 4th lounge.

Abraheem Dittu

Since Beloit Ive been in two rehabs and a mental health facility. Started attending Woodbury university this last year. Been writing and producing music and will be attending the musicians institute in Hollywood this fall. Always will hold Beloit inhigh regard and miss many of you dearly. Pour out that OE for me hope to see yall before you graduate.

Paula Khim

Griffin Salisbury

Art?

WORKS
Kiernyn Roben Orne-Adams

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Untitled

Shed lived with the brick wall in her peripheral vision since the dawn of her mind. As surely as she lived in a dry flat land full of spindly metallic homes, as obviously as it was silent except for the afternoon winds that whooshed by, beating their surroundings with their roars, as certainly as she woke, looked around, did some living, and went back to bed, she knew that the brick wall was there. Behind was more emptiness; she was the only one, most of the time. Ahead lay the wall. It was wide and tall and haunted her dreams when she looked at it head-on. One day she began to climb. At first, she fell often; she was used to swinging herself up through the gaping spaces of old industrial skeletons, not cramming her limbs into opportune cracks. But eventually she changed. her body contorted in new ways, her brain pumped different rhythms, she smiled often but with less purity. She began to name each of the bricks that she spent so much time hung upon, giving them favorite foods and constellations, weaving backstories that always

seemed to involve missing a train at the right time. At night, curling herself into a hand-dug crevice, shed rest her head against the ridges of certain blocks; these were the ones that got the best stories, complete with shames and secret loves and moments when they stood enthralled by events made magical because they were far greater than themselves. Shed bury her face in the rough crimson and speak the words they thought. Finally, one afternoon as the sun began to sink, she stretched up a hand and grasped air. Her cheeks shimmered; she glanced down at the entities stacked dizzyingly far below. Say goodbye, she told herself. The point had been reached. She grabbed with the other hand. Pushed with one foot, then the other. In symbiotic motion she pulled herself free of the masonrys embrace and stood at the top. She beheld the sight before her, just before dark: Another brick wall.

About the Author

Dylan Davis

the author is a former professor of linguistics at a small liberal arts college in delaware. the author found such a stilted academic environment to be draining. the author escaped to a small cabin in rural appalachia to indulge their hemingwaythoreau fantasies that are in intellectual vogue right now. the author thinks their seclusion is allowing them to get in touch with something primal and essential to the human spirit. the author doesnt realize how trite that is. the authors quest for intellectual purity is a pipe dream. the author is drowning under the glut of cultural ideas for originality. it is slowly dawning upon the author that they are just another drop in an endless cascade of creators who all strive for meaning and miss. the author realizes his entire identity is built on a bland idealism that has been milked dry by generations before. the author is broken. the author is alone. the author doesnt care if you read their fucking book anymore. the author realizes real human connection is more important than anything they could achieve. the author is alone in a vacuum of creation. the author wants to take a swan dive off the top of his publishing house. the author wants to drown deep inside a volcano. the author wants to cry blood and breath fire. the author wants to fuck a mountain. the author cant be alone anymore. the author needs you to come back. for the love of god somebody please save the author. the author also has two dogs and a gerbil named algernon.

TheOceanDrownsTowardsthe Sky Amelia Diehl

After eight hours of driving, Melanie could finally afford to pull over and shut the engine off. With a turn of her key, the radio announcers voice cut off during a segment on a recent homicide in Chicago, but Melanie had stopped listening at least half an hour ago. The calm incessant voices had turned into a soothing background noise. It was getting to be the time of day when the afternoon and its sun kissed the car window so hard you had no choice but to get out and meet it head-on. She squinted through the windshield, beginning to recognize more of the stillness she had stumbled upon. Lining an ambiguous dirt path to the waters edge were small sheds and abandoned boathouses, lonely with chipped paint and saggy door hinges. The dock, coated with crusty bird droppings and stray seaweed, sighed slowly under her footsteps as though it was waking up, only now realizing something was expected of it. She paused, remembering that she didnt have to move anymore right now, she had arrived. But it was hard to ignore the dull tightness of her legs from sitting for so long, so she stayed standing near a white boat. Its rusty engine was a wavering vision underneath the translucent green water. The reflection of the boats white bottom hung like candle flames seem to hang over the wick. Melanie could smell soggy wood and the greasy fumes from the restaurant down the road, but mostly she paid attention to the smell of the sunlights hectic twinkle dance over the water. Ev-

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Filth

the confined atmosphere smells like our stale cigarettes your shirts stench clinging to my underarms the only memory left tangible under my nostrils to be wiped out blown away by white snow my coat your prose only hands touching me are mine lonely only mine here to confine all those things you thought you wouldnt mind and do you now or do you really feel the unwind so unkind when bodies long only for those other hands so unholy smothering breaths short and cozy home and dormant tormentingly

Grace Smith

keep me in your head keep me in your hearth warm your core soil me with your girth think of me never give me no charity no pleasure of attention public gratification only to be hid in that rectangle of a room mutual prison apathetic inquiry fuck me gently then as hard as it gets it doesnt matter just as hard as it gets dont forget my safe haven for your prodding in-visions as a recluse as hard as it gets there is always my safe haven

Untitled

Passing stills, Moving paintings, Colored by a coincidence, Into art that no one can reproduce.

Katia Colin

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We want to see what youre proud of.

erything seemed nervous, or at least eager to keep moving. I guess the lakes way of resting is to lap slowly at whatever it touches boat or the shore or even the lake bottom, Melanie thought, shifting her weight on her hips. If she leaned over enough, she could fall. She knew the shift in her center of gravity that this would require, the pull from behind the belly button, the new angle of her legs, the collapse of rigid muscles, the relaxing and sputtering of unkempt strands of hair. Or what if she didnt fall in, but any of her important possessions? She had her car keys, with her YMCA membership card on a bottle opener key chain her friend had given her mostly as a joke two years ago, the red metal now worn mostly to a decrepit grey. What if she overturned her wallet into the boats reflection? Water climbing itself into the carefully organized layers of bills and I.D. cards, no escape. She imagined the tattered twenty dollar bills sinking, twisting to dissolve in the water. The coins would drop the

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fastest, leaving tiny, quick, oscillating ripples until they settled into the murky mud bed. Versions of pictures of her face, with accompanying address and birthdate, all fluttering listless towards the darkening green below. Sweaty scraps of paper with phone numbers or things to remember, the memory of them bleeding from their ink. All of it seduced, succumbing to the senseless world of sinking dimness below. How does the ocean feel about the sky? Melanie imagined the oceans as stubborn, splaying themselves out to hold the land masses together, letting the countries seep through the cracks of their elusive fingers. Always with their backs to the sky, while the sky has no choice but to look down. Her cell phone began to vibrate. Taking it out of her pocket, the sun glared from the shiny screen, as though she was holding a rectangle of the twinkling water, hot and lifeless in her hands. Hello? Yeah, Im here.

Ramblings.

Perspectives

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SPOT THE RAT

Stupid Easy Foods - Irish Soda bread

Chef Spluge
Heres what you need (for an 8 loaf): 4 cups of flower 1 - 1.5 cups of buttermilk or substitute 1 tea spoon of baking soda 1 tea spoon of salt Bunch of raisins Beer So first off pour the flower + salt + baking soda into a bowl (you can also start preheating the oven to 425 degrees). Go ahead and dump the raisins in there too if you like. If youre low on raisins just snag a hand full next time youre at commons. Then slowly add the milk. The recipes usually calls for buttermilk but you can do quick substitute. Just take your milk and add a tablespoon of white vinegar or lemon juice. If you dont have either of those, just grab a few lemon wedges from commons. That counts as fruit right? Let that sit for 5 or so minutes. Next off, if you fancy, add a bit of beer to your bread cause beer always makes bread taste much better. Knead and knead and knead and knead until its doughy. Place on a baking sheet and with a knife cut and X onto the bun about half an inch deep. Let that bake for 45 50 minutes then eat it.

Overheard at Beloit
Do they sell 40s at Walgreens? Its called homeschooling. Its magic. What kind of a coach pees on the side of the highway? Have you heard of grumping? Its where you shit and walk at the same time. I dont mean to overhear. I would eat my own vomit to sound like Tom Waits. Us French people never wear a bra. I dont think periods even offend anyone. It uses what I call Samus Syndrome