cacophony magazine: issue 1

“When the going gets tough, the tough do stuff ”- Connor Einarsen

FeaturingMadison HorneGabi Horowitz

Sammy Rose KeyHarrison LiptonJamie Morgan

Constance Chien

All material copyright 2010, all rights reserved. Please don’t steal the ideas or content in here. That’d be nice.

“When the going gets tough, the tough do stuff ”- Connor Einarsen

Cacophony Issue 1, Vol. 1. November 2010.

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the big three

Carson Einarsen

Mel Mignucci

Carlie Schwaeber

Yo.By‘yo’Imeanhey.Andnotthehardcorehipgangster‘hey’...likeanormal‘hey’,becausehon-estlyI’mnoneoftheabove.Myname’sCarson.I’majuniorinhighschool,myinterestsincludedrawing,writing,eati-blah,blah,blah.Nowthatwe’veskippedtheformalities,let’sgetintowhoIreallyam.WellIcouldsaythatI’msodifferentIcan’tbedescribed,buta)thatwouldmeanIwouldhavenothingtowritehereandb)that’snotatalltrue.Iabsolutelylovecomicsandgraphicnovels.Notalotofnouveaustuff.PersonallyIlike‘smackyouinthefacewithmorals’kindofstuff.Whetherthat’smainstreamcomicbooksfromthe80’sorCalvinandHobbes;doesn’tmattertome.WithCacophony,mygoalistoshowotherssomeofthecoolthingsthatIhavefound(mainlycomics,butnotlimitedtothat).Letmeendwithathoughtprovokingquestion.Ifyouwerestuckonadesertislandbecauseyourplane had crashed (due to a collision with a flying Japanese monster) and you were the only sur-vivor, what would you have for dinner? I’d have Mac and Cheese. Definitely Mac n’ Cheese. In factIthinkI’llgogetsomerightnow. Peace(andby‘peace’Imeanpeaceout,asin‘seeyoulater’...).

I am sixteen years old, filled with microorganisms and assorted notes from Biology 9 Honours. This morning I sit and drink weak apple cider, so weak it’s erring on the side of bitter. I need to put gas in my car but I have twenty dollars and am going to see a movie today. I’d rather get lost in light coming through celluloidstrips than go anywhere. Friday nights are me nights, when everyone else is going out and getting drunk or stoned or forgetful, forgotten, I’d rather watch a movie I haven’t seen in a while, write up the scripts to adventures that will never happen. Read a comic book. Call my friend in college. I was never a Jansport backpack but instead whatever we had lying around the house. When I’m writing I’ll stare off into space and come to the same question: what is everyone doing right now that I am not? Is my impression mistaken that when I don’t directly observe what people do, they are the same as me: home, alone, writing snippets of my memoir? I don’t even have a blog. I don’t believe in real time.

Writing this piece is a tad problematic because I am a high schooler who is about 80% sure of the person she is, just like every other high schooler. I mean, lets be real here, high school is an identity crises that lessens in severity each year. Hopefully, by the time I am a senior, I will fully understand myself. So, for right now, a junior in high school, I will try and give you a taste of who I am. First of all, you should know that I like to talk and I am really good at it. Communicating is my thang. In school, a persons social status has never impacted whether or not I talked to them. I consider myself very loving and relatable, but mostly approachable, thanks to my un-intimidating height. When I get to know somebody, I often have a lot of faith and trust in them. Sometimes, I believe in them more than they believe in themselves. Okay, on to my interests! I play piano a lot in my spare time. Along with writing, playing piano and singing along has served as a sort of therapy in the last couple years for me. I also love to write, obviously. I have always loved writing, but in the past year, it has developed into an obsession. One thing that I am very proud of is my strength. I understand a lot about life, but I also know I have a lot to learn. I have learned how to battle, overcome, accept, learn, and love anything that comes my way, and so much of those abilities makes me who I am.

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Carlie Schwaeber

charcoal

Mel Mignucci

Madison Horne

charcoal

Mel Mignucci

Carson Einarsen

Mel Mignucci 3

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Room,GiveMeSome

A comic in so many wordsByCarsonEinarsen

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ink

Solo v. Jones, by Carson Einarsen


My Hobbies, by Mel Mignucci

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300 SteveBy Carson Einarsen


“a juncture”

an english classroom,tupperware salad,protein bar,

dressing.

I ponder miles and dread the fall.

alone but not withdrawn,he quietly consumes his lunch.

combed baldness, nonchalantcomposure, perfect rhythm.

I emerge from the door;I have disturbed.

a regular interlude,disrupting, waiting.

and so the conversation flows,disrupting still that system, still and calm,

still waiting for approval,of which I find none.

but these are mere bagatelles,for our sorrow amounts to nil,the sea, the rose, the elusive bird –

in our search for facts andbeloved names and the beautyin small things, we are shockedby how lonely we are not.

–Constance Chien

“give ‘em heck”

summer unfolded like a tapes-try, without regret we floated forward

dancing on the steps of J Dilla and Eli Porter and The Flam-ing Lips

A cramped manual transmi-tion Mercedes with a fear of the dark

a Volvo with an equally mini-mal interior ensured a passage home

a Saab rolling up on unsus-pecting white folks, who will never know the pleasure of

listening to pop music ironi-cally.

A dance with no end in sight, has come to an undesired but innevitible end.

Oxford, NYU, AIB, SVA, even NCC

These are the tomorrow peoplebecause yesterday will resonate without a doubt

aroundabout alwaysand today, eyes are openminds are openand time is open for your pleasure.

–Jamie Morgan

poetry

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BuryingHillBeach, by Mel Mignucci

Madison Horne

EllenKempner, by Mel Mignucci

BrokenSocialScene, by Mel Mignucci

Madison Horne

Mel MignucciCarlie Schwaeber

Mel Mignucci

Mel Mignucci


Reviews

Let’s try some math problems. If you have an incredibly innovative fantasy story, minus all of the things that have already been done before (yes dragons, hobbits, and elves I’m talking about you) and then multiply it by artistic talent reminiscent of Bone (by Jeff Smith) and finally divided by a confusing plot-line that borders The Usual Suspects but in-

stead to epic proportions... What the hell do you get?! For those of you out there who have not yet passed Absurd Theoretical Mathematics, you should (if you carry the remainders right) end up with The Meek; a great new graphic novel/webcomic by Der-shing Helmer.

The first chapter opens innocently enough, with a small critter (that could only be de-scribed as Looney Tunes-esque) hopping along on some branches in a spacious for-est setting, eagerly eyeing an apple on the ground. Then BAM! some (without any clothes on, for the record) dashes by, while being chased by hormonally driven lum-berjacks... Great start, right?

It is a little tough to get into at first, but the art really carries the piece along, until you get accustomed to the characters better. The first chapter mainly features Angora (also known as “that girl running through the forest without any clothes on”) who has been living in the forest her whole life and is fairly unused to the goings-on of other people. During

the chapter she also meets up with Pinter, who is kind of a drunk (Ha Ha get it, Pint-er). Anyway he acts detached from Angora, but I think he’s actually a sweet guy (and thanks to him, she gets some pants).

The next chapter switches settings and protagonists, to the capital of Pasori and their leader, Luca deSa-dar. While the third chapter revolves around Soli Areni, who is some woman (occupation: No-Questions-Asked-Butt-Kicker’) who is trying to kill her ex-boyfriend.

“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” -Matthew 5:5By Carson Einarsen

Panels from Meekcomic.com


ReviewsAt this point in the story it appears that each chapter will rotate between Angora, Luca, and Soli, and tell their sto-ries individually until, eventually, they converge into an epic ending. That is just speculation though.

Before I wrap this up I’ve got to say, the art design in this book makes it totally worth while. From the epic-ly grand forest to the equally grand capital city and then to a subtle desert town, Helmer pulls you in to the world like nothing I’ve read in a long time. He even subtly separates the chap-ters based the aforementioned settings. Angora (who has green hair) is placed in a green forest that has a very down to earth feel but also (at night) reminds me of the tran-scendent world of Avatar. While from there Helmer takes you to almost the complete opposite: a grey city sporting deep red tapestries with almost a sepia toned furniture . For me, I instantly thought of fire, which would not be good if it came in contact with the forest (foreshadowing?). And then finally for the third chapter, Soli is traversing the desert which is only bleached tans and the bright blue sky (which is only matched by the brightness of Soli’s blue eyes). But beyond the setting there’s even more that can be attributed to great art design. While there are no super-amazingly-fantastical creatures that fly about through the skies every few seconds (which does make the story more

realistic in the same sense that Avatar:The Last Airbend-er was realistic), there have been two creatures seen so far

that just make your eyes pop. The one that really caught my attention was the one that Angora calls “Mocheril”. Honestly he can only be described as a Chinese dragon (without all the bells and whis-tles) with trees growing pink leaves for horns. His body turns in ways that make you feel like his long snake-like body is neverending. To fully appreciate it, you really have to see it.

Through 4th Dimension Entertainment, the first chapter of The Meek has now been published, and is currently selling for $5.95 and is 50 amaz-ing pages that includes exclusive short comics and production artwork found nowhere else! But if that’s not your thing, go check out The Meek on-line (at www.meekcomic.com)

In review, this webcomic is amazing. Even if (somehow!) you don’t like the story, you would still benefit from getting a look at the amazing art. This is a must read. Good night, and good read. 11

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Reviews

Laura Marling, England’s songbird, hastaken flight.Listening to Laura Marling’s second full-length al-

bum, “I Speak Because I Can”, for the first time is like reading the first paragraph of Nabokov’s Lolita, like eating peach cobbler in Georgia in the summer. It is an experience that lets you know that your music, writing, and cobbler baking really will never compare.

Marling, on her earlier albums, was a mere singer-songwriter, a girl with a guitar and a lilting soprano, whose accent could switch between English or South Carolinian between chords. Her music was peppered with fantasy and fiction.

She has moved on from her bleach blonde pixie cut and “travelling light” with Johnny Flynn. On “I Speak,” every rhythm, lyric and chord is packed with nostalgia, regret and anger, emotions that connect the listener with Marling.

Marling is firmly planted in reality. Her lyrics and music are clearly about her own life, her quest to be known as an individual. She asks to “let it be known I was who I am.”

The album opens with the heavy creaking of a door. The first track, ‘Devil’s Spoke,’ is the darkest song on the album, mixing elements of biblical fantasy and new fic-tion. Marling’s cry that “all of this can be broken” beats like an American Indian tribal song. Heavy and dark, you can see her face licked by flames of a campfire, tell-ing her story to captivated listeners. The song sounds

like broken promises and being rubbed the wrong way.Other songs on the album are less heavy, less experi-

mental for the singer. Her influences are all over the place—you can hear Bob Dylan, Simon and Garfunkel, Fleetwood Mac and even the Indigo Girls. “Darkness Descends” uses harmonies, flutes, tambourines, shaken up rhythms to evoke an animated forest, crawling with the animals last seen in “Snow White,” while her lyr-ics chronicle her descent into depression when the “sun comes up.” The juxtaposition is pretty awesome.

While Marling has many incredible stories to tell, there are some tracks on the album that sound like a leaky faucet beside a waterfall. Some chord changes are either predictable or just plain weird, neither of which contributes positively to the album. Other songs border on angsty, which sounds out of place on such a mature album.

Though musically, the album is weak, the themes of the album speak volumes about Marling and her life, hitherto unexplored. We hear allusions to a poor re-lationship to her father, saying goodbye to her home-land (Goodbye, England, Covered in Snow) and being mistreated as a woman. It is an honest album, but at times it can feel like Marling traded musicianship for that candour. The album is fantastic, but Marling has clearly not hit her peak…yet.

A solid B+.

“I Speak Because I Can”By Mel Mignucci

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“Broken”

We all sit.Silent in the darkness.Silence that wraps itselfaround our skin.Skin so delicateSo fragile.But we are not weak. We are just broken.We broke ourselvesWe broke each other.We did not have enough timeTo heal.And we sitTired.In broken Little piecesTogether.And eventuallywe slowly put ourselvesand each otherBack together. –Carlie Schwaeber

“Between the Metal and the Moon” You had an eye to see and an ear to hearBut my words, unheard, formed the piersOf seas of tears, born from your light stepAnd neglecting turned shoulder

The waves that crept, sweptlike the eyelids that pushedforward the seas and sent them sprawlingOnto the shore;Where we snoredAnd talked of weight to be lost

A cloud of black hairand a deep low growlAnd the metal, and the car, and the wailsand the gritty experience that was youAnd meOn a summer night, near the moon, in the seaIn the humidityThat clung, and sticks and is still thereSeduced me, deceived meWronged meWith a sunset in my eye and a rainstorm in my hair

Still, I can still rememberthe cops, and the fish, and the talk, and the wishThat I made in the sandAnd the table, full of puddlesWith a mistake in my handAnd the you that I knew, right thenIt was only you, and the wind, a stranger in the darkI could see only your outline, unafraidYou were fine, you were mineIn the corners of my mind, you were there, right thereAnd for a momentThere was nothing to miss, only something to gainWe were possible, love was possibleWe were in it, and it was only us, and the phone, and the glassesAnd the metal and the moon

–Sammy Rose Key

“Excessive”

What was that noise?I just heard a creak.Maybe it was the laundry machineOr the sink that has a leak.I just want my blanketTo cover my headAnd protect me from the bad guyThat has recently fledFrom a jail in NebraskaWhere I heard ax murders gatherI think he’s in my houseis this all just blather?Oh great, you are judging meBecause I am 16Still scared to be home aloneWell, just let me beJust kidding I did not mean thatPlease don’t go awayI need to be protected, remember?By all means, please stay!–Carlie Schwaeber

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poetry

Last night, I watched the movie SLC Punk. If you’ve never seen it, the film’s about two Salt Lake Shitty punkers, Steve-O and Heroin Bob, and their Scene, the parties of which are the biggest conglom-eration of hair dye/gel I’ve ever seen. On the daily they seem to fuck shit up and beat up fascists in the name of anarchy.

At this point, I sat up in confusion. Pure destruction in the name of anarchy? In 1985? In Salt Lake fucking Shitty? Oh no, no, no my friends… this is not anarchy. This is the illusion of chaos, chaos contained in spitting and howling in house show basements, chaos contained in fighting rednecks and neo-nazis, who, while annoy-ing, have every right to exist. Free speech is something the govern-ment has yet to take away or regulate; shouldn’t an anarchist be in favour?

The reason they are not in favour, the reason they disrespect free-dom of speech, the reason they believe in chaos over unadulterated freedom of liberties, is that they are not anarchists. Sure, they can call themselves as such, spray [A] onto walls, shout the battle cry for chaos, but they are not true anarchists, involved in the dissemi-nation of ideas. They are angry, resentful youth, to whom the idea of chaos really appealed. Chaos helps them escape their mundane lives. It’s exciting.

Here’s a stylised definition of anarchy:

Thanks, Merriam!

That C clause does not imply chaos. It implies living individually, simply, not under any control but that of the self. It is for the utopi-an society of self-governance—not chaos—that anarchists should be marching on capitol for.

Why should we elect abstract proxies to restrict our freedoms when, as adults, we should know the difference between right and wrong, moral and immoral, as appropriate for ourselves? The idea of chaos, instead of implied self-control, is what turns the educated away from the concept. The threat of violence, the pessimistic con-clusion, is the immediate conclusion in lieu of government control. It really makes you think about the last law you broke. Was it really that bad? That immoral? Did the last bong hit you took really af-fect anyone else but you? The last curfew you broke?

As free people, we should have the right to decide what is good for us, not live according to laws that keep the lowest common de-nominator safe. It is an unfair standard under which to live, mak-ing criminals of morally upright people and making upstanding citizens out of sheeple.

Herd mentality of these sheeple [drawing of sheeple congregated together] is what protects us though, right? Social contract theory? Rousseau?

Big businesses would be torn down to make way for smaller, indi-vidual run businesses in this utopian ideal. Individuals would oper-ate according to good morals, making the idea of interpersonal conflict moot. Nations could not wage war with each other because the concept of a nation conflicts with anarchist ideals.

Personal responsibility is a step away from control, away from fas-cism. Men, motivated by their own self-interest, will act according to what suits them best. The smart man, in anarchy, will be toler-ant, self-reliant, against conflict and for peace. The dumb man, motivated by greed, will be left behind, unable to find solace in a world of equality, until in this utopian society there are only good men left.

That is my dream, boys and girls. That we will live in a world un-motivated by greed, unmotivated but for one’s own interests. That anarchy will not beget chaos, and instead peace. That men will be responsible enough to act according to their own needs, and not beyond. That we may take our lives into our own hands and live not as sheep but free men and women.

A Discourse on Anarchy.By Mel Mignucci


words


When I was just seven-years-old--a bubbly, pre-cious, little second grader--my parents’ marriage fell apart. Divorce was just a tacit promise loom-ing cumbrously through the air. At such a young age, it was difficult to place my youthful, fragile fingers around the dissolution of my parents’ nine year partnership and the idea that one fight could split my world apart.

Little did my dad know that by accidentally dropping the penny bowl, just as he was getting ready to put my sister and I to bed, he would be starting one of the most gargantuan, and notorious arguments of my family. Curses flew, names were called, and all the words that seven-year-olds shouldn’t hear were heard. I distinctly remember watching my mothers working hands swiftly dial the police’s number, and hearing the bellowing of an engine as a cop car entered the driveway. It was later that loathsome night that my dad gathered his possessions and left to move in with my grandma. “The fight” was the pow-der keg to my personal war.

From this point on, it was like a switch was turned off inside my delicate body. I no longer spoke about my feelings, but rather listened in agony as my sister threw temper tantrums and wept until her eyes burned. I sat in silence, muzzled by an-ger and distress, hoping that one day someone, anyone, would ask me how I felt.

My emotions stirred violently inside my chest, a volcano on the brink of eruption. Infuriation, and despondency bustled under my skin and my self- esteem took a nose dive. My feelings were

parasitic, impetuously eating away at my flesh. Nevertheless, my sister was still the focus of the attention, while I ached silently, slowly crum-bling. My body needed me to illustrate my an-guish, but my lips would not loosen their imper-vious seal. I continually masked my sentiments with a fake smile and a sweet nature.

It was not until eighth grade, six years after the divorce, that I finally manifested my true response to the ordeal. It was not purposefully. As my body underwent atrophy, I knew it would only be so long until my sorrow became un-doubtedly evident.

I was forced to see a psychologist. My mom shoved me into a room filled with the smell of vanilla candles. The crisp, peach-colored carpet spread across the floor and the floral curtains complimented the soft, azure blue walls. It felt surprisingly welcoming. It was here that I met an unfamiliar face, someone with whom I en-trusted with all my secrets, and all my thoughts. It was here, where I realized the importance of empowering myself to share how I had felt for so long.

It was soon after visiting the psychologist that I became unshackled from my own chains. I no longer felt disconsolate all the time. I believe that by sharing one’s feelings, a hefty burden is freed. I believe that by opening up, life can be lived with more optimism. I believe in finding expression.

words On the Brink of Eruption

By Gabi Horowitz


words

It was raining.

He sat in the fluorescent comfort of the café, sipping idly at a cup of coffee, and thumb-ing at his dogeared book of numbers, and catching his dark reflection in the plate-glass window. The yellow taxicabs muttering past glowed pallid and sulfurous. A stained lime-stone statue of Lucretia holding a knife to her bosom could be seen standing in a scrub-by square across the street and through the traffic. The city was drowned in a curtain of sickly white, the white of the porcelain coffeecup, the white of the formica counter, the white of the stained statue. The build-ings hung in grimy gloom as rain seethed down their brownstone sides.

And then he saw her. Bristly walking, carry-ing her little black umbrella in her little white hand, wearing a little black sweater and a little white oxford shirt and a little black tie. Her face was deep in thought and serious, and as he rose from his green leather booth he saw her move her gaze slightly toward him and she stopped her bustling pace and

he left through the front door, leaving his coffee and his dogeared book of numbers and his reflection behind him.

Hi, she said, and her face softened into a smile and her eyes gleamed bright in the white light.

Hi, he said awkwardly, holding his hands in front of him like a child, uncertain, excited. The atmosphere was hushed by the lull of the rain. And he smiled. Standing outside the café, at the midpoint of the sidewalk, passersby elbowing through, and rain stac-catoing the umbrella, they gazed into each other’s eyes and performed that sacred and pure rite. He leaned toward her, she tip-toed and their lips merely rested, then drew away.

They were motionless, while the world went about its weary way, and civilizations built and broke under the waves of time, and they were there, his coffee left behind and her umbrella dropped to the ground, their faces wet with rain and flushed with joy.

Chapter 1:A 5-Minute Love Story for the Hopeless Romantic

By Harrison Lipton

Hithere!ThisisPolly,thehedgehog.IamthemascotofCacophony.Thispageisforyoutoaskusquestions!Youcandothisbysendingyourquestionsto:

[email protected]

Examplequestion:DearPolly,Thereisarumorgoingaroundthatyouareaninja?Isthistrue?

Exampleanswer: Fourscoreandelevenyearsago,Ienteredthisworldasamerepeasanthedgehog.How-ever,astimeprogressed,Iroseupagainstmyhaters,andlearnedthesacredartsof....well,ninjaarts.Theseartsaretoosacredtonamehere,forfearthatsomeonemightstealthem.After32.5yearsoftraining,IgainedthetitleofSilentPaw.ThismeansIcaneatawholetacowithoutmovingmymouth.So,yes,Iamaninja.Thanksforasking!

DearPolly,Howdidyoucomeupwiththetitle“Cacophony”?

Answer:None a yo bidness. The three founders of Cacophony spent around 3 hours in total trying to fig-ureoutaname.Itstartedoutwithnamessuchas“YoungMinds”and“IndieBoard”,however,moved into absurdities such as “jdalkdjfkl;adjkf;lasdf” askdjflasdkjfl;akj


cacophony magazine: issue 1

Documents

high schooler

real time

mac n cheese

weak apple cider

assorted notes

identity crises

unintimidating height

tad problematic