“The mind is harder to navigate than the city. In the city there are rules and signs. Within the mind there are no rules, anything goes. Roads blend in and out, some going nowhere, others going to infinity. Learn to master your mind and the world can be yours young WILB”

“Every day is an adventure. Every minute, every hour there is a story waiting to be told.”

“The only force strong enough to stop you, is yourself. Conquer yourself and you will conquer the world”

“We all have our own path. So why would you criticize someone who is walking a different one? We are all guilty of this, including myself. Recognizing this is the first step. However, if someone is not content with their path, invite them to walk with you for awhile”

“You may know that you are loved by others, but that means nothing if you do not love yourself.”

“Follow the path set forth for you. Walk until you get to the end, and then search for new path to wander on.”

“Never wish away time. Time is your most precious substance. Once it is gone, you can never get it back. Use it wisely and good things will happen”

“The earth, I do believe, is the only objective beauty there is. No picture can capture it, no couplet of words can describe it. You must look at it with your very eyes to bask in the beauty that it radiates”

 

 

 

When the going gets tough, the tough get going; which is also, coincidentally, about the same time I usually run for the hills. I don’t like confrontation, I don’t like dealing with my problems. If there is a rug within striking distance, I will sweep everything I can under it. Why go face to face with the uncomfortable and the indelicate? Does one really have to?

I used to think that I relished in my procrastination. “I work better with my back against the wall,” I remember telling a fellow scholar. “What can be done today is better left for tomorrow,” I have used that one more than once. I have written some of my best papers in a deadline induced panic with nothing but the darkness to guide me home. I have spat out some red hot bullshit in a classroom before, knowing damn well all I read was the cliff notes from the internet. On one occasion, I crafted and executed a five course meal because I so desperately did not want to study for a midterm exam.

Slowly, but most assuredly, this behavior gave way to a few problems of much greater totality. “Oh, let me just smoke a cigarette before I get started on this homework,” I tell myself sometimes. Yet, I have a tendency to run out of cigarettes before I run out of homework that needs be done. When I have some things I need to sort through and organize in my mind, I might sit back and smoke a blunt – fast forward three hours to find me sitting in my boxer shorts with a bag of chips in my lap and the Kardashians on my TV. Furthermore, I am Italian and I am Catholic, and thus, I enjoy my wine. A single glass of wine can reduce inflammation, boost memory capacity, and even help weight loss; but I tend to drink my Vino by the bottle and not by the glass.

My style of blatant disregard is not only limited to the tragedies of adulthood. When I was young, I gave up playing football in the ninth grade, for a variety of reasons, but chiefly because I didn’t see the point in busting my ass for a few moments of glory on Friday nights. That motivated a lot of boys, just not me. Then came golf, a sport that I think was designed by two men fighting over which one was the idiot and which one was the asshole. I liked the game of golf: being outside, lining up a good shot, learning respect and kindness for fellow golfers. Before too long, I realized that I didn’t give a damn what my score was so long as I was having fun. So, if after the first three holes I hadn’t found my groove, you would find me enjoying the view.

The culmination of my “Quitter” attitude could be summed up just that way: I haven’t found my groove, so I am enjoying the view. I am intellectual, but find homework to be a daunting and demoralizing task. I love to learn new things, but working to learn is new to me. I’ve never been the best student, so why should I even try? College is the hardest thing I have ever had to do, which is the reason I must do it now.

Signed,

Daniel J. Neebes

The fable of GILB starts as such

From the split of the hops

The pungent odor of barley

Takes over the mind-

Careful walking, here’s a crutch

 

We start in a town so simple and plain

So simple so much

It’ll drive WILB insane

No need for cocaine,

Alcohol will do

GILB comes calling

Don’t forget to come too

 

Four fingers touch my face

And thumb in my mouth

The wilbology begins

And things turn south

The spirits are flowing

The faces of all YE young wilbs are glowing

The cold northern air smacks thy face all the while

The whistles of trowbridge are a blowin

 

Sip and sip round the table

Stacking cups-

I assure you this is no fable

We have no bearings

No course no path

But we keep on drinking

Cause fuck this bullshit ass

Signed,

Wilbologists: Gric unt Titch

SEPTEMBER 15th, MUNICH, GERMANY

LAIMER’s

The street that I walk is like any busy city street. Cars move at a snail’s pace while the people move like rats in a flooded pipe. Usually the air would be filled with chaotic noise, but it is dead quiet. Not a noise is made; not from the cars not from the people. Dead silence.

As I walk down the street I cannot remember where I’m going or, in fact, why I’m walking. I’m just going as if programmed to walk this path. Getting closer to my destination, or at least I think I am getting closer people begin to run, with looks of pain and fear on their faces, they scurry away in the opposite direction. This perplexes me but looking upwards towards the sky I begin to understand.

The buildings surrounding me, the skyline of the city, begin to collapse. Crumbling as if by a controlled demolition, the rubble buries anything and everything. Cars jut out of the wreckage like budding plants, and limbs are exposed to the air. But I remain, untouched and unharmed with a path set forth for me. The street is clear and pristine as if newly cleaned.

I walk the path with some reservation, but I know that I must walk on. The path leads to a giant heap of rubble. Steel beams are contorted in a way that reminds me of a modern art piece. The plaster that once was a wall to an office is broken and crumbled. I begin to get nervous: “Why was I the only one left alive? Why am I the only one left standing?” I ask myself.

A figure begins to appear out of the wreckage. It looks transparent and ghost-like, almost not real. However, as it continues to levitate, the figure fixes into position. The humanoid figure becomes opaque and life like. I am paralyzed into place and transfixed on this figure.

The head is bowed, as if in prayer. The body of this figure is covered with a gown of silk and lace, it is beautiful in the sun that is shining down upon it. A veil covers the face of this figure, I cannot see the face of this being. It’s as if this figure is dressed for a wedding that it was late for, too late for in fact. In one fluid motion the lady lifts the veil, revealing the face beneath it.

The face is as white as the newly fallen snow in December, the look of it chills my bones. There is some rouge in the cheeks of this lady, and blood red lipstick has been applied. The face is gaunt with the cheek bones well defined. She smiles at me but it is not a friendly smile it is sinister. The contrast of the lipstick and her teeth again makes me shutter with bone shattering coldness.

Rising higher and higher in the sky, with arms outstretched, she opens her mouth in a scream. The scream pierces the silence like a knife and I recoil in pain. The noise envelopes me and I cannot escape it.

Quickly, the once humanoid figure of the bride, turns to a skeleton. First, the hands then the face becomes nothing but a skull: bare and empty. I try to turn and run in the opposite direction but I cannot move, I am stuck like a stick in the mud.

The figure dashes towards me and before it can touch me: I awake. Sweaty and panting, I grope for something real, anything. Touching the couch that I lay on I am once again in reality, but I am not free from the unreal. As I open my eyes I realize that I am in my dark basement, and as I gaze I can still see the face of the lady in white. She is staring at me with sinister eyes and smile. Blinking, hoping that it will go away, it does not dissipate. Closing my eyes and opening them rapidly I try to get rid of the image. It is only after what seems like and eternity that it finally disappears, into the deep dark recesses of my mind.

I turn the lights on to reveal a black leather couch, a foose ball table, and a TV. It was all a dream but it felt so real, so life like.

Signed,

xxx

 

Peacefully sitting in the square

Not having to be here nor there

I know not where the path will take me

But I will continue walking, and breathe in the air

The wind whips, whips and dances with my hair

But I continue on; walking with a blank stare

I do not walk slow like the tortoise

Nor fast like the hare

I only walk with a purpose; and beat my snare

Signed,

A Wandering WILB

This is a work of fiction. Any and all representations of real-life events or people are contrived in your head and not in mine. 

On the corner of Davis Road, over by the old Cider Mill and between the corn fields is a bar. It’s usually filled with old geezers, truckers, farmers and nurses; people who work more than they should and get paid a fraction of what they deserve. On Friday and Saturday nights, you can find the regulars of the haunt, unwinding more and more with each single pour. Lotto numbers on one screen, ‘the game’ on another, and a big tent out back for the nicotine fiends; this place is comfortable and familiar, a safe haven in the middle of the back woods. In the crispy October air, when the wind dies down, you can hear the gang laughing all the way from the parking lot outside.

Lorraine always sits on her stool, in the corner of the bar closest to the front door, making her an unofficial bouncer. She laughs from time to time, but usually she keeps to herself and slogs back three Vodka gimlets before heading home. It’s been pretty hard for her since her beloved husband, Larry, passed away. She can manage all right, but without his payroll from the construction job, Christmas will be a rough patch this year. Next to her sits Kim, but everyone calls her Kathy. Not really a regular, nor is she a stranger, Kathy is the fun one in the joint who always has just one too many Bud Lights. The first night she came in, already three sheets to the wind and with a handsome guy named Todd on her arm, she declared to everyone that she was Kathy. “Hi, Kathy!” was shouted back. The next day, when she returned to get a forgotten pair of sunglasses and her favorite lighter, everyone was a little surprised when she said her name was Kim. She may only show up once or twice a month, but when she does it appears she is making up for lost time. After Kathy, there are the two most distinguished members of the tavern, Mary Beth and Patty. They grew up together, went to school together, worked together, vacationed together, and now they live together. Their husbands are long gone, “Thank God,” but now they spend their days living off of smart investments and boxed wine. Finally, there is Bob. Sitting on the very end of the bar, almost entirely in his own orbit, Bob served in Vietnam and Laos. His three sons are all in the Armed Forces, great men who serve an even greater purpose with the highest honor. But, ever since the horrors of War touched his eyes and never looked away, Bob has enjoyed his whiskey. Canadian Blend specifically, but Bob is not one to be picky. “It all does the job, right?” he jokes. The bartender is a new one tonight, Kevin. He usually works Monday through Thursday because he has his kids on the weekend, but with Cheryl taking the kids out of town, somebody had to take the shift. He’s a nice enough guy, keeps a clean bar and smiles every time someone walks in. Except for tonight.

“Where’s the card tournament?” bemoaned a voice from the front door. The gang looked around at each other confused; there was a card game to be sure, but it was the night before and only happens every two weeks.

“It’s here, but you just missed it pal. Euchre night was last night, tonight is the Fish Fry, and tomorrow night we play pool,” Kevin responded after a few moments of hesitation.

“Oh, alright. Well on the sign outside it said ‘Euchre Tonight,’” the stranger said, shaking off the cold.

“Yea, it always says that. I haven’t been able to find the two Fs I need to spell ‘Fish Fry.’” Everyone chuckled nervously, and a sense of bewilderment filled the room. Who is this guy? What is he doing here? “Come on in, take a seat,” Kevin continued, “Hell, could probably get a game going if you really want to play.”

The stranger slowly meandered over, took a seat and replied, “Yea that’d be great.” He paused and then ordered up a drink.

“I’ll take a Manhattan on the rocks with two cherries, please.” He looks around, taking stock of the bar and the people in it, who were now absolutely transfixed on their unknown guest. Sitting next to the old ladies and with Bob off to his left, the stranger digs for his wallet and grabs himself a napkin for his incoming cocktail.

“That was my husband’s drink.” Mary Beth finally broke the ice with the new guy. She thought that he might introduce himself but apparently not. She kept on, “He worked for the bank downtown, and when he came home he would pour a Manhattan, put his feet up, and pass out for a nap until dinner was ready.”

Patty laughs along with her, “Remember that time he snored so loud he woke himself up and spilled the drink all over his new suit!” The two girls were giggling together, as they have done since a very young age. Memories are like medicine for them now, helping to ease the encompassing sadness that grief can bring.

“My sister drank Manhattans,” the man said, “I haven’t had one since she died last spring.” He took a long, even pull from the edge of the highball glass and put the drink back down. His head tilted to the side as he starred into the floating ice, though it was sadness and satisfaction in the very same sip.

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry. Did she live around here?” Mary Beth was touching his forearm now, an instinctual form of her took over. She radiated comfort and care, a skilled trade from her former days as a substitute teacher.

“No, she lived in Owengrove. Her kids liked to go to that Cider Mill, though. I would take them sometimes and we would go in the corn fields and have cider and donuts. They loved it out here, something compelled me to come back.” The man was speaking from the heart, but his eyes never moved from the drink in his hand.

The whole bar was locked in to the new guy. Kathy had stopped her story about the hockey player, Kevin quit rinsing out the ice bucket, and even Bob had stopped drinking long enough to take a listen. After another few moments of silence, coupled with the density of what the new guy brought into the room, Lorraine bounced out of her stool and declared emphatically, “I’m gonna smoke a cigarette, somebody figure out what this guy’s name is while I’m gone.”

Realizing the error in his introduction, the man said to the whole room, “Oh, I’m Brandon by the way.” He felt a hand touch his left shoulder, he turned slightly to see a retired Marine say: “I’m Bob.” Brandon nodded in response.

“And I’m Mary Beth and this is Patty,” Mary Beth said while Patty waved.

“Hi, I’m Kathy,” she said with her cheerleader grin on.

“Actually, her name is really Kim,” Patty said with a smirk.

“Easy, girls. I’m not sure he’s ready for that one yet,” Kevin moved toward Brandon and stuck out his hand, “I’m Kevin, man, nice to meet ya.”

“You, too.” Brandon was slightly more relaxed now, friendliness wasn’t easy for him.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea.” Kathy said, standing up from her seat shuffling closer to the action. “Why don’t I be your partner in Euchre, so we can play these old Betties and really show em what for, huh?”

Mary Beth glared back at Kathy, “Who are you callin’ old? Patty still has her hearing aids in, you can’t talk about her like that,” she teased.

“Oh, you’re gonna get yours now. Watch yourself,” Patty said, purse in one hand and drink in the other, already on the move to the card tables.

Kathy leans in close to Brandon and speaks low, “Patty will lie, cheat, and steal to win a card game, but Mary Beth is a lightweight and a little extra Vodka makes her quiver.” She patted him on the back and kept moving toward the girls.

Brandon looks up at Kevin, finally cracking a smile, “How bout one more round?”

“Comin’ right up.” Kevin replied.

Today marks the 15th anniversary of one of the most horrific terrorist attacks in The United States’ history. When this event occurred I was just 4 years old. Unknowing, and ignorant to the consequences of this terrorist attack.

15 years later, I now know the consequences of this infamous event. The fallout surrounding this event was so drastic that it split the world into two eras. Pre-9/11 and Post-9/11, the former world being that of free movement and ease and the latter being one of tight security and paranoia. When my parents talk about the world pre-9/11 they tell me of how easy it was to get on a plane, how you could run up to the gate and get on your plane with just minutes to spare. Now, you must get to the airport hours before your flight having to factor in the security checkpoints that you must go through.

For Millennials the Post-9/11 world is all that we have known. Terror threats, paranoia, and ignorance dominate our minds as we are constantly on guard and wary of any and all things that could harm us. Muslims today are still treated with a stigma and abhorrence that an average American is triggered by a hijab, or by anyone that speaks Arabic. A man was kicked off of a plane for talking in Arabic to his uncle-mind you he was an Ivy League student. Conservatives complain about liberals needing ‘safe spaces,’ while at the same time going ballistic anytime a Muslim espouses or practices their religion.

This hysteria and paranoia has opened the door to bigots and far right radicals to enter our political system, trying to squash any and all attempts for those of the Muslim faith to practice freely and openly. This Post-9/11 world has become increasingly Orwellian with the passing of the Patriot Act, which has made it easier for the Government to spy on everyday Americans “suspected” of terrorism, when in fact the only thing that they are guilty of is being born with the name: Muhammed(one of the most common names throughout the world).

So on this day of remembrance let us take the time to honor those who died 15 years ago. Let us take the time to embrace our loved ones, and thank those who ran into those collapsing building to save their fellow countrymen from harm. Let us honor those who died in the wars that followed this horrific attack, but let us not become cynical. Do not begin to turn on those who wish to live and take part in the freedom that we all enjoy. Because if we do become cynical and turn on each other, then the terrorists have truly won.

Let us raise our hands in unison and show the world the compassion and love that is within all of us. No matter your race, creed, or religious affiliation, show those who wish to harm us that we are stronger together. You may wish to do us harm, and you may wish to divide us but instead of turning to my brother or sister and spitting in their face, I instead lock arms with them and march on.

“Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.”-Benjamin Franklin

Signed,

Publius

The thought creeps in like a worm burrowing into an apple. Boring a small hole, it inches nearer and nearer to the center of my consciousness.

Once at the center, this “dark worm” transforms into something more sinister. Exploding into thousands upon thousands of small particles of darkness that cloud my mind. Shapeshifting and morphing, these particles form into a black skeletal hand that slowly and methodically grasps me and traps me.

My new cage is made our of black iron bars, impenetrable and cold to the touch. I can only see inside the cage with clarity, and two to three feet outside. The rest is a thick grey fog.

From the fog comes screams of pain and agony. Pitch black figures enter and exit the fog, looking at me. Staring and snarling these figures want nothing more than to end the light that is within me. All I can do is cower inside my pathetic little cage, the only place of safety that I possess.

The only thoughts I am afforded of that of cynicism, pain and death(that elusive entity). At time I close my eyes to block out these noises. Envisioning fields of green, and the warm sun upon my face. These thoughts are the only ones that stop me from exiting my prison. However, these attempts are futile. The noises and figures do not allow me the luxury of escape, even if it is I who wishes them gone.

I am engulfed in this world until it decides when it is through with me. When it is, the cage lifts and I am exposes to the figures and screams. They cries of agony crescendo until a wall begins to come towards me. The only way for me to escape this wall is to run forward. I run and run, the wall creeping up at a constant rate, I can never run fast enough.

Eventually I am met with a ledge, the only option I am met with is to take a leap of faith. Leaping, with thoughts once again of fields of green and the warm sun, I fall to the ground. I feel around and feel grass, warm and green. I turn my head up to see the sun.

I am in a valley of vibrant green. Mountains shoot up to the sky and shield me from the world outside of this place. Flowers of every color christen the ground, and I am once again at peace. I have broken free from the black cage, from the monsters that try to plague my existence. My only hope is that this is the last time that I will not have to face the perils that the cage offers.

Signed,

The False Prophet

The time is 12:17 P.M.

I’m looking at my phone and I have a notification from CNN proclaiming:

“New CNN/ORC poll shows a 2016 dead heat among likely voter; Trump 45% and Clinton 43%”

How has it come to this? It is now September 7th, the general election is two months away…a year ago Trump’s candidacy was a still seen as a joke, and frankly it still is. This man is getting closer and closer to the White House with each passing day.

For the first time in this election cycle, I am afraid. If this man gets into office America will surely not be great, it will be hell on earth.

I put my faith now in the American people, not the Democratic Party, nor the Republican Party. I put my faith into the Constitutional Rights given to us via the Bill of Rights. We THE PEOPLE are the only ones strong enough to defeat this fascist bigot.

The Democratic Party rigged an election in order to get HRC to where she is currently(and by that CNN ticker update it looks like a terrible position). The Republican Party has imploded and is bleeding out on the National stage.

What are we to do? Yes, you will say: vote! And I will, but what happens when I vote, and Trump(god forbid, because now we have to seriously consider this) wins? What then?

We are at a crossroads, on one side there is hope, happiness and light; on the other: death, destruction and chaos. Vote with altruism this November. Vote not for yourself, but vote for your children, for your neighbor, for those who have less than you do. Vote with love and compassion, for surely if the adverse outcome occurs there will have to be a reckoning.

“The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants”

Signed,

V

This post is dedicated to those that have found love, and who are still searching for it.

The alarm clock fills the 90 square meter flat with chaotic noise. Haphazardly making my way down the rickety ladder leading to my bed, I wipe my eyes of the residue that the Sand man gifted me last night.

I begin my morning routine: brushing my teeth, pouring myself a glass of orange juice, and picking out the outfit that I will wear for the day. This seems to be like any other day doesn’t it? Wrong! For starters I am living in France for four months. The main entrée? I am going to Paris for the day.

I leave my flat in a fervor and walk to the boulangerie where I have my breakfast. A pastry and a small cup of coffee, very simple. Smoking a cigarette and watching the morning traffic zoom past this small shop, I think about the things that I will see in the city of love. The Eiffel Tower? Notre Dame? The Louvre? I smile to myself thinking about how just a week ago I was living in a ‘normal’ mid-western town where everything seemed boring, and now I’m going to one of the the cultural capitals of the world.

Getting up from the table, I make my way toward the train station. Arriving at around 8 o’clock I can hear the steam from the trains and the intercom announcing arrivals and departures. I become giddy; is this really happening? I surely must be dreaming.

I’m not, and I buy my train ticket to the city of love. The train departs slowly and then begins to pick up speed, rocketing through the French country side (which, oddly, looks like the ‘normal’ mid-western town that I had left).

I arrive, and am now sitting in front of the grand cathedral: Notre Dame– an 800 year old stone building that still, to this day, puts on services. I watch as the plethora of tourists take pictures that they will proudly show their friends and family. Young couples kiss and enjoy each other’s company. Standing at the foot of the monument, I smile, then turn and begin to walk on the river Seine.

I find myself next at one of the most famous bookstores in the world: Shakespeare and Company. It was here, in the 1920s, that famous writers and artists such as F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, and Pablo Picasso mingled. Walking into the shop, you can feel the history, smell the paper, and taste the ink on every page in every book. I pick up a copy of my favorite book: The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac, and a copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls by none other than Ernest Hemingway.

Meandering through the streets of Paris, I came upon the Louvre: the king of all museums. Thousands of tourists roam the grounds of this once great Palace. The aura that this place projects is pure and unadulterated knowledge. I do not go in; that is for another day. Instead, I just sit in the courtyard and watch couples take selfies, and give their significant other the occasional peck on the cheek.

Watching this makes my stomach turn, but it is from that fact that I am famished, not because I am disgusted by this display of affection. There should be a cafe by the Eiffel Tower, no?

I am now in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, the symbol of Paris. I gaze upon the 300 meter wrought iron monolith that is known to just about everyone in the world. At this point, I believe that I have walked all over Paris. Taken side streets, drank a pint at a café, sipped on some rosé, and taken a picture at every popular landmark that this city has to offer. I have also passed by countless couples, many kissing and basking in the love they have for one another. Even now, I see couples holding each other and laying beneath the Parisian sun. I am envious, but not loathing. I know that if you were here, we would do the same thing.

So to ma amour, I say: I yearn for the day that we can take the side streets together. I cannot tell you how much I wish to share a bottle of wine with you at a café. I dream of the day that we can walk hand in hand at the Louvre and see priceless paintings together. The city of love is just a city without you. I am counting the days.

Signed,

Hemingway’s Ghost