The Imperial Youth Review E-Book

• Herausgeber: Dog Horn Publishing
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 111

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Inperial Youth Review anthology of all-things-vital in literature and subversive pop culture, including Don Webb and Nick Mamatas, Nikki Guerlain, Vikki Howarth, Tom Bradley, Steve Aylett, Tim Lucas, Jess Gulbranson, Edward Morris and Adam Lowe.

Leseprobe

The ImperialYouth Review

ISSUE 1

Contents © the Contributors, 2013.Selection © the Editors, 2013.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or copied, in print or in any other form, except for the purposes of review and/or criticism, without the publisher’s prior written consent.

Published by

Dog Horn Publishing

45 Monk Ings, Birstall, Batley WF17 9HU

United Kingdom

doghornpublishing.com

Edited by

Garrett Cook& Chris Kelso

Advertising Enquiries:

[email protected]

‘Mayor Nimble Makes it Known’ by Steve Aylett, first published in Alan Moore’s Dodgem Logic.

Reprinted with permission of the author.

Distribution: Central Books

99 Wallis Road, London, E9 5LN, United Kingdom

[email protected]

Phone:[phone]

Fax: [phone]

OUT NOW:

WOMEN WRITING THE WEIRD

EDITED BY DEB HOAG

RRP: £14.99 ($28.95). ISBN: 9781907133268, 216pp, trade paperback

featuring

Nancy A. Collins, Eugie Foster, Janice Lee, Rachel Kendall, Candy Caradoc, Mysty Unger, Roberta Lawson, Sara Genge, Gina Ranalli, Deb Hoag, C. M. Vernon, Aliette de Bodard, Caroline M. Yoachim, Flavia Testa, Aimee C. Amodio, Ann Hagman Cardinal, Rachel Turner, Wendy Jane Muzlanova, Katie Coyle, Helen Burke, Janis Butler Holm, J.S. Breukelaar, Carol Novack, Tantra Bensko, Nancy DiMauro, and Moira McPartlin.

CONTENTS

Intros

Garrett Cook

Chris Kelso

Fiction

Edward Morris - I Will Refuse

Tim Lucas - Banishton

Don Webb & Nick Mamatas - And Other Horrors

Nikki Guerlain - The Wetlands are Burning

Comic Strip

Steve Aylett - Mayor Nimble Makes It Known

Poetry

Adam Lowe & Chris Kelso - Function

Adam Lowe - Abduction

Adam Lowe - Piercings (back cover)

Essay

Lydia Fascia - Dance Recitals

Don Webb - Magic vs. Mysticism

Tom Bradley - Penmanship

Art

Matthew Revert - front cover

Nick Patterson - Author of the Species

Alan M. Clark - Wiggly Fetus

Vikki Hastings - Function to a functionless object

Alan M. Clark - Many Madonnas

David Aronson - Penmanship

Nick Gucker- Alien Abduction

Justin Coons - Piercings (back cover)

Review

Jess Gulbranson - Florence and the Machine are Objectively Bad

INTRODUCTION THE FIRST:

UNION JACKS AND VESPAS ANDDOCTOR WHOAND WHATNOT

Garrett Cook

William the Conqueror. Imperial Youth Review. Shakespeare. Imperial Youth Review. The Beatles. Imperial Youth Review. Monty Python. Imperial Youth Review. Black Sabbath. Imperial Youth Review. The Sex Pistols. Imperial Youth Review. I have just listed for you, with no immodesty whatsoever, the most important British things ever. Britain, I believe this publication will be the thing that makes Americans finally forgive you for the whole taxation without representation thing. And India finally forgive you for Amritsar. It’s okay, Britain. I’ll call it even for all of the other cool things listed above.

When Chris Kelso approached me to edit The Imperial Youth Review, I was excited. Then Dog Horn got involved and I became ecstatic. “Hundred Year Old Murders”, my first story in print, was published in Issue 3 of Dog Horn’s fantastic journal Polluto. It was about Jack the Ripper, another of Britain’s favourite sons. So Dog Horn’s always done right by me. Not to mention Dog Horn publisher Adam Lowe trusted us enough to let this be our vision.

I told Chris I wanted this magazine to be what would happen if Forrest Ackerman and Malcolm McLarenwoke up together in an alley after a drinking binge and invented The New Yorker. Because fuck The New Yorker. We’re young and hip and deadly. We chased down most of the coolest cats and kitties we knew to do our damnedest to make sure you’re reading that magazine and if you don’t feel you’re reading it yet, give it time. We’ll get there together.

So, tally-ho and allons-y, I wanna be . . . anarchy! Enjoy Video Watchdog editor and Throat Sprockets author Tim Lucas’ first short story in print, a heartfelt story that makes straight edge punk as fuck by Edward Morris, a new Christmythos story by Nick Mamatas and Don Webb, an essay on calligraphy by Tom Bradley, magic lessons, pulp artwork and more. This is The Imperial Youth Review. Some of it is British.

Some people call Garrett Cook a space cowboy. But not twice. Don’t you look at me! I mean him. Bizarro author, scientist, sorcerer, lothario. Garrett Cook is many things to many people. He edits this magazine, so that’s something. His books include the Murderland series, Archelon Ranch and Jimmy Plush, Teddy Bear Detective. Both of the last two were nominated for the Wonderland Award for excellence in bizarro fiction. He is a singer/songwriter for the band Mayonnaise Jenkins and the Former Kings of the Delta Blues, whose album A Monday will be available for digital download by the time this magazine comes out and will be available on CD sometime later. He is not British, but he fucking bloody well is, so if you got a problem with that, let your Wilkinson do the talking, you fucking ponce!

INTRODUCTION THE SECOND:

INVITATION TO A BEHEADING

Chris Kelso

This publication, without lofty threat of false advertising, will change your life forever.

– BUY THIS MAGAZINE! –

Compelled by a vivid dream I had one night about a quality literary/culture magazine full of totally amazing shit, I promptly quite my day job as a librarian and set out on a mission to make it a reality.

When attempting to assemble the Imperial Youth Review, I knew I could never accomplish it alone—you see, I can barely dress myself without help from some sort of geriatric nursing aide.

– GO ON THEN, BUY IT! –

In an effort to find my spiritual collaborator, I engaged in dialogue with all kinds of people. Some enlightening, some less so.

But I needed guidance.

– IT CURES CANCER! –

First, I ambled with a tribe of contemporary nomads based in the highlands, leading the pastures herd and living out of a communal caravan. Following a couple of day’s integration, I was convinced to participate in an ancient tradition of bloodletting—apparently everyone does it these days.

I had been promised all would become clear as crystal quartz after the ceremony—the eagerness to uncover my illusive dream-brother meant I was more willing than usual to try new things.

– CURES BALDNESS TOO –

This ultimately ended with me shedding almost a litre of my own viscera, passing out in a field then waking up the next morning with no pants on and a wallet stripped of all its contents.

So.

– MAKES YOU SERIOUSLY IRRESISTIBLE TO WOMEN, SERIOUSLY! –

Not to be deterred, I sought residency in a Tibetan monastery where I recited numerous Buddhist incantations, pledged my soul to religious asceticism and found an inner solitude I had not tasted since my childhood.

However, I did NOT find my fucking collaborator.

I searched everywhere for a sign—from Moscow to Cambodia, Sarajevo to Timbuktu. I eventually returned to Scotland—forlorn, wandering the desolate streets of a capital city as vast, lonely and complex as circles in Dante’s Hell.

– MAKES SENSE OF LIFE’S VAGUENESS –

I had already knotted the noose tightly around my neck and mounted the stack of bucket chairs, fully accepting my punishment for a mission failed, when suddenly I saw a silhouette in the doorway.

– ELIMINATES PERSONAL UNCERTAINTY –

Garrett Cook—just standing there with a ginormous set of garden shears in his hands.

He cut me down, slapped me in the face twice with the back of his hairy hand and told me he’d been sent to help. He told me he’d had the same dream I had and that meditating deeply brought him here.

“I’m from the city of Roses and extinct volcanos on its outskirts. Now pick yourself up and put on a clean pair of underwear. We’ve got a revolution to start motherfucker.”

I had no idea an American would be sent?

– SEND US ALL YOUR MONEY –

So there you go. This is actually how it happened—the noble story of Imperial Youth Review. Our message is equally noble. Tell your friends.

– IF YOU DON’T BUY THIS, TERRORISTS WILL MURDER YOU –

Enjoy!

Chris Kelso is a writer, illustrator, editor and journalist from Scotland. His first short story collection Schadenfreude is to be released by Dog Horn Publishing, while two of his other books have already been sold to publishers. Chris’s work can be found in various anthologies and literary/arts magazines.chris-kelso.com

I WILL REFUSE

Edward Morris

Words. Words. Words. I remember words, when there were people around who could still say words. Sometimes the ones who come can remember a few. Mostly, they leave me alone. The crawling chaos, the further-gone undead who come in the night to den here, smell something off in me. Something off in the meat, the meat, the meat that remains.

I am a patient boy. I wait in this back parlor room with two walls made out of windows, where the light’s fairly bright at any time of day. We’re high on a hill. There’s a tree, and a river far below.

I sit in durance vile, and wait out this war. Life is an illusion. This all looks like a dream. I want to step out of my skin, but I’m scared to see what’s beneath it. I’m scared.

I weathered worse than this in life, watching it all come down. I wait. It’s been a while. I got bitten a long time ago. Days. This all feels like a dream. Like someone else’s worst nightmare.

I beat the crawlers off with an aluminum Louisville slugger I filled with QuikRete once after a water run, and left to set. Dead or alive, anything that gets hit that many times with my toy doesn’t walk for long. I still won’t touch my food. Not my food. Didn’t choose it. Won’t eat dead things. Won’t. Eat. Never would.

And for the love of all that is intelligent within the human species, I wouldn’t make myself zombie-stupid when I was alive. The X tattooed on the back of my hand doesn’t wash off. The X from Belmont Avenue in Chicago. The X that means a chemical no one but me can produce. The X that means Straight Edge. I cannot numb out now. Live or dead, tats don’t come off. Cannot now. Refuse. Refuse.

Refuse.

I smell radiation in the air, thick as metal. I hear it burning in the ground. I hear it killing what could be my food. Really no sign of a cease-fire, out there outside the window where everything is smoke and blood. I watched two living soldiers saw an Undead in half. One of them was enjoying it way too much. The other worked way too quickly not to have had the practice.

I’ve seen tanks, flame-tracks, all manner of nastiness. They used white phosphorous. UN statutes fall short of protecting the living-impaired, I can only assume.

But the firefights have gotten farther apart. There’s that. I can still sleep. I can still meditate. Just like in jail after a protest, or stuck in an MRI, or any other place where you know, like my Buddhist friends say, that the breath has ceased in your lungs and you once again sit in the presence of the Divine.

I hear what could be my food, dying, dying, dying out there in the mud and the radiation. But I won’t go out and eat any of them. I won’t eat. I won’t. I will resist.

I will refuse. Every time I get hungry, Imake myself remember. I keep telling myself every damn little bit of my life before this non-life-Lite, grasping for names or faces like straws in a maelstrom. Sometimes they come. I write them down. I weave them into a web, a timeline of who we were and what we did. My Katie and me. My folks. My sisters. Everyone I can think of.

I draw their faces, when I can remember. I hope I spelled their names right. I hope. I hope I don’t damage the page, as I change. But I can only change so long, before I’m free.

The walking dead won’t waste shells on me, because I beg them to every time I see one or two or more of them. They smell me and they can tell that I refuse to eat.

Eat. I Have. Refused. To eat. Since something took a chunk out of me. In that, I have not wavered. I will refuse. I will resist. I will resign. I. Will. And Will alone.

Until I die again.

I have to die again.

I can still sleep. I can still appreciate sleep, in my little room with the radio-TV and the blankets and books and blank notebooks, the pencils worn to stubs, the notebooks graven to shiny gray relief.

The cigar boxes advising REOROI-TAN: THE CIGAR THAT BREATHES to a twice-dead world where there are neither Roi-Tans nor re-orders. The magazines that just look funnier and funnier. The pocketknife. The pile of shavings, arranged into what looks like a mandala. The dead monitor, and TV. And me.

The thing that helps the most is when I write about the hard parts. The easy parts are like newspaper. Like snowflakes. The hard parts make me feel alive.

Holding Katie in my arms the first night we really ever slept together. Not fucked. Slept together. People don’t make the distinction. The first night we ever held each other until the birds got loud and the sun came up and we told each other everything we thought we still didn’t know.