You don’t know how you ever landed in the western suburbs of Chicago. Aurora, Illinois. Forget Wayne’s World, the place sucks. It’s miles from the city. As far west as the train can go before it has to turn around at a big roundhouse. Some entrepreneur transformed the building into a brewpub imaginatively named, “The Roundhouse.” Not a bad place--in fact, the only good aspect of Aurora. That and the Paramount Theater, which shows movies like “West Side Story” on Wednesday nights for a quarter.
Your dance classes and the Vergil Gilman bike trail have kept you from going insane. You work out a lot when you’re depressed. You’re in good shape, which means you’re truly miserable.
No one else seems happy, either. Even your Christian chiropractor’s elderly receptionist whispered to you that her husband smokes pot. She congratulated you for filling out the intake form honestly. You were almost honest. You said you used marijuana once a day, but it’s more like twice. You’d smoke pot all day long, but your brain would turn into static.
by LEAH MUELLER
by CHRIS DIGIORGIO
by DAN TREMAGLIO
She wanted to write a song.
She did not want to write a song.
She loved music and how it made her
feel and was born to write and play it.
She might have been tone deaf.
She never felt more alive than when
performing in front of people.
She was often terrified and never far
She did not own an alarm clock because
she could open her eyes at any exact
minute and more often passed the entire
night pacing the villa of her imagination
in the nude and moonlight.
by JOE BONGIORNO
by GLENN A. BRUCE
by L. MACK
by SARAH BARKER
by WARREN J. COX
by PAUL SMITH
by KYLE HEMMINGS
by SAUL LEMEROND
by CATHERINE MOORE
by CHAD W. LUTZ
by DL SHIREY
By BEN SLOTKY
by ARRON BURROWS
by RASMENIA MASSOUD
by ELIZEYA QUATE
by SCOTT McCLELLAND
by BOBBIE WAYNE