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Cover
Table of Contents
Editor's Notes
Donations
Submission Guidelines
Website

Stories & Essays
'57 Chevy
_
By Gary Moshimer
A Visit to India From America...
_ By Shubha Venugopal
Calista Flockhart and the MySpace Hoax
_ By Michael Frissore
Recollections and Revelations
_ By Elizabeth Harbaugh
Springtime Visits
_ By Phyllis Link
Stupendous Stew
_ By Malerie Yolen-Cohen
The Genius
_ By Ray Templeton
The Stranger Below
_ By Sam Vargo
Truant
_ By Louise Norlie
Vacation
_ By Dan Devine
Vegetarian Rage
_ By John A. Ward
What Might Pass Between Them
_ By Alexandra Leake

Poetry
A Glutton For Truth
_ By Richard Fein
A Question of Proper Form
_ By Richard Fein
Boiler Man
_ By Leland Jamieson
Horizons
_ By Davide Trame
Lioness In Miniature
_ By Grace M. Murray
Outdone
_ By Pete Lee
Real Life Elocution
_ By Richard Fein
Rewriting An Ending
_ By Rumit Pancholi
September
_ By Tim Shell
Seven Ways of Looking at a Full Moon
_ By Naiya Wright
Shalom
_ By Jeanne Hugoe-Matthews
Sideways
_ By Kristine Ong Muslim
Spirit
_ By Patrick Frank
The Empty Spaces After You
_ By Rumit Pancholi
Thesaurus
_ By Ed Higgins
Uncle Zebulon
_ By J.R. Salling

Art & Photography
Dora Calo
Robert Carter
Noah Erkes
Andrew Patsalou
Saulius
Filip Wierzbicki

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Calista Flockhart and the MySpace Hoax
By Michael Frissore


1997
A few years ago I knew this kid. We’ll call him Ty because it’s short. He was just out of college and a bit of a nutjob. We worked together as temps for a healthcare company. He was not a very good worker. Sometimes I’d catch him on plastic surgeon websites looking at before and after breast photos. I befriended him because he fascinated me. He always ate lunch in his car, and it could have been any seat on any given day. Sometimes he sat in the front passenger side, sometimes the back seat. He had the most bizarre lunches. Sometimes it would be those Lunchable pizzas that kids eat; sometimes it would be bread. Just bread, like a stack of ten slices. One time I followed him out and caught him masturbating.

When I couldn’t stand to see him eat in his car anymore, I invited him to have lunch with me in the break room. He accepted happily. For lunch that day Ty had three bananas and a can of spinach, an actual can of spinach with Popeye on it. He didn’t open it with his flaming pipe or anything; he produced a can opener from this purse-like thing he called his “fag bag.” He said nothing as he prepared his lunch. Then, once he had opened the can, he finally spoke.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “I’m still in shock from Brian Pillman’s death.”

“That’s why the spinach?” I replied.

“No. It’s good for you.”

“Whatever,” I said. “Just don’t beat me up.”

Turns out Brian Pillman was a wrestler. Ty was obsessed with professional wrestling. Princess Diana had died two months earlier, but he was mourning a guy who wore tights. He kept telling me about all these shows he went to and what wrestlers he met. He said one guy asked him if he had any cocaine while he was in the bathroom.

I learned a lot about Ty during those lunches. He lived with his parents; he hated being a temp; he thought Louise Woodward was guilty and that JonBenet Ramsey was “hot.” He claimed the last one was a joke, but it didn’t seem that way to me. As much as he loved wrestling he talked even more about Howard Stern and Calista Flockhart. He was always giggling to himself in his cubicle during the morning with his headphones on, listening to Stern. And he was always going on about Ally McBeal.

Ty intrigued me more and more with each lunch. He knew and asked very little about me, but I had to know about every tiny aspect of his life. I found out he had a thing for Loretta, a girl that worked there.

Loretta was pseudo-pretty. She looked kind of like Sarah Michelle Gellar if someone punched her in the face. He wouldn’t talk to her and he seemed to want me to ask her out for him, but I wasn’t going to do that. He was very passive-aggressive about it, asking me questions like, “Do you think she’s cute?” and “Think she has a boyfriend?” I was not going to mention him to Loretta. I think Ty scared some of the women there.

I sort of became Ty’s confidant. One time he asked me to cover for him while he drove home, forty-five minutes each way, to change his pants after he shit himself. I’m not kidding. And no one noticed he had been gone. We worked together for a couple more weeks until one Friday our supervisor Richard told me he was letting Ty go. He said I was doing a great job, but Ty just wasn’t working out. Later that day Ty asked if I was coming back on Monday. I said I wasn’t sure. We said our goodbyes, but he said nothing about him not coming back.

On Monday Loretta came to me and asked if I’d heard from Ty. I said I hadn’t and she told me that he had sent an email to some of the women in the office saying how much he liked them and will miss them. It seemed to freak a lot of the girls out, especially considering most of them had never so much as exchanged pleasantries with Ty. I didn’t see the email itself, even though I kind of wanted to.

That morning Ty called me at work. He didn’t mention the email and I wasn’t going to either. He said he was taking the week off and asked if I wanted to come to his house some time that week. I didn’t really want to, but all week he kept calling me at work and asking if I’d come over. So I finally went to see him one night when he said his parents would be out. Ty lived at a cul de sac in a nice little neighborhood with a lot of children playing in the street. As I pulled into his driveway I saw the strangest thing. The front door was open and I could swear I saw Ty standing in his parents’ kitchen completely naked. He was just standing there, as if waiting for something, with the kitchen light on.

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