Heroes & Villains or Brian Wilson, You’re My Hero

by Deirdree Prudence

“If you should ever leave me”

Brian sat down at his old piano, his childhood piano, letting the red velvet drape over the bench and his back in a great royal bell arcing to the floor.

Clutching the unfolded, refolded and unfolded again magazine cover in his hand, his face looked up at him from beneath the rocky white power. 

"Ce bâtard le mettre sur le magazine une interview Le Plage Garçons? Enfoncer le Christ! "

It was funny, though.

But he didn’t smile. Brian never smiled anymore. Writing happy songs about sad circumstances, that was his calling. That was his Smile.

He tapped some of the powder onto the dull mahogany surface next to the discards of his existence: a pen, a scrawled in dog-eared notebook, a half smoked roach, chunky black glasses & a crumpled pack of smokes.

“Though life would still go on believe me”

Using a returned post card he had sent to her, the sun glistening over the Pacific with palm trees and surfers enjoying their summer break, he pushed the powder into two little parallel rows of mountains sides…snowy mountains to fuel the hells of the summer heat.

A lone bead of sweat made its way down the king’s temple, kissing the side of his face.

“Laissez les enculés manger du gateau…”

A rolled up Ulysses S. Grant note, his head bowed over the piano, he inhaled the first line loudly, quickly catching his crown as it started to slide of his bent head.

“The world could show nothing to me”

  Finding & finishing off a glass of water to wash away the battery acid draining down the back of his throat, Brian walked into the kitchen and stood at the sink, staring into his reflection of the faucet.

The chunky black glasses he’d just shoved back onto his ever increasing full face from his ever increasing indulging, round gold medieval crown suited for the king of dark ages England resting awkwardly on his messy mop of sandy blond hair, a long red velvet Santa Clause cape with white fleece lining falling from his shoulders, and a deep deep sadness.

“La nuit, nous avons rencontré je savais que je vous fallait donc…et si j'avais la chance que je n'aurais jamais vous laisser aller…” He sang it quietly, watching his lips move in the facet’s reflection.

Another bead of sweat, this time mingled with a single tear fell down his cheek, the color of aquamarine birthstones.

“So what good would living do me?”

Brian turned away from his image, still humming the Ronettes’ cherry on top as he found the abandoned second line and quickly snorted it off the piano and stifled a sneeze, grabbing a cigarette from the mess that was his beach front home and put the Camel between his lips, groping for a lighter and finally after the flame touched the exposed tobacco, he watched the tendrils of smoke march their death march to the ceiling, the end of the cigarette red and lit like Christmas lights on a tree.

Brian rather liked Christmas.

Christmas in July.

He smiled a Mona Lisa smile, the first time his lips had curled up in what felt like months.

“Un de plus, un de plus, juste un de plus….”

Taking drags off the cigarette, he reached for the Beach Boys magazine interview, quickly shoved more white powder up into his sticky grey matter and took a swig of clear liquid, stale vodka but liquid in close range.

Brian kept on smiling, sat at the dilapidated piano seat and started plunking on the stained ivory and black keys again, the Ronettes out of mind, replaced by the grand symphony growing & solidifying in his head.

He finished the cigarette, stabbed the butt out in the overflowing ashtray & started singing as his fingers worked their magical royalty.

“God only knows what I'd be without you”

The Two Faces of Persephone Pomegranate

I essentially live a double life. In one world I'm the person who is
writing this. I'm Persephone Pomegranate, a feminist zinester with
severe anxiety issues who smokes weed and enjoys taboo sex. I'm a
fairly outspoken person who shares my life openly and honestly in my
perzine.

In my other life I'm boring old Angie. A web professional who suffers
from no mental illness (because that would make me unreliable), bites
her tongue at a majority of the sexist bullshit spouted (because I
would be a total outcast if I called it all out) and has never
experimented with drugs in her life (again, we're back to being
unreliable).

Most of the people who know Angie just see a very quiet and shy girl
who only speaks when she has something specific to say. When it's
directly related to the topic at hand, chosen by the others around
her. Usually work related. It's a bit ironic because those who know me
by my real name don't actually know the real me. Angie is the fake
one, Persephone is who I actually am.

So why do I do this? Why not just let Angie become Persephone and show
everyone in my life the true me? I keep up the illusion with my in
laws for my husband's sake. They're uber conservative and I honestly
don't know what they would do if they knew the truth about who we
were. I keep up the illusion with my work colleagues so that I can
keep my job working from home which allows me to fully live life on my
own terms.

I understand that there is a bit of a selfish streak in what I'm
doing. I should be trying to break those stereotypes down and let
people see that while I suffer from a mental illness and do drugs
recreationally, I'm still a reliable person who is good at what I do.
But I have to be selfish on this one. I need to be able to work from
home, where I don't have to talk to anyone face to face, where all of
my interactions get to be through email, where I can lead the
reclusive life that I need to lead in order to stay sane.

So, at least for now, Angie and Persephone will have to remain split.
And honestly, I kind of like having an assumed identity that allows me
to be completely free. Persephone has opened my eyes to so much that
Angie either wouldn't or couldn't admit to herself. Persephone has
done so much to put me on the path of discovering who I really am.

The Wish by Rob Bowen

Dylan raised the cigarette to his sun chapped lips. As his rough calloused thumb ran along the jagged teeth of the thumbwheel and the flint sparked life into the fumes from his Zippo, he took a long overdue breath to relax his over-excited nerves. He always needed a cigarette afterwards to settle him back down. Tether him to the earth, as it were.

Traditions, he thinks to himself as the toxic smoke pools in his lungs, waiting for the exhalation to come. Seconds pass as Dylan soaks in the summer sun and the calming chemical interlopers from the smoke holding tight in his chest. As he exhales he reaches into the tall patches of field grass breaking off a small dandelion from it's roots and holding it up to examine it's numerous seeds waiting with their make-shift parachutes to be given flight by the summer breeze. He takes another drag off his cigarette as a subtle grin pulls across his face.

He closes his eyes gently as his wish works its way through his mind before he exhales the smoke, blowing the dandelion seeds free from their keep and into the air. His eyes open to see one solitary seedling holding on tightly for dear life, rendering his wish completely useless. He sighs as the smile slowly fades into a light bite of his lip as Dylan nods in understanding at the fate of his wish.

'Oh well...' barely escapes Dylan's lips, trailing after his sigh, as he tosses the remainder of the dandelion aside. He looks out across the field as the tall grass playfully sways with the wind, and the sun begins to drift down towards the horizon leaving a colorful explosion of pinks, oranges, and purples upon the sky as it bids adieu to the day.

Dylan climbs to his feet and brushes off the earth clinging to the denim on various areas of his jeans. Mostly those that were pushing against the ground as he rested, riding the high he was always left with after each of his 'special encounters'. He wondered briefly if others were left with that same warm rush of satisfaction that ran through them leaving their skin almost tingling.

He crushes the end of his cigarette between his fingers, pinching the barely lit cherry off. Its job is done. The rush is gone, and Dylan's skin is no longer ringing with sensation. A sensation he would be robbed of if that damned dandelion seedling would have its way.

No matter, he thinks to himself turning his back on the sunset and walking from the field. For as long as he gets that same thrill...that rush...Dylan Westing will keep killing.

Blood & Sand by Wendy Hockstein

Lena sits in front of the fire, the sort you're not suppose to have on the beach, and watches the faces of new kids who have decided to settle on there. They are pale and dressed all in black, their hungry eyes watching as her friends worship them for being new and unknown. Skim, the boy her friend Linda Lu is friends with that she met at the IHOP a few days ago, says they're dangerous, to not come to the beach anymore, to be aware of the stories his father tells of bloodless children and the dead that walk and talk like the living. But as she watches the sharp bones of their faces outlined by the harsh light of fire she thinks of all the years that she has come to that beach and felt the sand under her feet and the water touch her finger tips. She thinks how long it took to teach her body to not burn whenever she went into the yellow light of the sun, old and breathless like her, and as she feels the teeth too big and sharp in her mouth and hears the pounding of the blood in their veins like syrup, thick and smooth running down them, she knows that Skim's father is right to warn his children of the people who have dug themselves out of their own deep cradles in the earth, and that her friends will be safe even if she has to show them what she truly is. 

The Living End by Luna Blue