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The Crew
Editor in Chief.............................................................................Ian Adams Editor/Design/Social Media...........................................Aaron Rosenberg Editor................................................................................Katie Lee McNeil Interpersonnel Relations................................................Amanda Galindo Head Photographer...........................................................Frankie Concha Master Illustrator......................................................Mauricio Bustamante Commander Illustrator.....................................................Lawrence Alfred Philosopher...............................................................................Oscar Valle

Table of Contents
Knight: The Falling - Louis Hervey ..........................................................5 The Emerald Mustache - Veronica Solorzano.......................................10 The Doctor Who 50th Anniversary - Aaron Rosenberg .......................14 Radio Interview for the Spectacle - Oscar Valle....................................16 Ocean of Stories - Ian Adams.................................................................22 Fear (For the Writers) - Andrew Henry...................................................27 Going in the Forest - Alexander Vasquez..............................................29 Spoiled - Ian Adams.................................................................................30 Joseph #2 - Mel Bernstein.......................................................................33 Portrait - Mel Bernstein............................................................................34

The Modern Corsair will be having a live show on December 27th at the Stay Gallery in Downey at 8:00 PM. There will be live readings and fun to be had. We at The Modern Corsair plan to begin a tradition of a live reading every last Friday of the month. Stay tuned, and we'd love to see you guys there.

An Announcement:

8:00 PM December 27, 2013 The Stay Gallery 11140 Downey Ave, Downey, CA 90241

Knight: The Falling

I decide to go out tonight, to celebrate the success of my first mission. As I head down

Louis Hervey

to the local bar, Cupz, I take in my new city. Being new to the area, I want to get a feel of what look around, familiarizing myself with the surroundings. So many people: some drinking their worries away, others trying to hook up, a group of newly 21 year olds drinking till they pass out, some here just to have a drink and socialize. I keep an eye out for any troublemakers,

the city is like. It is busy, lots of people everywhere, but not crowded. I sit at the bar and take a

trying to spot the guys who might do something stupid. I sit at the bar most of the night with a cup in hand, trying not to draw attention to myself. I occasionally glance around to keep tabs on a few guys that are acting very suspicious. Some were looking to get into fights, others around when I am suddenly interrupted.

getting to physical with women who want nothing to do with them. I start to take another look So who comes to a bar and does not even order alcohol? You seem like a guy who I turn my gaze to the seat next to me and see the woman I meet in the elevator the

would be drinking the hard stuff, but you are sitting here drinking water. Whats up with that? other day. It was just shortly after I moved into my new apartment and had come home from work. She had explained to me why the old woman had been staring at me, we did not talk very long before I had to get off the elevator. Now she is here, smiling, and looking at me with her hazel eyes. She has changed her hair; it was no longer a dull brown, it is now a reddish talking to me? I look at her and reply, Well, I felt like celebrating, but I dont drink. So what are you celebrating all by yourself? Just a good day at work. brown. I do not know the word for the color, if there is one, but it suits her well. But why is she

A good day at work, huh? So what is it that you do?

one of the guys I am keeping tabs on about to start a fight, but I am mistaken. I begin to think anyone ever asks, which I think was not really that believable. Consultant? My ass. But, in reality, what is my job? What have I been doing these past months? You dont even know your own job, or what?

I pause and look at her for a moment. Then out of the corner of my eye, I think I see

about the question: what was my job? I know the cover story that I am supposed to give when

Oh, no. I was just thinking. Actually, I work for the government. Oh, really? Doing what, exactly? I cant say. men in black?

Why not? Because you will have to kill me if you do? What are you? CIA? FBI? One of the I let out a slight chuckle. No, nothing like that. Lets just say its top secret. Are you looking for someone or waiting for someone? She asked, referring to my noticeable looking around. I was trying to keep tabs on a few of

the men in here while trying to have a conversation, and it looks like one of them is ready to make door.

his move, as he follows a woman he has been watching all night, but hasn't been talking to, out the No, I just like to be very aware of my surroundings. It comes with the job. I am sorry, but I I cant tell you. Lets just say its top secret, she says it with the biggest smile.

have to get going now. It was very nice talking to you again I didnt get your name.

me Jay. Goodbye, and enjoy the rest of your night.

I smirk, Well, miss. It was a pleasure to have made your acquaintance again. You may call She sits there smiling, as I hurry for the door. I am going to stop this guy before he does

anything dangerous. I step outside of the bar and exhale. I can see my breath in the cold air. This

part of the city is not lit very well: very few street lights, and most of them are burnt out. The moon is covered by a thick overcast, making the night even darker. I begin to look around, and I spot him as he is tailing the girl who looked tipsy. I start to follow him. As I begin to walk in his direction, I hear the music from the bar get louder behind me, I turn

back to glance and I see the woman I had been talking to. Is she looking for me? Well, if she is, I do not have the time for it, so I duck into the alley way before she sees me. I scale the fire escape to the roof of the building next door. From here, I start to leap from one roof to the next. I spot the man again. He is getting closer to the woman. I leap to the corner building and

stand on the ledge, watching him round the corner, waiting for him to make his move, because he follow from the rooftops, trying to remain as quiet as possible. She reaches an intersection and

has not done anything wrong, yet. The woman must live nearby if she is walking home. I continue to crosses. A few moments, later he follows. I look at the wide intersection, definitely too big for me to jump, so I jump down into the alley way. I look to see if it is clear, and I sprint across the street. I
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head behind the building and see a ladder for roof access. I begin to climb up to the roof. As I make my way up, I begin to feel a cool sensation. Black ooze begins to spread over my body, covering

every inch of me. The alien suit that had been bonded to me begins to morph. My normal clothing

turns into a black, almost oily looking, substance and spreads all over my body. Then, it turns into a suit of armor. It formed into a light and durable metal; its dark and dull so what little light is around that magnify the light. I can now see much more clearly in the dark streets. will not reflect. As the black ooze spreads over my face, it forms a mask and forms dim yellow eyes I make it to the roof and check back on the street. I see him again, still following her. He is a She slowly walks by the next alley, he makes his move. He grabs her by the arm and pulls

lot closer now, just behind her. I can see she is trying very hard to keep her balance.

her into the dark alley. I am the only one around to hear her scream. He pulls her away from the and pins her with one arm as he pulls out a knife with the other. I am already on my way down

street so no one can see, except me. He yells at her to shut up. He throws her up against the wall before he can do anything else. There is large thud as I land on the ground. He turns and stares everything clearly. He turns his attention back to the woman. Leave her alone!

into the darkness of the alley way. He cannot see anything; it is too dark. But my mask lets me see

into the darkness. He turns his attention back to the woman as she struggles. Fuck off! Or youll get some of this. He rotates his wrist to show off his knife. for help, and that is exactly what she is going to get. keep her quiet.

He turns and hesitates, looking for the source of the voice. He looks frantically, trying to see

I said leave her alone. I take a few steps closer. I can hear the woman crying and begging The man looks into the dark, trying to spot me. He puts his hand over the womans mouth to I said leave her alone, I am not going to tell you again. All right punk you asked for it! He lunges at where my voice is coming from. He swings at me as fast as he can, but his

movements seem sluggish to me, as if he were moving in slow motion. I step to the side and avoid him completely. Well, that was just bad. Would you care to try again?

moves closer and swings again. I grab his wrist and elbow and bring his arm into my knee hard. With little effort I break his arm like a twig. He starts to scream and attempts to throw a punch. I catch his first in my palm. I snap his wrist at the flick of my own and deliver a punch to his stomach.

He regains his balance and turns toward my voice. I can see his look of frustration. He

He stops screaming long enough to vomit. Guess I hit him a little too hard. He falls over and begins to whimper. He takes a deep breath and musters all of his energy to get up without using his hands and starts to run toward the street. I stop him with a sweep of my leg. He falls on to the ground and screams again as he lands on his injuries in an attempt to break his fall. I want the cops to find him and but it will be awhile as I still need to call them. I cannot wait

around and watch this guy. I have to get out of here fast. I stick out my hand. The palm begins to glow

yellow, then white. In the blink of an eye, a small pop of light races from my hand into his chest. The man lays out flat, unable to move. He is paralyzed, but only temporarily. I walk over to the woman but remain hidden in the darkness, so she will not see me. Are you okay, Miss? She looks as if she is in shock. "Miss, are you okay?" Yeah, yeah, Im fine. Will you be all right making it back home? I will be fine. Who, who are you? Im no one, miss. I will call the cops on this guy. You should get out of here and head on I drag the man and sit him up against the wall.

home. Be more careful next time you go out drinking. You never know what might happen.

witnessed. I head farther down into the alley. I find a fire escape and climb it to the roof. When I

The woman starts to walk back home. She looks back, not believing what she, has just

reach the top, I take one last look down at the man sitting there in the alleyway, unable to move. I it and call the police. way back home.

put my hand near my waist and the armor begins to shimmer. Then my phone is revealed and I take After I hang up I drop the disposable phone in the nearest dumpster and start to make my

The moon begins to break through as the overcast lightens up. I look at the countless lights from

I stand on the roof of my building. From ten stories up, I can see a good portion of the city.

different apartments, the red and white glow of traffic on the freeway. I take one last look over the nights work, but this is only the beginning. That man was the first of many.

city. It is a beautiful place, but it could be better, so much better. I head for the stairs. Not bad for a As I lay in bed, I have trouble sleeping. My mind keeps wandering. For some reason, I
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cannot stop thinking about the woman at the bar. Who is she? Why did she talk to me?

The Emerald Mustache Veronica Solorzano

rings out. The police sirens scream through the air, getting louder with every second. Three come shooting out of the bank. Crowds of people meld together into a blur as they jet past

Its a quiet, peaceful day in the city of Buttongrove until the cries of the city banks bell

men dressed in black suits, wearing masks, and carrying a hefty black bag filled with money each other, and the reflection of sunlight on parked cars turns into a hazy white stripe. The over cars that nearly hit them. They turn left onto a one-way street in hopes of losing the

flashes of red and blue are hot on the mens tails as they fly through the intersection, jumping police and then make a sharp right into an alley. Success! The police have no choice but to drive past that street and find another way around. The men continue through the city via relief, look through the contents of the bag. alleyways until the sound of police sirens fade. They remove their masks, and with sighs of Can you imagine all the toys were going to get with all this? says Atreyu, a brownThis was a great plan boss, says Paul, a tall, black-haired man.

haired, short-statured man. With a giant grin, he grabs a handful of hundred dollar bills.

eyes, clearly the alpha of the group. They all let out a loud laugh.

Of course it was! I came up with it, says Demetrius, a man with blond hair and green

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cats eating out of the dumpster. There was something green that ran past us, you guys didnt see it? Dont worry bout it. Youre just paranoid. Itll go away once we spend all this cash, Yea youre probably right. But I swear, I thought I saw some Without warning, Paul

Shhh! What was that? Paul asks. The men look around, and see nothing but a few

says Atreyu.

is interrupted as he is hit in the head with a bola. The three weights, attached to ropes, swing

around his head and punch him in the face knocking him unconscious. Demetrius and Atreyu hands on his waist and a ridiculously exaggerated green handlebar mustache. He is wearing of an emerald mustache similar to the one above hi lip. Who the heck is this guy? asks Atreyu.

look in the direction of where the bola came from. Standing there is a tall, robust man with his an emerald cape with matching boots and gloves, and in the middle of his shirt is an emblem

COMMAND YOU TO RELINQUISH THE MONEY YOU HAVE STOLEN! shouts the caped hero. Oh, you gotta be kidding me! laughs Demetrius. What makes you think we are going Surrender now, or you will end up like sleeping beauty over there. The Emerald Well, now, if you want this, you gotta Demetrius is cut short as he dodges a bola

I AM THE EMERALD MUSTACHE! IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS GOOD, I

to just hand it over to you?

Mustache gestures to the incapacitated Paul.

thrown by The Emerald Mustache. HEY! Manners! Didnt your mother ever teach you not to Didnt your mother ever teach you not to steal? And I did warn you, replies The

interrupt? Can you believe the nerve of this guy? he says as he gestures to the caped hero. Emerald Mustache.

bolt out of the alley through the opening behind them, abandoning Paul.

Like I was SAYINGif you want it, you gotta come and get it. Demetrius and Atreyu

The Emerald Mustache pulls out what looks like a gun and shoots the sleeping Paul, but

instead of bullets hitting him, Paul is engulfed in a net. The Emerald Mustache looks in the runs out of the alleyway in full pursuit.

direction the two men ran, and, with a grin, he says to himself, This is going to be fun. He Demetrius and Atreyu, after running for some time, reach another alley. Dead end. They reach a wall towering over the alley, and it seems impossible to get up alone.
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Atreyu sends Demetrius soaring to the top and tosses the bag to him. Atreyu heads to the wraps itself around his legs, causing him to trip. He looks back and sees it is the Emerald

Give me a boost, demands Demetrius, pushing Atreyu down.

opposite side of the alley to get a running start. But, as he begins to gain some speed, a wire Mustache at the other end of the wire. The Emerald Mustache starts to drag in Atreyu. In an no use. He tries to desperately reach for something, and he manages to get a hold of a broken leg from an old chair.

attempt to get free, Atreyu thrashes his legs around and digs his nails into the gravel, but its

The Emerald Mustache grabs a hold of Atreyu and lifts him into the air. Then, with a swift

swing, Atreyu knocks The Emerald Mustache on the side of the head, releasing himself from his grasp. As The Emerald Mustache is tries to catch his bearings, Atreyu frees himself from the wire and runs toward the wall, looking back at The Emerald Mustache with a smile. He reaches the wall and stretches his hand out for Demetrius, but there is no one there.

short by a few inches. Then suddenly, he is in the clutches of The Emerald Mustache again. Please let me go! II didnt mean it, Atreyu begs. Its a little to late for that now. You should have given up earlier, when you had the

Demetrius! Where are you! shouts a panicking Atreyu. He tries to jump up but falls

chance, says The Emerald Mustache as he punches Atreyu, knocking him out. The Emerald Mustache shoots a net around Atreyu and continues his pursuit of Demetrius. Demetrius, now alone, reaches the residential part of town, with birds chirping in the trees and with no one in sight. He strides through the white picked-fenced filled streets in search of a my kind of car, and walks up to it, jimmies the lock, and he opens the door. abruptly slams Demetrius head onto the roof of the car. getaway car and spots a sleek, black car called the Chev Roulette. He says to himself, Thats Piece of cake, he says. He swings his leg into the car when The Emerald Mustache Ow! Demetrius screams. With a fist flying to his face, Demetrius evades a blow from

the caped hero. He sidesteps and throws a gut punch, knocking the wind out of the caped hero.

now, Demetrius says as he rolls up his sleeves. The Emerald Mustache takes a few steps back, trying to catch his breath, when Demetrius launches another punch. The Emerald

You just won't leave me alone, will you? Well, guess what, the gloves are coming off

Mustache ducks under it, and before Demetrius can register the dodge, he is hit in the ribs,

sending ripples of pain throughout his body. Not giving up, Demetrius throws in a left-right-left

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combo, knocking the Emerald Mustache against the car, but he is hit in the ribs again. Taken aback, Demetrius throws a sluggish punch, easily avoidable by the Emerald Mustache and sees a giant green fist headed straight for

woman standing at the doorway of a cozy, little house. boy.

Demetrius and Michael! I know you two arent getting those clothes dirty! shouts a My name is not Michael! Its The Emerald Mustache! shouts Michael an eight year-old I know you are not talking to me like that! says the woman with a scorn look on her

face and her hands on her hips. You want to try that again? Sorry.

With a look of sheer terror, his hands behind his back, and shuffling feet, Michael responds, Now, the two of you get in here and wash up. We have a baptism to attend, the

woman shouts. She is wearing a purple floral dress and with a purple flower in her curly hair. Michael what is that? Is that She grabs his chin, licks her thumb, and wipes the green under his nose. Is that marker? Yes, Michael says, pursing his lips.

The boys run into the house and get cleaned up, then run out the door and out to the car. I call the front seat! shouts Michael. No, I get the front! shouts Demetrius his nine year-old brother.. their mother.

Hurry and wash up, were late, she says, shaking her head.

No one gets the front until they are twelve, so get in the back, you two, commands

As the boys put on their seat belts, they wave goodbye to Atreyu and Paul who are sitting on

the grass playing with pinecones tied with shoelaces and throwing leaves into the air out of a watching them drive away.

black hefty bag. The boys wave goodbye to their neighbors and Atreyue and Paul wave back

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The Doctor Who 50th Anniversary Aaron Rosenberg

know, Doctor Who is a show about an alien called the Doctor that travels through time in a little blue box with For those of you that arent in the The concept of immortality has always been hard to portray, but the sheer age

of the show and its history allows for the

various companions that have ranged to your average British girl. Upon

viewers to get a glimpse of what it is like

from an a robot dog, a Victorian orphan, receiving what normally would be a fatal

wound, the Doctor can regenerate into a

new body, allowing for a switch of actors. This allows for the show to continue, and it has continued for 50 years. Doctor Whos format allows for any actor to be swapped in whenever needed and any story dealing with the past, present, or future to be told. The show is versatile to meet an immortal man. A new viewer hears tales of the doctors past after starting the rebooted series, and as they continue the new series they watch the Doctors past catch up to him through past enemies and deeds done. Many

and a different story every week allows for the show to continue for as long as there are writers writing for it.

viewers go back to watch the old series, episodes are lost. The Doctor is an the television world.
There is a precedent for this happening. -Kate Stuart

but realize that a large chunk of the early ancient character in both his world and in With the 50th anniversary just this

November, we finally got a multiple

interesting one. He is the closest thing

The character of the Doctor is an

Doctor episode in the new reboot. The of November. The Doctor, being a time traveler occasionally crosses his own

Day of the Doctor premiered on the 23rd

television has to an immortal character.

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path though time and meets with himself. This episode stars Matt Smith, David Tennant, and John Hurt. Hurt is revealed as a previous incarnation of the Doctor much a doctor as the rest of them. and in this episode proves to be just as Although he is an older gentleman, he

Doctor Who Christmas special will be to regenerate this episode, and Matt Smith would be leaving the show. become the Doctor for another Capaldi will be the Doctor, and will

aired. It's been stated that the Doctor is

generation. It's entirely possible that we'll meet Matt Smith as the Doctor again, and it's entirely possible that we won't. A end, and through that ending new

lesson the show teaches us is that things beginnings arrive. In everyday life we find ourselves in a constant flow of watching things end and watching
The nearly forgotten 8th regeneration returned in The Night of the Doctor.

beginnings hatch. Another year, another Doctor.

still brings a type of youth to the older doctors.

character when acting next to the two The multiple Doctor episodes are

a great way of bringing past doctors and characters together and reminding the universe. We saw the return of many loose ends are tied up with Queen viewers that this takes place in the same past characters; Billie Piper as Rose, Elizabeth, and we meet Tom Baker (who played the forth doctor) again. At one point we catch a glimpse of Perter doctor.

Capaldi, the man in line to be the next With Christmas upon us, another
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Radio Interview for the Spectacle Oscar Valle

Host: Good evening, this is your Host broadcasting live from downtown. Today, we have three special guests, we have German playwright and theater director Bertolt Brecht; next to him we have French philosopher Jacques Derrida, and one of Brechts actors. Welcome to the set guys. Let us jump right into the questions. Bertolt, your plays are known to have political gestures and statements (if the theatre even has statements). And in your short story, If Sharks were Men, you do not get away from your drive in bringing socio-political themes to the scene, you take an innocent flight and approach to the notion of domination. The story begins with a little girl asking an older man, if sharks were men, would they be nicer to the little fishes? in a way implying that men are mean to little fishes. So here I want to ask you like a child asks a question, how are men mean to little fishes? And why? Brecht: Wellthey are mean to little fishes precisely because they have the means to their survival for instance, they choose the type and size of the fish tank, and the flavor of the food and men know what the limit of their capacity is under their survival. Not all fishes are tended the same, some swim differently, others have different shades of colors, some dont require constant attention, and some are not just chosen by and for the eyein other words, some taste better. Lets pretend that a man were to buy only goldfishes, about thirty or more. What do they do? Well they wait to receive their food miraculously from above, almost from a completely different dimension, the dimension of oxygen and air; when they see the food they begin to scramble after the flakes and they consume. And after the food is all gone, patience becomes the problem. Those fishes which were not able to receive and consume any flakes begin to slow down, they sometimes get lucky enough to receive the left over flakes that reached the bottom of the tank. But in the next round of this anxiously anticipated flake production, the slowed down fish no longer has enough force to be able to swim up to be able to consume, ad infinitum to post mortem. Most of the fishes stare blankly through the tank, and the ones that dont begin to look outside the tank, only to then get scared by the huge mysterious and distorted thing that is a human face. In the process or end of consumption there is the risk of excessive release of excrement, and the responsibility to clear the green water afterwards. This is where men become mean towards the fishes, when the fishes demand attention Derrida: Why do men need fishes? That is the question.
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Brecht: Exactly. This is where the selection of fishes becomes important: if all the gold fishes were to die, men then proceed to flush them down the toilet: and the objects themselves the fish, the tank, and the toilet create a Verfremdungseffekt or a distancing effect. The very act of placing a fish in a small container is already limiting the fishs space. Beyond the gold fishes, there are fishes which are chosen to be eaten. Host: Would you say there is a natural hierarchy in the body of the fishes? A shark is naturally bigger and stronger, it can easily choose to eat these fishes without any contest, without a battle. Brecht: To go back to my distinction of dimensions, I would say that under the environment (or capital) of water that then spreads a necessary space or dimension of livability, the shark is equal to the fishes; it can drown just like the fishes. But when the water is almost flat, near to the ground, all a fish could desire is more water. While the shark takes up most of the space of water, it can very well take almost all of the food and possess the environment. At this point a shark can act like it is not a fish, as if it does not need water, and therefore makes himself seem like the owner of the dimension of oxygen. So let us not get away from what I mean by the distancing effect. By this effect the fish who ran off from staring at the distorted human face through the actual environment, must actually become conscious of the fragile glass around her, must be able to construct its own courage and power of the intellect to be able to stare and move with the face, and consequently become an active fish, an interesting fish who overcame its predefined goldfish self. To be able separate from the machinery of the life inside the environment. So how are men mean to fishes? They construct an illusion, they add artificial rocks, and plastic castles to keep them entertained. And why? So that they can have control of time in all dimensions. Host: Jacques, you mentioned Brechts techniques in your essay Theater of Cruelty, but you seemed to get away from Brechts revolutionary way and you reaffirm Artauds thought, on revolutionary difference. For example you write and quote Artaud, The Verfremdungseffekt remains the prisoner of a classical paradox and of the the Eurpoean ideal of art which attempts to cast the mind into an attitude distinct from force but addicted to exaltation. Why would you not be in accord with Brecht on this theatrical point? Derrida: The Theater of Cruelty after all is a text on Antonin Artaud. In the process of overcoming a predefined self, Artaud would prefer to translate and absolutely negate any self from the scene of the body. Any organization of the organs, or organism, is potentially harmful to the play of forces. The subject may remain the actor, but the self remains as thought itself. This thought enables the possibility of dance and coincidently the festival to be of a preoccupation for Artaud. Dance is an affirmation of cruelty: centuries of God as the possessor of my name/body, lies an indefinite future present as history. The traditional theater is a theater of God choking out the divine of art and the sacred theatre; this is where representation for Artaud should become an impossible gesture for dance. But it should be made clear that the actor is not placed in a position to spontaneously improvise. She rather would, in a singular and irreducible political act (materialize a scene without dictation, pre-text and spectators). The materialization of the event, excludes all metaphysical notions of the world and self-in-world, and would rather put them in question.

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Actor: I could understand that. The actor in the classical theater was expected to act, the crowd bought their tickets to go watch a show, to be entertained. What the festival in Artauds sense disables, is the actor as an application, as an ideal equation. The festival for Artaud should become a hospital. It should express those gestures of the body which are - perhaps grammatically - excluded by society. So the actor is no longer a cog for the completion of the stage, but an aggregate of bodies and therefore creator of the worldeven if he or she must suffer upon a stage which is itself in a flux. Host: Maybe well have some time to receive your response to Derrida, later on Mr. Brecht. We are running out of time right now, and we must address the questions. Brecht: Thats fine. I am sure that your questions will lead to a collective response about the same issue. Host: You are right. After all we are addressing the same problems. So let us continue with our questions. Alright, this question is for the three of you, but Jacques, I want to hear your thoughts on this first. Derrida: Ok. Host: This question may sound a bit irrelevant to our listeners if we even have any at this point. But it is not. We are only going to deal with a technological repose of the problem. - You have defined, or have at least been a keen thinker to the problem of television. In your interviews and in your essay you continue the progress on Guy Debords notion of the spectacle. Debord somewhat defines the spectacle in that [T]he spectacular character of modern industrial society has nothing fortuitous or superficial about it; on the contrary, this society is based on the spectacle in the most fundamental way. For the spectacle, as the perfect image of the ruling economic order, ends are nothing and development is all although the only thing into which the spectacle plans to develop is itself. What problems, if any, arise from the perhaps this isnt a word you would use ideological-machine produced by the sports spectacle? Derrida: I am suspicious about the use of the concept you have designated, ideologicalmachine. As one can imagine, such an interview could have been otherwise. The problem here at the scene must deal with the distant figure created by the different rhetorics on television. So first what must be thought of is a critical viewer, one who does not undermine the moral codes, and the ethnocentric criterion at work. Any so called real events risk being artificially arranged and edited, by being derived from the moral code, and if you wish, the ideological apparatus which pervades any program. It is perhaps the image that Brecht has made possible when in his text he writes So that the little fish would not become melancholy, there would be big water festivals from time to time; because cheerful fish taste better than melancholy ones. Host: Go ahead Mr. Brecht, I could tell youre anxious to join in the discussion.
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Brecht. I would join in on with Jacques response. The production of the text risks there being a Wagnerian work. In other words it is not far from being a totalitarian production. The precise point of difference in which Jacques is referring to, is what is in between the spectacle and the so called real-time. It is not unfamiliar that the fans the local agents who attend these huge stadiums - actually respond to an exciting play on the field, but I find it interesting when the worker is not doing his job ideally and they are no longer a part of the team. Yes now we are at the moment, kings: we can have luxuries that were thought to be impossible to attain prior to having a pocket full of money. But all kings are dead, and any repetition of the idea of the king, can only be a figure taken form from the current modern idea of freedom. A king with access to filling up their stomach, should be entertained by a foolish jester, or a jester of entertainment. This jester is incapable of exerting that political force that Derrida is talking about. It does not revolutionize anything, it complexly evolutionizes the repeating ideology, it keeps the holograph of competition up as its main model. So I ask myself, what is this ideal gesture predicated by workers qua workers? Actor: I would like to think of the response from the crowd as the Roman roar. This roar is loud for victory or towards the failure. The football player may be seen as an actor in athletics; this actor or player, is responsible to execute the coaches play or plays. And many times a certain player, for instance a quarterback in professional American Football, is nearly whipped or put on the stake if he fails to lead his team to victory. And I do not doubt that the amount of money these teams make, easily surpasses the total amount that the crowd receives in a year. Brecht: Exactly. The owners and managers of the team are already fine with the fact of the fan, for (perhaps Jacques will agree with my interpretation and wording here), a parallel text is work, as long there is a fan that is. A player does not choose his role; his role is produced by the string of different processions in the whirling demand of commodities. Derrida: Yes, yes. The fan is as much scripted as the role of the player, or worker, is on the field. Actor: American Football was it not a leisure activity? If we look at the main teams from professional football, they originated in industrial cities like Pittsburgh. It then quickly attracted the crowd. Host: So if we were to shave off the extra text outside of the event of the game itself, what would the sport or sports in general look like? Actor: It is difficult to think. Derrida: I dont understand your question. Brecht: I believe we should just take note that the image of American football is a huge example of capitalism. Host: Can a theater be possible in a sport?
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Derrida: That question is very limited and trapped. If truth is of any concern here, it is only in that dance and the theater of cruelty enable any possibility of knowledge on the text placed upon an illusory form of theater in sports. Brecht: In this case, who is determined as glorious? Actor: I could think of many cases where a player sacrifices his body for the team. There is where we a cybernetic apparatus at work. Host: What do you mean? Actor: Well, a lot like the necessity of biomechanics by Meyerhold. There where under certain rules and laws maintain the possible actions of the body, we may just be the same case of each little fish that, in a war, killed a couple of other little fish, enemy ones, silent in their own language, would have a little order made of seaweed pinned to it and be awarded the title of hero. And also, let us not forget Eugne Ionescos play Rhinoceros. These players are in a becoming-rhinoceros, and those that place their hopes in these models of victory, often turn against those who would seem unhappy with the way life is cultivated. If youre not happy: watch a football game every time a team scores a new job is produced, buy beer there are many characters to choose from, go shopping you could find the wife of your dreams at a shopping mall, if you dont find your wife find some whore to release the tensions in your body, and if you cannot find one choose any girl by finding the right porno, play videogames to forget your worries and fulfill your impossible desires, go out to eat a burger it will guarantee a smile, have a baby you need to restart, read a magazine so you could know how a celebrity puts on his sandals and divorces his husband the next day, prepare for Christmas in October, listen to hip pop, listen to women in love with an organ, listen to men confuse talking with singing, watch young singing girls become perfectly mature women when they wear nothing, buy a new car with all-wheel drive so you could off-road on your front yard, if you dont have a computer use your phone and pretend your data doesnt go anywhere. But the best solution to your depression, your sickness, your weirdness, is a great commercial. How could you not want to have sex with that old lady wearing little girl clothes? Where else could you know if you liked blue pants? Where else could you truly believe that camping with your son and a huge truck will make him a manhow else can you know that having a son will make all men happy? Be happy that a man proposes to a woman on television every day, that ring has made that man work more hours. For that is love. Host: Thank you for your rhinoceros act. Actor: No problem. Host: Brecht, maybe now we can return to the problem of the claim of the separation of force in your plays as Derrida has claimed. Brecht: I must subscribe to Derridas thought on dance. But I still remain skeptical on the meaning of cruelty.

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Derrida: Between us, there can be a thought on the concept of dance in Nietzsches text. Cruelty is consciousness itself, it is a necessary dance on the void, which is thought. In my texts I want the scene of writing to not exclude this dance. Host: Now he ran out of time. Actor: We didnt get around much. Host: We at least tossed our ideas on the dance of art, and attempted to criticize the traditional interpretation of the theatre. Any closing remarks my comrades? Actor: Yes. As actors we must have courage. For any space may by chance become a space for a possible act. Derrida: I am curious as to in what direction fiction is going. Writers must be producers of adventures. I was often criticized for not being an activist. But who else wouldve addressed the problems that had to be thought of. Brecht: The working class must begin to ask, what does it mean to work now? Host: Goodnight everyone. And good morning every-us! Works Cited Derrida, Jacques. Writing and Difference. Chicago: University of Chicago, 1978. Print. "If Sharks Were Men." If Sharks Were Men. N.p., n.d. Web. 03 Dec. 2013.

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Ocean of Stories Ian Adams

In southern California, the Alex Theater is choked with throngs of people eagerly awaiting the guest of honor. Perched in my balcony seat I clutch my bright orange ticket. Fashionably late the star of Nerdom and a king of comics Neil Gaiman steps out onto the stage. A crashing of applause erupts along with a caterwauling of old and young alike in their Doctor Who tee-shirts, and Adventure Time backpacks, similar tastes come to this pallet. The journalist comes out to start the official Q&A with Mr. Gaiman before opening it to the floor. Draped in black and under a cloud of mad black locks he invites a comparison to his masterpiece character Dream the master of the realms of sleep and story. He then goes on to autograph his new losing energy and salience at the wee hours. He upon reaching me, number 11,989 smiles, thanks me and speaks to me for the duration of his multiple signatures (I brought a pile). Getting a snap shot by him, I thank him briefly for sticking it out for the peons at the back and set off listening to the music from his wifes newest album. Q: Can you discuss the formation of The

novel for the masses in row number order. I am near the end of the line. It is a two and a half hour wait to reach him. Those poor nerds in the latter half of the 1200 fans are treated to find that Mr. Gaiman has paid from his own pocket for fruit and nuts to energize those fans

Ocean at the End of the Lane? Gaiman: I had been in Florida, working on a pilot (American Gods on HBO) and thats where A Nightmare in Silver for Doctor Who was finished. Now I should
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say, there were only two stories Ive written that took me by surprise, I wrote for someone in particular. When I wrote for American Gods I knew it would roughly be the size and shape of a brick. Coralline I wrote for my daughter. I thought Id be a short, 3,000 word story. And this happened with The Ocean at the End of the Lane also. I missed my wife very much. Not like on tour missing her, but she was recording an album in Australia. She thought shes done her bit in the relationship by a daily text I love you. She was still making an album. So I wanted to write a story for her. But she doesnt like fantasy, likes me alright though, and prefers real things and feelings. Well Im English, and a man, so between the two, when it comes to feelings wouldnt you rather something else? (He pulls a melancholic face). So I wrote her a short story. But then it became more of a novella. And I worked on it a few days before e-mailing to Amanda (Palmer) and it was 10,000 words. I finished it. It was a novel. My wife came back from album work. So I called my agent Jenifer and warned her I wrote a novel on accident. Sorry. Q: Can you divulge some of your writing process? Gaiman: for this new novel I had it written out in fountain pen. Then I typed it onto my computer. When Amanda

would come home I would read to her what I had typed. Then the next morning I would say what do you remember up to? and Id pick up reading where shed fallen asleep. I began writing in fountain pen with Stardust and loved it. My prose bloats from that to computer. But if I am typing from a note pad I delete whole pages,

just go thats crap. Q: Do you think that the way in which you wrote The Ocean at the End of the Lane makes it more personal a read in that you wrote it originally as a gift for your wife when she was away?

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Gaiman: Personal stuff is a thing Ive been doing since the beginning of my career. Closing Time and How to Talk to Girls at Parties are all a bit of me. This narrator is the most me. But I still do get questions of what percent is true? and which bits are true? These stories are like mosaics. There is a big picture and when you get up close you can see cubical tiles of red and puce and black and blue. The red ones are real and I made up the rest. But its the specs of truth that makes you, hopefully, believe the lie I made. Q: in the Worlds End trade of The Sandman Stephen King wrote a forward in which he tells you to enjoy it. What is it and how does one do so? Gaiman: When I was working on Brief Lives for Sandman I did a singing in this comic store in the east. And up came to me, with a note, what looked like a clone nineteen year old version of Stephen King. And Im still not convinced he isnt a clone. So the now wonderful author, comic book writer Joe Hill came up to me with this note, written in very familiar handwriting to ask me to dinner. It was signed Stephen King at the bottom. Well, I couldnt. I had to stay to sign. So he said come to the hotel room. At eleven that night I got there and Stephen introduced me to his family. And he told me to enjoy it. Enjoy this success and adoration and I couldnt. I just

worried: will this keep up? Will I be able to write the next story? And it wasnt until I won the Newbery Medal that I could say oh- actually, this is quite good. So for others? Win the Newbery Award sooner? I dont know. Just try and enjoy it. Q: there is one question for you tonight that was sent in from Stephen King. He asks As a fantasy writer, do you dream more vividly than straight people? And with that fantastic creativity, do you find less trouble in the creation of a story? Gaiman: How nice to hear from him. The first part of that question, Im not sure I can answer. Ive never had to live life as a straight person. Ive always been making a career out of living in my own head. So maybe not. Ive had only to be me. As for that second part of the question: my dreams have certainly helped, like when writing Sandman. I was a very nightmare child-teen and into my twenties. But when I began to write The Sandman comics I would have nightmares where I would go down into a dark basement and there at the bottom of the steps was a dead baby. I can see autopsy scars and the limbs are sown on. It starts to crawl toward me and bear sharp little teeth. Id wake up panting and in a sweat saying Thats quite good, then copy it all before I forget. And I dont get them anymore. I think

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its because the guy who sends out the nightmares got tired and said I dont get it. We gave him the dead demon baby one and he just goes: YES! But Ill also bring up a point from the book On Writing that Stephen King wrote, that is great. A thing called the boys in the back or boys in the basement is just that you must trust some part of you knows what youre doing. When I wrote The Graveyard Book in chapter one a character tells this little nursery rhyme but forgets how it ends. Then in the last chapter she

back. I felt like a surprised reader rather than a clever author. Of course with all of that you tend to feel like the fraud police are following you, and when they catch up and ring your doorbell then you have a straight, normal, proper job. Q: What challenges do you face now as compared to when you began writing? Gaiman: staying fresh, with new ideas. When I was starting out I could write anything. In Sandman I always could do something new or have a new panel, but after a few stories you start to go- no, Ive done that already. And Im doing the new Sandman prequel. It ends with the first splash page in Preludes and Nocturnes but my challenge is retracing old territory in a way that feels new to me. Q: How are things different for you now compared to early in your career? Gaiman: I could be more open before the internet. Id do signings in comic shops and people would ask Who is the lost Endless? And Id say Destruction. Cool! . But then I had to learn to keep secrets or it goes on a chartroom. Once long ago Terry Prachet and I at a convention announced the title of a project for a sequel to Good Omens. And not long after an author on that panel put out a book with that title. And
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finishes it And leave no path untaken. I knew it would be important. But I didnt know it would end or connect the theme until I wrote it. Thats the boys in the

well (he pauses an eerily long time) he can, if he wants- I suppose- yes, he can do that. You see I used to compulsively talk about projects. Ask me what Im working on and I would explain the story to you. But once I did this with an old English publisher where I explained a short story. There is a boy. He makes a promise to his mother on her death bed that hell make his name well known. But its silly because he has no real talents. But you dont need talent to be famous, just kill someone. So he sneaks into Disneyland with a gun to be the man who kills Mickey Mouse. And she said Not exactly high concept is it, dear? I never wrote it. The Mouse will never be. Q: The Ocean at the End of the Lane is the most autobiographical work so far, as you mentioned. Can you speak to that? Gaiman: well this narrator is more or less me at seven years old but it is not autobiographical. I make too much of it up. Many stories I write are like that. At the end of my life youll have one really inaccurate autobiography. One thing is the boy in the book climbs drain pipes, big sturdy English ones, because he reads that children do that in books. And my sister read my novel and sent me a picture. The back cover you can see my seven year old knees after I climbed a drain pipe. When I was a boy my father drove an old VW and I thought I wanted one.

When my father was still alive, I said what ever happened to the old white one you drove? he said well, we didnt tell you that story?! and it turned out a logger who rented a room from us had stolen the car, fixed a hose to the exhaust and killed himself. And rather than horror, an inner seven year old felt

furry at not knowing something cool and exciting that only happen in books went on. Also in childhood, I had a mythology overlaid to my reality. There were farmer neighbors who had their names in the Doomsday Book and, it would have been their ancestors, in a shack. But I looked and thought That lovely red brick house had been there 1,000 years. So the Hempstock are a sort of immortal family and I thought theyll have spread. So theres Hempstock in The Graveyard Book and Stardust.

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I thought writers write so they wouldnt have to read.

Fear (For the Writers) Andrew Henry

I thought poems rhymed so they wouldnt have bleed. Its the trepidation of this creation, Not being able, might undo the fable, All consumed by this looming doom, Failure before the start, waiting to be torn apart. Rhymed, unrhymed, just clanging clatter, It doesn't even seem to matter. Where you put your words, or where you dont. What you say, or what you won't. It's all self-serving alliteration, More like egotistical masturbation. So lets stop the rhyme and save some time... It's me and you and I don't know what to write next. The fear it builds inside me, till it's unbearable. They're going to hate it and its a piece of me. How am I supposed open up and show them, a piece of me. Because that realness, Those real poets, it comes from their soul. It comes from a place of real vulnerability. And that's scary... But fuck that fear!
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We gotta use this expression to express, And write it till there ain't nothin' left. Every English professor Ive ever had just lost their mind, Did he just use ain't, nothin', gotta in the same sentence? The informal contractions are becoming a distraction, I know. So let me get to the point. Let me open up to you... I'm scared, scared of you. Scared of judgment. Scared of failure. Scared of not being accepted as one of you. But that's okay. Because this poem is for you, not for me. This poem's decree, is to set us free. If you can commiserate with what's written here. Know you're not alone, then that fear, will disappear.

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Going in the Forest

Alexander Vasquez

chasing a red horse into the forest, hunted milk tightening as a harp string. that awake transparent windows of autumn leaves, and resting I pushed you on a bed of leaves where wilting water kisses

My old hands reveal themselves

locked inside the wooden sunrise like the unity of a solar system aligning.

as whispering sand stones

our chapped fingertips

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Ian Adams
1 You cannot run from it, It becomes youYou are ITYou cannot ever escape your father (well you try) You are him he is you, You are seed, His seed- youre his seed, spilled out, The fruit, Never falls far from the tree. Fruit Can (not) advance, For a seed in dirt the filth, Can dream of being something more, But will not, You are seed of your father, Youll become the apple tree too, 2 Original sinSin is truly original by flesh,
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Spoiled

The sin of flesh. True Original Sin, The flesh is of the earth, Of dirt were made and dirt we will return, The flesh is bruised, marked, cut but still edible, None is perfect, Lest you cast the first stone, Do not cast a stone in a glass house. A glass house where seedlings sprout into sun and grow, The fruit Is bruised. I eat anyway, 3 I am tired of self-denial, Self-denial is holy Self-denial is just Self-denial is godliness, No more, Does it make me this trios opposite? I think not but who has time to think? I am so hungry! Indulgent- sin of the flesh, the flesh is sweet, The skin is smooth, The smell is sweet,
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I remember my first taste of fruit, Perfection That fruit tasted so good, Bites- pecks taken in by darkened secret corners, Everything- past all layers are devoured to the core, seed and all. It can become addictive, New sin: addiction, The perfect bitter taste of seed, Lingers on the tongueSome salt, I serve empathetically in sorrow for it, Weeping after being consumed the fruit hates- wishes for difference, Improvement Gentle pats and words like sunshine rays of holy light from the glass ceiling console, The fruit is not Original SinThe imperfect flesh is What it is, Ignore the tree- long since smashed through the glass ceiling Not due to hope but greed: third sinThe tree gives as it does, We are inevitably our fathers seed grown from soil on earth, you are not the same, Same seed, new growth, The fruit, No sin, Dont run as you become yourself and exit the confines of idiot stone casters in the
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Mel Bernstein
The stars in their need Eat each other Dwarf stars are lost

Joseph #2

In the velocity of numbers Dreams seek the light With or without us Emitting from endless cities The water cycles continue Soon the winds of circumstance Will be upon us Let Joseph sit still

In his coat of many colors In that unforeseen mix Of wind and color

His coat will soon disappear

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Mel Bernstein
In the sky anything less And tumbles into dust? Some would argue

Portrait

As a star goes super nova

There is a diffrance Of the bread

Between the breaking And the swirling of the dust None of us were here Such a long time ago

When the stars were formed

The weather turns on A homeless person As he enters a mission He is asked

For shelter, food, and warmth What besides a prayer Does he have to offer And he replies

I have a pocket full of broken crackers And a paper bag full of rain

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The Modern Corsair for December 2013 Issue Number 3 This issue was: fantasy. You now have permission to float away from reality and join whatever world you can conceive in your imagination. The next issue will be mystery. Or will it? Check out our subreddit at www.reddit.com/r/themoderncorsair Send all entries, comments, or suggestions to themoderncorsair@gmail.com. We'd be happy to hear from our readers. Special thanks to: Gabriel Enamorado The Stay Gallery Neil Gaiman And the biggest thanks of all to: You. Not you as the reader of this magazine, specifically you as the human being reading this text in this moment. Keep on reading, beautiful person.

Credits

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