WARNINGS ART AND LITERARY JOURNAL

REVOLUTION

EditorsAnthony Medina

ajmedina@loyola.edu

Samantha Smithscsmith@loyola.edu

Design ByAnthony MedinaSamantha Smith

Petra Nanney

Editorial StaffMadelyn Fagan

Rebecca HeemannMarisa Massaro

Kathleen McGowanPetra Nanney

Christopher Sweeney

Next Issue’s Theme: Simplicity

Send all submissions to: warnings@loyola.edu

Warnings is published periodically. All rights reserved. All content, un-less otherwise noted, is the property of the author(s). Warnings welcomes and considers unsolicited manuscripts and electronic submissions are either kept on file for the annual writing contest, are available on warningslitmag.tumblr.com, or are discarded. For more information, e-mail warnings@loyola.edu. If works contained herein denoted as fiction or poetry bear any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, it is entirely coincidental. Store in a cool, dry place not to exceed 72 degrees F.

Thanks to those who helped make this magazine possible:

Education for Life, Doug Evans, Crystal Staley, Lia Purpura, Dan Schlapbach, The Writing, Fine Arts, English, and Commu-nications Departments, SGA, The Grey-hound Collective Poetry Revival, Anis Mojgani, Loyola University Maryland, and all those who support the arts and

creative thinking.

WARNINGSLoyola’s Art and Literary Journal

Vol. 6 Issue 1 Nov ‘11

Readers,

You’ve patiently endured our absence long enough: the time has come, and we’re back with a vengeance! Although things are starting to look bleak, with shorter days, desolate weather, and the ominous obstacle of finals looming suddenly, we’re here to tell you not to hang your head in defeat! Instead, raise your fists, raise your voices, and rally the troops, because we’re calling you to action in the name of Loyola’s creative community.

Maybe we’ve been inspired by the occupy movements, put in the mob men-tality after the riots in Egypt, or incited to action by the scandal of a legendary college football institution. Hell, we might even just be natural born rebels. No matter what moves us, it all seems to lead to the same point: it’s time to shake things up. And when have we ever been shy about making a statement?

Leading the charge are our fearless contributors, who sound off with a bold collection of poetry, prose, fiction, photography, and art. On the staff front, Madelyn Fagan thoughtfully interprets what a revolution means, guided by the lyrics of the Beatles. Petra Nanney launches into an exploration of the infinite, and its inevitable landing back amidst the everyday, and Marisa Mas-saro revolts against the expectations of growing up and settling down to the daily grind of a nine-to-five.

So if you’re feeling a little reckless, read on. We can’t promise that you won’t feel compelled to join the cause. In fact, we’re kind of banking on it. We welcome all those intrepid fighters who aren’t afraid to make demands and get a little dirty. Just be warned, that if things start to get messy we won’t go quietly.

Your fellow revolutionaries,

Anthony and Samfront cover: Anthony Medinaback cover: Kate Marshallstaff photo: TJ Kelly

“Every time I write, every time I open my eyes I’m cutting out a part of myself to give to you. So Shake the Dust, and take me with you when you do...”

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“You say you want a revolu-tion,” but a revolution starts with words. It starts with conversations that spread faster than disease in the germ cesspools that are college dorms. There is no vaccine that political regimes can hand out hap-hazardly to stall the revolving ideas that linger in our heads every night before we close our heavy eyes from the world. Only the sadistic or the sycophantic would sit still and watch a needle inject unreliable vaccines into our system, and yet we let other peoples’ disagreeable ideas wriggle into our skin and linger. We

need to think before we regurgitate other peoples’ beliefs. One person can make a difference, but not if they do not actually believe in their own cause. A well toned word can be more deadly than the best modern day weapon, but not enough people see the arsenals they already have.

“Well you know, we all want to change the world,” or rather we all want to piss on the world. Men fumble like children, trying to batter the world bluer than it hit them. Every one out of four

A BEATLE’s TAkE ON REVOLUTION

by Kate M

arshall

by Madelyn Fagan

woman will suffer from domestic abuse because people do not know how to communicate well. Too often we think that words are not the cure to a situation, but a second rate salve to lessen the sting. I am not just talk-ing about the habitual abuser type of individual. Even the most refined people misguidedly shove their emotions down others’ throats when logic fails them. It is too easy to flaunt our rage and our hurt and feel justified in doing it. We need more everyday-revolutions, in the terms of how we filter our thoughts and emotions before we act on them. We

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need more epiphanies to tell us that a revolution of peace means shift-ing the dominance in a political or personal dynamic, to hands that can be trusted. We all want to mark our territory on the world, but before we permanently blotch our personal histories with the blood of innocent bystanders we need to analyze the consequences of our actions.

“You tell me that it’s evolu-tion,” but that’s just an excuse. Change is not something that hap-pens on its own. If we waited for natural selection to get rid of the crooked politicians or uneducated rubes we would waste a lifetime. It’s wishful thinking to believe your world will change without your participation. The first step to revo-lutionizing anything is taking an ac-tive role in informing yourself about whatever you care about. Contrary to popular belief, I would argue, change is not inevitable. Any move-ment of peace that has a chance at surviving requires dedicated people, who look outside their immediate needs. Dedication means more than forking out the pre-used contents of your wallet; it means sharing the wealth of your time and your heart.

“But when you talk about destruction, don’t you know that you can count me out” because hate only intensifies. There is a time and a place for brute force, but if that is your first go-to when trying to change an oppressive atmosphere, you need to re-evaluate to decide whether that change is a good one. It is hypocrisy to start a foundation of peace on the graves

of men who did not know enough to realize that their position as a cog in a political regime was hurting other people. While ignorance can be forgiven, but it can never excused. There is a resource war in the Congo that is funded by the cobalt in our cell phones and the mistakes of our political figureheads of the past; fig-ureheads who were so suspicious of change, and the effect it would have on their economy, that he approved the assassination of Patrice Lumum-ba, who dreamed of a Congo free and at peace. Due to our selfishness in needing the newest technologies at any expense, we are an indirect cause of a war that uses the rape of women and children as a fear tactic for their own citizens. Revolutions worth anything are about build-ing something better for the people and the world, not lashing out and destroying anyone who can be clas-sified as the enemy.

“You tell me it’s the institu-tion, you better free your mind instead,” because the blame game does not change any-thing. If you look at our political institution now you can see primary colors that refuse to blend. Repub-licans and Democrats are too busy coloring within their own party lines to see the bigger picture; that we are all being flushed down the eco-nomic toilet without remorse. When figures of justice stop caring about civil rights, as long as it gets your voting ballot, we have an issue. We need to set our priorities in order, and realize that there is a world outside our American borders that needs help, and a world inside many American homes that needs encour-

agement for change. Yet, if we only blame our institutions, we might feel better for a time, but that will not make us politically productive.

“But if you carrying pic-tures of Chairman Mao, you’re not going to make it with anyone anyhow,” be-cause nobody likes extremists or ass kissers. Figure heads can be helpful in jumpstarting change, but in the end they are just a person who is as imperfect as the rest of us. Political candidates and leaders are too com-monly our shields that we use so we do not have to make decisions. Most people like to believe that they are moderate when it comes to politi-cal activism, but even these words have connotations to them. You can believe in the socialism behind com-munist principles, but you are going to have to realize that there are the histories of failed and unjust politi-cal regime tied to words. Modera-tion is just a label that allows people not to make a decision when it comes to the freedoms and morals that concern them. We better make sure we are not delegating freedom away.

“Don’t you know it’s gonna be all right,” because your thoughts can change the world if they translate into words and actions everyone else can understand.

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by Nicole Ferrari

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by Megan Toth

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We stood with fingers interlaced down by the riverand asked ourselves how much would change.That spring, the rain came down so hardfor so many days that the banks rose and floodedour basements. Elm Street shut down.We reminisced about the days we’d dive in for frogs. Then, we’d walk to the divefor fries and Johnny would give us riversof lemonade when he came downfor the summer. He refused our changebut wouldn’t let us leave until we floodedhim with attention. He told us how hard the real world was while we sat on the hardbar stools, exhausted from divingthat morning; our backpacks floodedwith sand and clay from the bed of the river.Those days we were less concerned about changethan those other kids downtown who warned us that the town would come crumbling downif we didn’t act. The thought was too hardto bear. We didn’t want what we knew to change.We were blind when our fathers were divinginto depression faster than the current of the river,because they were no longer flooded with business. Unfortunately, floodrepair and severance packages were not downon their list of services. The riverof tears Dad cried left his heart hardas stone when Mom left us for her skydivinginstructor. He thought he could exchange his small town life for the world with the changein his back pocket. How he floodedher with attention! Johnny left, too; the diveis boarded up. Now, it feels like a put downto walk across town, barefoot, across the hardgravel. Now, when we get cut by river rocks, it scars. Our skin bears change downto the core. Lungs: flooded. Heels: hard.When we dive, we are eaten alive by the river.

ThE RIVER by Christy Kontos

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by Christian Rees

COsmETICs & A ThORAzINE hORIzON (to Dr. Walter J. Freeman II and his 3500)

Sometimes I would do five or seven in one sitting, the proper way, of course, and the proper way to do it is quite simple; with the thin steel pick pierce the right tear duct, angle slightly upward, until the pick stands out & gently up, a straight, standing tear, & then tap it firmly into the prefrontal cortex-- repeat on the left eye, quickly, within seconds of the first, to make it as efficient as possible. In my gauze mask and baggy white medical shirt, cotton & full of medicinal notions, I would sit, the California air pressing in against the waiting room, slip-ping through the cracks between widows & their cills, brushing up against husbands & their wives in paper dresses, with yellow helpers in their purses & the appearances they are constantly reminded of, I would sit on my stool with the single field of a medical cot at my knees & roll up my sleeves. They would lie, angled up, & I would gently touch their chins & then their throats, to guide their heads back & against the pillow ... I would do a handful of these sets of sevens or fives, doz-

ens waiting & huffing California air & thorazine off of the horizon, before my forearms would tighten sharply in cramping... the action took on a facile defect, a simple kink so I would switch hands to make a game of it, to take a cen-sus of my right brain, to remedy my professions evolving ease... a double tapping, a pair of blood bruised eyes & a complimentary pair of drug-store shades; tap them out in an assem-bly line while the nurses, they call me a Henry Ford... this way cost me a license & this way gave way to the West Coast, to my modern office filled with modern ideas on how to get through the day. They

can attribute the whole of a New York neigh-borhood (thousands!) to my work, to this way, all those bodies for medicine; but after all it was a choice, something they chose, & I had no say, only

my professional opinion... I would take a break between groups of five or seven, smoke a Winston or read an article from LIFE, seventy

...tap them out in an assembly line while the nurses, they call me a Henry Ford...

...a soft squeeze of my hand, then back to the stool & my nurses & the women in their lines & their paper dresses...

long low breaths, a soft squeeze of my hand, then back to the stool & my nurses & the women in their lines & their paper dresses... I have adapted to these days now that I am out of the hospital, now

that I am pri-vate practice, now that I see only house-wives, treat in cosmetics, for appear-ances, to numb them & cut a cognition or two... valium

& more drastic methods grew quickly, but they’re not for me, I will wash my steel picks & lay them in their case & sit them on my desk, to recline... the woman’s membrane will fuse, first the outer & then the inner, & tighten into pinhead cultures of scar tissue & my nurses will place dime-store sunglasses on her nose & send her on her way...

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by Nicole Ferrari

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A red shirt, fire, velvet, temper,Sleeveless, crumpled to below the chest--He bares his dimpled stomach,Courteously avoids our gaze,So we can stare at such lovelyPossessions, the way he hopesAmericans will stare, with hungry eyesThat poke and wiggle around and over,Feeling along the grooves produced byDesperate bullets of Iraqi law.

REVOLUTIONARyby Sylvia Fox

by K

ate

Mar

shal

l

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On damp grey streets below indifferentwalls, stony white faces scream, young and wrinkling,smelling of old fire and petrichor, the plaster-ash of shadow-buildingsten years almost forgot (though occasionally recalled in ahypnagogic jerk as patriotism falls asleep on the night of September tenth)snows down, darkening their skin with history,dust to dust to dust to dust to dusk.

The muscles of Tahrir taught, unintentionally, the arms of Manhattan tolift, the rebels’ yells of democracy echoing against transatlantic canyons,bored and tired and itching for a fight. The Arab Springsprings forth bubbling, flooding first-world highways.Some kind of American Autumn has ticked up, andticking we punch in, ticking we lay siege,ticking we punch out, ticking all the while weeat and shop and protest. Ticking up, maybe, or ticking down;either way, when the church bells ring the bomb goes off,gassing the East Coast with confettiand the world will still be here, asking for the freedom to not get shotwhile we demand the freedom to not get screwed. Justiceis a perspective painting, mumbled and distorteduntil you find your own ground to stand on, until you look and seeyour face in the rubble, in the rebel. Rebellion screams across every facethe same way, young and aging fast, thesoundtrack changes but the heartbeat never does.

The Arab Spring warms over, microwaved and soggy. Ouranger is valid though our pale problems are moreprivileged, and those comparisons are not asnoble as we would like. Justice has astigmatism, and left our outragecooking over the summer, melting to an AmericanFall.

Greyhound Collective Poetry Revival Spotlight

ThE OCCUpATION Is A pART-TImE jOB

by Leya Burns

by Kate Marshall

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by Nicole Ferrari

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We didn’t have to be here, you see.And I don’t mean you and I, this time,I mean the skies and all their most distant pixelsI mean the holes in your socks and your logicI mean the buzzing of creation’s dotsThe galaxy-hopping zips and the leviathic nebulaeWhizzing like beads on a spinning skirt fringe Bursting,Rising, and extinguishing like a field of lightning bugsDrunken off of summer haze, the leftover joyThat is still dripping from a starWhich found it’s planet shivering with life one morning.We don’t even have to run.Because baby, today I learned how real we are.Infinitely more solid than our fears,We already fly,While they rattle, chained to the void that liesBeyond the brick wallI have framed the universe with.

by Petra Nanney

REVOLUTIONs: ThE mUsIC Of ThE sphEREs

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by Kate Marshall

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sTILL hIdINg

I swiftly slid behind the sofa. My knees trailing in, a distant second behind my fleeting chest, grazed the grainy carpet and mercifully dodged the banded windowsill moonlight that would have revealed me. I was wedged so tightly between the wall and the sofa that I could feel my pound-ing heartbeat resonate within my wrists. Although out of breath, I tried to manage the sound that radi-ated from my cloudy gasps in my dark and shielding corner. Forehead shoved against the tops of my burnt knees; my arms, like an envelope encompassing a letter, enclosed my shins while grasping the opposite wrists. I am the hunted. The silence snapped. He’s close behind. The whisper of his footsteps felt like the sound of a symphony against the transient still-ness, and his stealthy steps synchro-nized with my pulse. He paused; silence again. He was cautiously waiting for the right moment to leap, to pounce on me.

He’s in the room; he’s going to find me now. He leapt. A large hand gripped my shoulder: a thumb on my back and four fingers threaten-

ing my collarbone. “Gotcha!” My father shouted proudly. Hide and seek was his favor-ite game to play with me while I was growing up. It was my favorite, too,

but I haven’t partaken in a while. I’m older now, almost 22, and I’m looking for a job post-graduation. We’re supposed to look for a job; a full time, graciously compensated job, that’s what we’re supposed to do when we get a degree…right? Well, there is no blazing flame facilitating a desire within me to join this Monday through Friday, nine-to-five bullshit, which is probably why I haven’t made any respected effort to apply to just about anything. So, it’s over a de-

cade later and I guess I’m still stuck inside this perpetual game of hide and seek. Internally, I’m four years old, welded between the wall and the sofa, but now I’m hiding from a desk job and a fluorescent-lit office on the 83rd floor of some shiny cor-porate building. This variant game of tag, this child’s play, will define my adult life. Who said getting a job right out of college was crucial? Sure, it looks great, but no one said I couldn’t go home and play hide and seek with my dad for another few years. It’s all about making that first step; realizing that life has got it all wrong because the economy will most likely still be shit, that two

hour commute isn’t going anywhere, and the tie you don will still be an upside down noose that points to your genitals.

Once you cross the line from seek-ing corporate interviews to hiding from them, you’ll find there’s safety in numbers. Who’s with me?

...So it’s over a decade later and I guess I’m still stuck inside this perpetual game of hide and seek...

...the economy will most likely still be shit, that two hour commute isn’t going anywhere...

by Marisa Massaro

“...so when the world knocks at your front door clutch the know tightly and open on up, running forward into its widespread greeting arms with your hands before you, your fingertips trembling, though they may be.” - Anis Mojgani

“In art, all who have done something other than their predecessors have merited the epithet of revolutionary; and it is they alone who are masters.”

- Paul Gauguin