3 <medium> Oil Paint<artist> Claire Jehle

Synthetic.

That’s the agreed upon and consequential narrative of this issue of It’s almost perverse in its simplicity, whilst maintaining a

simultaneously mind-numbing degree of complexity. Our lives as young adults have become increasingly synthetic, unnatural - chemical and clinical. Interaction between us is performed through electricity and resistors instead of facial expression and the vibrations in the air waves. And yet, our lives are also synthetic for a different reason - our physical and cognitive experiences play out more like mash-ups than a linear timeline: music, texts, emaill, twitter, phone calls, and more - simultaneously. We multitask through different portals of the time-space continuum, perpetually adding layers of information into our synthesis of reality.

So it’s natural that this issue would manifest itself in ways that we could have never imagined. Photography is used to create million-word stories with only a single glance, welded metal conjures cold-war pre-pubescent multi-national commentary on the nature of material and human use, and included are written words that flush out the fault lines in your emotional psyche - cracking your steely exterior to worm their way into your most time-insensitive thoughts.

Through the creation of this publication, it has been further solidified in our eyes that the students at UMKC are bursting at the seams with talent and potential. And through this enduring revelation, it’s even more apparent that we, the students, are dissatisfied with simply watching the world turn. We’d like to make a dent in that immeasurable machine, however we can in life. The creative minds represented in the following pages have already set their plans in motion. Plans to be something other than just a consumer, a citizen, a receptacle for other people’s thoughts. They’ve taken a long hard look at their synthetic world and asked themselves, “How can I inject a little organic material into this situation?”

As you ponder these pages, as you rub your hands over the shiny, quick-dry, pre-packaged, plastic-coated paper - challenge yourself to question, “What’s my contribution?”

Sincerely,Corey LightEditor in Chief

<artist>Lauren Plemmons

<medium>Photography

5 <artist> Jennifer Short <medium> Photo-collage

6 <artist> Chelsea Cooper <medium> Printmaking

7

Persephone’s Revengeby Savannah Lacy

Hades and his followers came to my door one day, inviting me to a party that would introduce me to the grand lives of the Grecians. I accepted the invitation, eager to prove my worth in a new city. I had sat on the sidelines of the bright and popular my entire life, but decided differently. Hades was a real charmer. That night I smeared my face with a myriad of powders and creams, slipped on my most expensive dress, and gingerly stepped into a pair of high heels, only to play a part. I strolled along the garden pathway, up to the Grecian columns, and neared the sacrificial chamber. I constantly reminded myself during the pre-ceremonial chatter that this is what I've wanted all along, and that these little letters, these omegas, alphas and deltas, mean the world to me. A shout woke me from my thoughts- the ritual had begun.

Surrounded by an army of girls, I was shoved into a room of glitter, confetti, bright lights, fake smiles and so much noise. I smiled, convincing myself that this is who I really am - that this amiable, normal girl was what I had spent three years in college to become. I timed my nods and handshakes. I snapped and smiled appropriately. But the urge to scream bubbled just underneath my façade. I wanted desperately to tell these girls how I felt about abortion, religion, education and poverty. I wanted to become a woman based in passion, a woman with a fiery soul, not a twenty-something girl with a hair bump and too much eyeliner.

But we convince ourselves otherwise. We hide from who we know we are because, sometimes, who we are isn't really that great. I ignored my thoughts and sat through the first few rounds of mindless babble, icebreakers and dull games. Hades and his followers remained at their stations, while we young girls darted from room to room to be racked over the coals. I found it impossible that Grecians would be so inhospitable to their guests. Did they learn nothing from Odysseus? And so I excused myself.

I found a deserted stone hallway some distance from the sacrificial chambers, close enough to the pillars that I could see the stars and feel the breeze. I slid to the floor, my silk dress wrinkling as it met each body part, smudging everywhere my damp hands touched. I fought the urge to run - to run from Hades and his charm and his awful little letters. My heels were too heavy, my dress was too light, and my face was caked in paint. I imagined tearing the fabric to shreds, fleeing this heretics' temple, hearing the soft smack of bare feet on the pavement as I ran so far away, but I didn't.

I wish I had. More than anything I wish I had rejected them. Because the day they rejected me, the day Hades refused my sacrifice, my lips could no longer stay in the shape of a perfect little red heart, silent and obedient. I spilled over with sorrow and shame, not for having been discarded like a lipstick-stained napkin like so many girls before me, but for having played into their ruse, and for having believed it.

<design> Colleen Lucas

8 <artist> Jason Heft <medium> Oil Paint

9 <artist> Blue McNiel <medium> Photography

10 <artist> Evan Ashby <medium> Photographic Transfer on Wood

11 <artist> Chelsea Cooper <medium> Photography

12

One can reach a point of humiliation where violence is the only outlet - Arthur Koestler

I. Things have not been going well lately. This is probably due to an event which took place on New Year’s Eve that caused a chain reaction, which subsequently lead to every person I knew who could stand me for more than an hour to cut all and any ties. This same event left me feeling more than a little isolated, turning what had been a tolerable existence into one of morbid self-fascination.

Last New Year’s Eve was bitter and cold. It was the kind of evening that ruins even the best of intentions. Ice covered the roads leading around town. The snow, which had allowed for Christmas to appear so idyllic, turned to a brown slush accumulating around every sidewalk and driveway. I regretted ever having wished for snow in the first place despite the holiday cheer.

It was a late afternoon - nearly evening – and everything felt cold and dreary. I was smoking a

cigarette on Paul’s back porch with Jack, who was already a little buzzed. He was telling me how excited he was about the night ahead.

“You’re going right?” he asked with feverish impatience twirling his brown matted hair in-between his fingers. I nodded with no real effort, trying to impress upon him a cold indifference. Picking up the conversation again, Jack started, “yeah Jen’s is going to be nice tonight” the way he said “nice” made me feel uneasy, but not wanting to be honest, I simply smiled before saying “yeah it should be fun.” I regretted it as soon as the word “fun” came out of my mouth. It was the fakest thing I had said to anyone in a long time, or at least since any family get-togethers. Jack didn’t notice. He was more interested in anticipating the night ahead than anything I had to say. It was this anticipation or excitement which seemed to cause him to twitch uncontrollably as he attempted with

A Dull Night in HellSeann F. Weir

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no success to continue the one sided conversation before going off to “find Paul.” I didn’t have time to respond to him before the screen door violently slammed shut.

Paul, as usual, sat slumped on the faded floral couch trying to sleep, staring off into space uninterested in everything going on around him, including Jack. By this point Jack’s excitement had consumed him completely and he continued to explain in aggravating detail just how “fucked up” he intended to get. An idiotic grin spread across his face. Drinking to the point of blackout had just recently become a peculiar hobby that Jack loved and treated with a serious nature, absent in every other aspect of his life. It seemed the only times he really enjoyed or felt alive were those he was unable to remember. Paul was present when most of these blackouts took place, and each time he would tell Jack to be careful while watching apathetically as Jack attempted to kill his liver and countless brain cells.

It was nice to be outside and alone for a change. Jacks voice, since childhood, seemed to have an amusing, almost musical quality to it, but lately it had withered into something weak and artificial. It was true that the only person I had ever really liked had turned into a clown - the butt of so many jokes - but still I couldn’t really even think of ending the friendship, so I hung around feeding on old memories when he was more than likeable.

“So it’s going to be at Jen’s right?” Jack asked knowing the answer. “Yeah, well, her mom’s,” Paul responded in a forced distant sort of way, playing ineptly the part of misunderstood tragic artist who instead of creating any manner of art smoked as much weed as he could get his hands on. Everyone around him tried to pretend they didn’t notice. I stood in the doorway. My left arm held the door open letting snow in and warm air out, finishing what was left of my cigarette. “Let’s go,” Jack said enthusiastically, jumping from his seat beside the semi-conscious Paul, who realized he was in for another sleepless night. With that we piled into Jack’s rusted ford. For most of the drive Jack dominated the conversation, telling us once again just how drunk he was planning on getting. Paul and I looked at one another wondering if he would ever change the subject or shut up, but he continued on, not deterred in the least by our lack of communication. He spoke in reverence about vodka the way some Catholics do holy water.

The drive was long and winding, the kind Jack liked since he didn’t pay for his own gas while still living off his parents an unabashed parasite. The road was bumpy, causing him to spill the beer strategically placed between his legs. He swerved, screeching like an alley cat defending its small square of territory, and woke Paul from contemplative nap. Paul’s red eyes bulged “what’s the matter?” he said in a tone of alarming urgency

“Just the usual,” I said. “Jack nearly getting us killed due to his need to drink and drive.”

“Hey I can handle my booze just fine,” Jack said, finally able to control his vocal chords.

“Yeah, he can handle himself,” Paul said - his voice trailing off at the end as if unable to believe a word of what he had uttered. We each went silent, unable to force any further conversation.

At ten o’clock, after hours of aimless driving and wasted gas, we finally arrived at Jen’s. Already there were no parking spots in sight. Cars were lined up around the block, tires deep in brown slush. However, Jack was still ecstatic about the whole thing. He quickly parked in one of the neighbor’s driveways.

“You can’t park here,” I said in a defeated tone“What do you mean it’s the only place to park,”

Jack said.“Guys don’t make such a scene about it,” Paul

muttered, though neither Jack nor myself seemed to really care. We continued on deaf to anything he had to say

“No it’s some stranger’s driveway”“Oh yeah and what are they going to do about

it on New Year’s…Bullshit,” he said every word in a high pitched snotty tone, which seemed to beg for me to do something about it. It’s going to be a long wasted night, I thought to myself walking as slow as possible, forcing my heavy feet through the snow as wind continued to bite at my red face until at last I was at Jen’s door. Paul and Jack ran ahead leaving me alone in the bitter cold, and I was grateful. Once inside it was - as expected - crowded and warm. This warmth, however, was far from the comforting kind I had imagined and expected. Instead a claustrophobic heat had taken its place and destroyed the minor illusion I had nurtured for the entire drive. Christmas decorations were still strung about the house, the centerpiece of which was an oversized Christmas tree that dwarfed in Jen’s living room to the point

Seann F. Weir

14

where you could see it’s tip bent by the ceiling. Everything else was what you would expect, red and white streamers and numerous other forms of Christmas paraphernalia. Even artificial mistletoe hung from every doorway. The rest of the house was of modern suburban design. All furniture was bland and without imagination.

Inside I was greeted by a mass of people who all seemed to know me in some way or other. A few of them I could name and recognize, but the rest I couldn’t place. Even so they didn’t seem to mind when I substituted “Happy New Year’s Eve” for whatever their name may have been. By this time Jack was well on his way into another debilitating blackout. A bottle of cheap vodka in hand, he wandered from room to room greeting complete strangers like they were lifelong friends with an uncomfortable hug coupled with an unwanted kiss on the cheek. He shouted in their ears “HAPPY NEW YEARS,” his warm breath reeking of a mixture of vodka and eggnog. These actions were greeted with a violent shove followed by a few choice words, which consisted mainly of bastard and drunk. He seemed to make most of the girls he hugged uncomfortable. A few of these nameless (and for Jack they may as well have been faceless) girls were drunk enough to play along with him. This, however, comforted him only a little bit, for anyone present including Jack, who when morning came would not remember one thing, let alone their name or face. One particularly drunken blonde seemed to take a shine to him that night for a few minutes at least. Once their brief but agonizing kiss ended Jack turned flashing an ugly smile, lipstick smeared across his face, while a nameless but shapely blonde grimaced, tasting Jack’s rancid breath. Aside from a look of casual disgust the girl didn’t seem particularly ashamed, and as for Jack, he had, over the years, become immune to feeling any sense of shame. He proved

this time and time again, almost as if he took a measure of pride in showing just how low he could go.

Unable to stomach any more of Jack’s boozed attempts at romance, I left the room in a hurry tripping over my feet, playing the fool for a handful of strangers in the next room who couldn’t stop laughing. For a minute or two I laid sprawled out on the floor, closing my eyes and imagining myself reentering the room with a fully automatic shotgun in hand. Without a word I proceeded to unload upon the moronic crowd. The violence within that daydream of stereotypical vengeance was a secondary component - a means to an end. What I really longed for, what I really wanted to see was for those big dumb grins transformed within seconds into looks of fear and shock as their riotous laughter died mid-sentence. Upon opening my eyes from the homicidal fantasy I was brought back to sordid reality, and those laughs continued to ring loud and clear throughout the house. All this was more than I could take in one night. So, albeit clumsily, I picked myself up from the floor and fled the room to the tune of undisturbed laughter. I could hear Jack joining in from the other room. His cackle echoed though as usual he had no idea what was going on oblivious to all around him. He basked in the warmth of his intoxication. For a moment I wished with a peculiar intensity that he would die in as humiliating a manner as he lived. Yet I felt a little sick by the thought, which danced around so clumsily in my head knocking down all moral and ethical pretensions, that got in their way as the night progressed.

II. Having had my fill of personal embarrassment for the evening, I walked from room to room at a furious pace trying to avoid talking to anyone unlucky enough to recognize me. When someone moved too close, I would break into a sprint. This puzzled all who had the unfortunate experience of either walking too close to me or smiling a friendly smile. It wasn’t long before I found my way into Jen’s father’s study, which was supposed to be off limits to all partygoers. Jen was too busy wrapping her pail, frail body tight around a passed out Paul. Not that she would have done anything other than shout and scream threats if she found me in the room. No one paid any attention.

I had only met Jen’s father on one occasion, but I quickly formed an opinion of the man. He was

15

tired and sullen with a pair of dark murky eyes and a short temper that all around him were subject to if the mood struck him. The night I met him he was drunk. You could almost tell from the mere stink of his breath that he had just crossed over from a good-natured buzz to a mind set of morbidity, where everything said and done seemed to be a waste of time and effort. He was arguing with his wife, who looked old and withered, like a flower grown out of season. The wrinkles on her face cried out for attention while he yelled nearly falling over himself. It was a good thing we were only picking Jen up and didn’t have to suffer through any long-winded introductions, so I muttered my name to him and shook

his hand, which felt like a piece of tanned leather. I listened to him and his wife bicker while he tried not to slur his words too noticeably. Jen, who danced down the staircase, threw her head back and laughed at the situation. She was rarely able to take any situation seriously, especially those involving her family. She waved to her parents in an irreverent manner as if nothing in the world was out of the ordinary, chuckling at everyone’s awkwardness. I had always thought it strange that Jen never once tried to convince me or anyone else

that her father’s nature was a little more subdued. She was constantly going on about

his child like tantrums giggling as she spoke of each embarrassing incident.

The study was what you would expect from a lawyer. His bookshelves were made from an expensive oak with extensive engravings. Each book had a good layer of dust, making it clear that they were purely for show. These were props of a man trying to appear bogged down by problems rooted in some romantic intellectual quandary (a

bad joke Jen never tired of telling). In the middle of the room there was a large black desk - the only thing in the room polished daily - while everything else was left to collect dust. In the middle of the desk laid a package of customized stationary that remained unopened. Next to that was an empty glass, which appeared not to have been washed for years. Every item from the expensive desk to his extensive unused library was an accessory used by Jen’s father to appear more respected than he actually was. The real centerpiece, which the whole décor of the room seemed to gravitate towards, was a mini-bar, which had been poorly installed, most likely by the old drunk himself. He made up for this faulty installation by stocking it with all kinds of alcohol from aged scotch to rot gut wine. These were the objects he loved and used the real root of what Jen liked to call his “problems.”

Within a second of sitting in the leather chair seated behind the desk I made myself at home by pouring a tall glass of scotch. As soon as I put it to my lips, I spit it up on the carpet. It was at

16

this exact moment of minor distraction and major distaste when Jack entered, his clothes disheveled and hair in a mess with a look of genuine worry spread across his face. For a moment, I felt a small sense of joy seeing that big dumb smile disappear. Before I had a chance to say anything he began shouting, “get up we need to go.” In no mood for whatever game he was playing, I kept silent. This only served to turn his look of worry into one of uncertain mania, and he began to wave his arms up and down as trying to communicate his distress through body language. Getting no response, he grabbed one of my arms trying to pull me up while spitting in my face, saying “no, no, no, you don’t understand. We need to go now.” His voice broke when he reached “now” sounding like an upset child arguing with an absent-minded parent.

“Sure” I said coldly before twirling the chair around unable to look at him for another second. “Please, we need to go.” His voice was weak and he was on the verge of tears. Here is where I made my big mistake, or at least its prelude. “Your drunk. Sleep it off,” I said in a tone of dismissal that seemed to disregard his importance in relation to myself and everyone else. Jacks next move took me by surprise. He let out a primal screech (the sound was more of something I would have expected from Jen) before he pushed me, causing the chair to roll over and hit the ground violently. Something clicked in my mind, which no longer allowed for me

They were more than a little shocked when they saw Jack’s state. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and blood poured from his nose like water from a faucet. As for me, they only saw a belligerent bully standing over Jack, who positioned himself for the next kick. Before I had a chance to say anything, they grabbed me by my arms and shoulders and forcibly escorted me out of the room. This did little to improve the sour disposition, which had possessed me most of the night and only seemed to grow darker with passing each moment. Once we were in the living room and at a safe distance from Jack who, for all I knew, was still on the ground staining the carpet with his blood, they let go of my arms. Once again all eyes in the room were fixed on me. However, this time it was not for an excusable act of humiliation that they could tolerate with a laugh. This time, I had made a pitiful, ugly scene. I had inconveniently ruined their collective and individual good time. I was a buzz kill, with no desire to wait around and witness the aftermath. I made my way to the front door, pushing several strangers out of the way. I tried hard not to trip over myself. On my way out, I counted all the people. I was certain I knew only five. Having beaten my ride, there was no other alternative than to walk, so I spent the rest of the night in the bitter cold, ankle deep in brown slush that had once been wonderful Christmas snow, still wondering why we left in the first place.

to remain the unconcerned bystander. Something inside me had had enough. Jack, unaware of this fact, stood rigid, like deer caught in the glare of oncoming headlights, as I calmly picked myself up from the floor for the second time that night. I began to walk towards him. I was surprised by the sound of my fist against his flesh. It sounded like a butcher tenderizing raw meat. Jack went down within a second, looking quite confused as to what was going on. I continued with a vicious onslaught of kicks to his lower back and ribs. All of our petty unresolved issues, many of which he was unaware of, came out that night in the form of an unoriginal beating. This was my condensed hatred for him, and it lasted all of five minutes. I didn’t say a word, and this seemed to add to the overall confusion of the situation. He looked up to with terrified eyes that seemed to say both too much and not enough at the same time.

Jack had been crying, bleeding and screaming for me to stop, his hands pulling at the carpet. I may have been deaf to his panicked and incoherent pleas, but everyone else in the house heard them loud and clear. After five minutes passed, several people barged into the room with horrified looks on their faces. “What the hell is wrong with you?” one of them spat. I didn’t quite know what to say or how to react, so I continued to kick and Jack continued to cry. People, it seemed, couldn’t stand tyranny on such a small scale.

<design + imgs> Corey Light

17 <artist> Zack Herrmann <medium> Photography

18 <artist> Brian Hawkins <medium> Photogravure with Chine-Colle

19 <artist> Blue McNiel <medium> Photography

20 <artist> Jason Heft <medium> Oil Paint

21 <artist> Seth Riddle <medium> Oil Paint <medium> Photography

22 <artist> Amanda Sayre <medium> Metalworking

23

It brings me joyTo see how lover’s woes

Do unfold out intoThe streets

Stumbling like beggarsUnable to control their feet

Sang the sad old manFar from any view

Of homeIn a place

Where light is never shown

Nor its memory ever known

NOR ITS MEMORY EVER KNOWN

A TYRANT OF SEVEN YEARS

Johnny was a little monsterWho roamed the hillsAnd dalesKicking rabbits andSmashing snailsA tyrant of seven yearsWho enjoyedThe perversity of everydayCruelties disguised as timeSpent in play How strange to seeThe boy prayEyes rollingHis brows raisedMouth clenchedHiding a laughAnd a shout filled withPeculiar vulgaritiesHis parents never took intoAccount

POEMS BY SEAN F. WEIR <design> Taylor Rice

24 <artist> Sara E Robbins <medium> Photography

25 <artist> Evan Ashby <medium> Photographic Transfer on Wood

26

Alexis

27

Matthew Woltz <design> Lauren Nolting

28 <artist> Colleen Lucas <medium> Photography

29

30 <artist> Lauren Nolting <medium> Photography

31 <artist> Claire Jehle <medium> Oil Paint

32