Many people think the brain of someone in advertising looks exactly like the brain of people in every other profession: grey, lumpy, lightening bolts down each side. But actually, our brains look quite different.

Take the shape, for instance. An advertising executive’s brain is not shaped in the traditional way, but rather in the shape of either a super-fast racecar or a racecar that is merely fast. The type of racecar depends on what day you were born and whether you were born in the daytime or at night. At what time were you born? If it was after 8 p.m. on a Saturday, then strap on that seatbelt, Mr. Andretti! Right?!

Most people’s brains are split into two sections: the right side and the left side. However, the brain of an advertising professional is split into three sections: the West, the East, and, between those two sections, Switzerland. Switzerland helps us speak a special language. I could teach you the language, but then I’d have to alregatate your stzpuretak.

Did you know that every advertising executive’s brain smells like maraschino cherries?

What is everyone’s favorite part of the human brain? The cerebellum, right? Well, believe it or not, we advertising professionals do not have a cerebellum. Instead, we have what’s called a cerebelum.

When an advertising professional is asked what he or she would change about his or her brain, the answer is usually the compass embedded in our hypothalamus because that thing is constantly breaking.

If you remove an advertising professional’s brain, put it up to your ear and listen to it, you probably need help.

I remember the first time I learned that my brain was different. My department head took me into one of the stalls in the bathroom, pushed the toilet handle three times, and a wall opened up before me, revealing a secret room. What was in the room, you ask? I can’t tell you, it’s classified. All I can say is that there was an entire team of scientists surrounded by mason jars filled with unusual specimens. The scientists were mixing liquids and turning them into steam. One of the scientists accidentally breathed in the steam and fell to the floor in a sweaty heap. He ended up being okay though, which is a good thing because I was told he was the Shaman. I noticed many of the beakers were labeled by species, some of which didn’t seem familiar to me. I was told that they were new species. I have pictures. I’ll try to post them later.

Obviously, the brain is a very complex organ, and we should all be thankful that we have one. Imagine if we didn’t!

In the end, I guess what we can take away from this is, in some ways, we’re all a lot more alike than we think and, in other ways, we’re not very alike at all.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I’ve just been notified that I am not allowed to post pictures of the secret room.

We will brag a little and tell you we are featured at Fiction Writer’s Review this week.

Daniel Nester writes about writing memoir for Painted Bride Quarterly.

You must must read the excerpt from Kyle Minor’s The Sexual Lives of Missionaries, up at Guernica.

Brandi Wells has a book coming out this fall, Please Don’t Be Upset, and it is available for pre-order.

The July issue of The Collagist includes Jonathan Callahan, Ben Loory, Devan Goldstein, and more.

Connotation Press brings work from Heather Fowler and others.

Issue Four of The Literarian includes Len Kuntz and Scott Garson.

This happened a while back but Dan Gutstein had fiction at Good Men Project.

In Robot Melon, Michelle Reale, Paul Cunningham, and Peter Schwartz.

No Tell Motel this week brings Joshua Ware’s poetry.

Alex Pruteanu has fiction up at Girls With Insurance.

In the new Lit N Image, you’ll find work from Antonios Maltezos and Barry Basden.

At Used Furniture Review, James Tadd Adcox.

There are some new one sentence stories at Monkeybicycle from Robb Todd and others.

Everyday Genius offers more MG Martin and we cannot get enough MG Martin.

J. Bradley has a poem in Quick Lucks and he writes of the year 1642 for There is No Year. He also has a new e-chapbook available and work in Make it So where he is joined by Susan Slaviero.

Gabe Durham and Greg Gerke have fiction in the new issue of Quarterly West.

The new issue of Barrelhouse online features Matthew Vollmer.

We will brag a little and tell you we are featured at Fiction Writer’s Review this week.

Daniel Nester writes about writing memoir for Painted Bride Quarterly.

You must must read the excerpt from Kyle Minor’s The Sexual Lives of Missionaries, up at Guernica.

Brandi Wells has a book coming out this fall, Please Don’t Be Upset, and it is available for pre-order.

The July issue of The Collagist includes Jonathan Callahan, Ben Loory, Devan Goldstein, and more.

Connotation Press brings work from Heather Fowler and others.

Issue Four of The Literarian includes Len Kuntz and Scott Garson.

This happened a while back but Dan Gutstein had fiction at Good Men Project.

In Robot Melon, Michelle Reale, Paul Cunningham, and Peter Schwartz.

No Tell Motel this week brings Joshua Ware’s poetry.

Alex Pruteanu has fiction up at Girls With Insurance.

In the new Lit N Image, you’ll find work from Antonios Maltezos and Barry Basden.

At Used Furniture Review, James Tadd Adcox.

There are some new one sentence stories at Monkeybicycle from Robb Todd and others.

Everyday Genius offers more MG Martin and we cannot get enough MG Martin.

J. Bradley has a poem in Quick Lucks and he writes of the year 1642 for There is No Year. He also has a new e-chapbook available and work in Make it So where he is joined by Susan Slaviero.

Gabe Durham and Greg Gerke have fiction in the new issue of Quarterly West.

The new issue of Barrelhouse online features Matthew Vollmer.

We’re enjoying Google Plus (feel free to add us to your Circles), so we thought we’d make use of the Hangout feature. On Wednesday, 7/20, we’re going to do a Hangout where you can come chat with us about anything, ask the editors questions, deliver rejection rejections in real time, and otherwise frolic about the virtual world.

In other news, Zine-Scene is a website devoted to promoting online literature through journal reviews, author spotlights, and its own literary quarterly, which reprints fiction that previously appeared in print only. Keeping with this mission we have launched an Online Literature Calendar. The calendar displays the release dates of online literary magazines and makes finding new literature easy and user friendly.

Currently, the Calendar has two distinct views: a fully interactive grid view and a detailed view that displays recent and forthcoming releases. Both views link directly to the participating journals and the grid view also integrates an ical feed.

The calendar is open to any online journal and we invite you to add your literary magazine! If you’re interested in adding your publication email me at editor [at] zine-scene [dot] com with your release schedule, a link to your journal, a one to two sentence description of your journal, and your logo. I hope you’ll consider signing up your publication and visiting the calendar. You can also follow Zine-Scene on Twitter to keep up with new online literature.

Lil' Wayne, disrespecting his ancestors.

It was late the other night and, if I remember correctly, the day had been unconscionably hot. The heat had given me leaden arms and legs. I lay face down on my couch blinking my dusty eyes and drifting between sleep and wake when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I looked up and swore I was hallucinating. There in my living room stood an old man, brown-skinned with creases on his forehead and beneath his eyes. He wore a crumpled brown suit straight out of faded sepia-toned pictures from the late 1800’s. The hair on his face and his head was silver and the light behind him, I thought, made him glow like an apparition.

“Boy, just what do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

“Huh?” I sputtered in reply, confused and barely able to make a coherent statement.

Flavor Flav's existence regularly embarrasses his ancestors. Now he's dragged Chuck D down with him.

“I know what you doing. You’re planking, huh? You think lying face down, stiff as a plank, with your arms at your side is all fun and games. Don’t you know where this lying down game came from? ‘Planking’ is how they used to stack your ancestors during the middle passage. Now, 152 years after the last recorded slave ship brought slaves onto U.S. soil, somehow this thing has returned as a fad.”

“Planking? I was just trying to go to slee— Say, who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

“Who am I? Ain’t that something? Boy, don’t be ignorant. I’m one of your ancestors, Rebus Scott. Most of us ancestors, we’re tired of seeing you people disrespect us with your lying face down and photographing it.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, somewhat embarrassed. “I didn’t know. Can I make it up to you with a cup of tea?”

The old man nodded, proud he had taught me an important lesson. We made small talk in the kitchen while the water heated on the stove. He regaled me with tales of his friends Frederick Douglass, Tupac Shakur and Gary Coleman. When the kettle sang out, I poured two cups of black tea and began spooning sugar when my ancestor bawled as if in pain.

“This boy is just about as ignorant as a rat’s tit,” Rebus said. “Now Rion, your parents are from the Caribbean, yes?”

I nodded.

“Then you must assume that your ancestors were too. Just some basic common sense, right?”

Again, I nodded.

“How you gonna disrespect the folks who spent their life on a plantation chopping down sugar cane by putting sugar in your tea? First you planking and now this? Use your head young negro.”

Some random baby, disrespecting his ancestors.

We downed bitter black tea, which he seemed to enjoy. The drink annoyed me and I grimaced at every sip. This is the sort of tea that springs to life with two or three spoonfuls of sugar, but I drank without complaining as to not further offend my long dead ancestors.

Though I had learned a lot for the night, I found this whole situation stressful. I grabbed a box of Newports and invited the ghost to my balcony. He chattered briskly, but I wasn’t really listening to him. I took a deep breath of the fresh air and then lit a cigarette, sullying the air for the calming buzz of tobacco.

“You are just the ignorantest, ain’t you?” my ancestor said.

“What this time?”

“We used to pick it now they want us to smoke it?”

I sighed and dashed the cigarette over the balcony. I was still exhausted and I couldn’t take anymore of this man’s chastisement so I figured announcing my intentions to go to sleep would make Rebus leave.

This young woman can soon expect a visit from her ancestors, as can this fiberglass cow.

“Look,” I said. “I appreciate you showing up like the Ghost of Christmas Past to educate me. Each one teach one and all, but I’m tired and I’ve got a pretty long day ahead of me. I’m going to get ready for sleep. I’ll lie face up; I promise.”

The man nodded and I went into my room and changed into my pajamas, hoping that when I returned, he would have crossed back over to the other side. I had no such luck, however. When I came back into the living room he crumpled his face and sneered as he looked at me. Then he covered his face in embarrassment.

“Cotton pajamas?” he yelled. “Cotton pajamas? Cotton, Rion? Cotton? Wearing the cotton your ancestors used to pick is just as bad as lying face down. Why don’t you just whip me right now? Come on. Whip me. Go ahead. Whip me.”

I hung my head. I had let down the ancestors again. I quickly stripped down to my draws to prove that I in no way meant to disrespect the dead and it was a lucky thing that I had put on silk draws that morning or I would have been downright bareassed. Still, I felt plenty foolish even though Rebus was just a ghost. I slunk into the couch and flicked on the television.

Rebus must have realized how silly I felt because he said: “Don’t be embarrassed. We ancestors watch you living people all the time when you think no one is looking. When you’re using the toilet, having sex, taking the shower. It’s entertainment to us.”

His reassurance offered me no comfort.

“So,” he said. “Whatcha doing tomorrow?”

“Probably a little exercise in the morning—“

“Hope you ain’t planning on skipping no rope?”

“Yeah, a little to get me warmed up.”

“As many black men been hung with ropes?”

The ancestors actually find this one kind of funny in a "laughing-at-her-not-with-her" kind of way.

That was all I could stand. Something in me snapped. Ancestor or not, Rebus had finally taken it a step too far. I snatched the old man by his collar and escorted him to the front door as he hollered, calling me ignorant and complaining about my shabby treatment of those who came before me. I opened the door and shoved him into the hallway, letting the swinging door slam in Rebus’s face as he turned to protest. It was the best I had felt all night and I fell asleep easily, sleeping well past noon the next day.

Later, I found out that Rebus wasn’t my ancestor at all, just some crazy old man from next door.

Rion Amilcar Scott writes fiction all over the damn place, tweets @reeamilcarscott and blogs at datsun flambe.

Most reviews I write are intended to say what I think a book is attempting to do, and how well I believe the books does it. Only a fraction of the reviews I write are about telling people that they are really missing out on something special if they don’t find a way to read a particular book. This review of Sommer Browning’s Either Way I’m Celebrating is part of that small fraction, a persuasive micro-essay about how you are missing out on something beautiful and new if you don’t read this book.

Either Way I’m Celebrating is roughly a three-part split consisting of one-third straight poetry collection, one-third a series of poems called ‘Vale Tudo’, and one-third another series called ‘To the Housesitter’. I’d be lying if I said all parts are equal here, as I believe the first third of the book, the straight poetry collection, is a little underwhelming in terms of power and grab, but in the end, this first third seems meant as more of a set up for the other portions of the book, a way to get us feeling Browning’s overall style and playfulness – and when we do reach the latter portions of the book, the two chapbook-length series of poems, wow, Browning’s potent writing is beautifully showcased in all its glory and wonder:

from ‘Vale Tudo’:

Leave the keys in the room, next to the coffee maker no one uses.

A plate of eggs, zigzags of bacon, and slices of toast. A Modern wrote about this in his noblest tractatus: breakfast must be analyzed on the basis of reason, not faith. Hush, the sugar’s shaking. Hush, her wrist clicks as she pours. Hush, that your heart was open as this cup.

[ … ]

He saw it alone, first. He sees it again with me.

You are disguised as a 28-year-old theater manager. You slip on your wooden farm fencing disguised as khaki pants and reach for my boat disguised as a hand. You say industrial parks disguised as the words Let’s go. And we leave our As I Lay Dying disguised as a hotel room. Alcoholics Anonymous disguised as outside, the telephone disguised as air is cool. We sigh disguised as kissing disguised as mackerel disguised as breathing disguised as dust. We checkout.

Both ‘Vale Tudo’ and ‘To the Housesitter’ are stuffed with playful, rhythmic writing that is something like a creepy center covered in clever language-play – both pieces have an air of the distraught (perpetuated by a sparse use of language) with the benevolent suspense of the greatest dry-wit (punctuated by the inclusion of Browning’s comics, which are both philosophical and charming).

from ‘To the Housesitter’:

The House

is shaped like candy. And the candy inside its dribbling refrigerator is shaped like mouths. And the house. It sits on a hill shaped like a hill. It’s shaping, its flat parts peak, its inside furrows, then opens to grab you. Then, you are shaped. Now, you are then shaped, and your then shape punctures the house. Something nuclear. Something west-end and beachy. You are still at work. Like the men.

[ … ]

Outside the House

is an earthmover you call a backhoe. It is a scar; you call it cicatrix. Excessive and injurious, once you leave the house. What swirls at your ankles sticks. All the scraps in your pocket are yours. You’ll be known by the way your folded hands unfold. Sun gathers in them like a mob.

This is genuinely a book that I don’t want people to miss. Ask your library to order a copy. Ask your bookstore to bring one in. Request a review copy. Ask the publisher to make it available for your Kindle or your Nook. I don’t care what you do, but find a way to read this, it is so absolutely fantastically brilliantly worth it.

Either Way I’m Celebrating is available from Birds, LLC.

J. A. Tyler is the author of A Shiny, Unused Heart and A Man of Glass & All the Ways We Have Failed. He is also founding editor of Mud Luscious Press.

“Understand me, when I write, right here, on these innumerable post cards, I annihilate not only what I am saying but also the unique addressee that I constitute, and therefore every possible addressee, and every destination. I kill you, I annul you at my fingertips, wrapped around my finger. To do so it suffices only that I be legible—-and I become illegible to you, you are dead. If I say that I write for dead addressees, not dead in the future but already dead at the moment when I get to the end of a sentence, it is not in order to play. Genet said that his theater was addressed to the dead and I take it like that on the train in which I am going writing you without end… And you are, my love, unique

the proof, the living proof precisely, that a letter can always not arrive at its destination, and that therefore it never arrives. And this is really how it is, it is not a misfortune, that’s life, living life, beaten down, tragedy, by the still surviving life. For this, for life I must lose you, for life, and make myself illegible for you. J’accepte.”

Jacques Derrida, The Post Card: From Socrates to Freud and Beyond.

*

*

“The one who has disappeared appears still to be there, and his apparition is not nothing. It does not do nothing. Assuming that the remains can be identified, we know better than ever today that the dead must be able to work. And to cause to work, perhaps more than ever.”

Jacques Derrida, Specters of Marx: The State of the Debt, the Work of Mourning & the New International.

Continue reading →

May 10
It’s very strange here at Ogilvy’s Transylvania office. Not strange in a bad way. Just strange. I mean, I love it here. It’s, like, the best place I’ve ever worked at, and I’m not just saying that because our offices are in a 14th-century gothic castle.

I suppose the first thing that took me by surprise when I started were the strange hours. For the most part, we’re working when everyone in every other agency in our time zone is sleeping. Basically, we work from dusk to dawn. I imagine it’s kind of like that old adage, “When everyone else yells, whisper,” except ours is, “When everyone else sleeps, work.” During my interview, I asked why they just didn’t work during the day and got a look that I can only describe as Bela-Lugosi-esque.

May 16
I must say, the people here are as nice as they are pale and anti-reflective. This past Saturday night, I threw a party at my house—kind of a “thanks for bringing me on board” party—and every one of them stood at the front door and waited for me to invite them in before they even stepped foot inside my place. I know what you’re thinking: “Um, hello? They’re obviously very courteous. Why can’t everyone be as courteous?” And I hear you loud and clear. Loud. And. Clear. We can all learn something from these upstanding individuals.

May 19
One thing I’ve noticed is that nobody works past closing time. Everyone scampers home right before dawn breaks, which means I’m usually the last one in the place, locking up and what-not. I don’t mind at all. I usually get more done when everyone’s gone anyway. What’s strange is, I never see any of my coworkers in town during the day. Don’t get me wrong: Transylvania is a big town, and I don’t expect to run into someone every day. But when I worked in bigger towns at my previous jobs I still had the occasional run-in. Not here, though. Also, I’ve noticed a lot of people I do see walking around during the day wear neck scarves.

May 23
The most amazing thing happened over the weekend. An account executive named Roderick banged on my front door seconds before dawn. He kept yelling his name and screaming for me to open the door. Something about his girlfriend kicking him out. Anyway, I’m a little slow in the morning (especially before I have my coffee!), so I’m all like, “Okay, okay, I’m coming.” But when I opened the door, there was no Roderick. There was only a pile of dust! I know what you’re thinking, and I thought the same thing: Roderick is not only an account executive, but also a very talented magician.

May 24
Roderick wasn’t in today. What a shame. Really wanted to shake his hand for that fine trick he did over the weekend. Maybe tomorrow.

May 25
Still no Roderick.

May 31
We’ve been winning some serious business lately. We’ve been raking in our fair share of awards as well. Cleaning up, as they say. In our case, cleaning up figuratively and literally, as our staff has made it a habit of immaculating the place after a reporter from Adweek or AdAge shows up. What’s strange is, nobody ever sees that reporter again. Actually, one time, a reporter did return to his publisher’s offices, but—get this—he didn’t even remember going to Ogilvy Transylvania! I heard he got off the plane thinking he went on a seven-day vacation to Sandals Resort with Linda from his HR department. I guess he simply became so overwhelmed—glamoured, in fact—with the sheer brilliance of the Transylvania office that he forgot himself and everything he had experienced while he was here. There really is no other explanation.

June 1
Where the fuck is Roderick?

June 7
We truly have ever kind of account here. Seriously. You name it, we’ve got it. Except for the Garlique account and the Eastern European branch of Jade Dragon’s disposable chopsticks division. Not sure why we haven’t landed those two yet. Just can’t win them, I suppose. I brought the subject up to my creative director and he looked like he wanted wring my neck or something. That’s the last time I’ll bring that up.

June 21
I’m starting to think Roderick isn’t coming back.

June 28
Just fell asleep at my desk and now I have a throbbing pain in my neck. Tried getting up to go the bathroom, but I could barely stand, much less walk. Think I’ll just stay right where I am. Feeling a little tired anyway. Oh, well. Good night.

May 10
It’s very strange here at Ogilvy’s Transylvania office. Not strange in a bad way. Just strange. I mean, I love it here. It’s, like, the best place I’ve ever worked at, and I’m not just saying that because our offices are in a 14th-century gothic castle.

I suppose the first thing that took me by surprise when I started were the strange hours. For the most part, we’re working when everyone in every other agency in our time zone is sleeping. Basically, we work from dusk to dawn. I imagine it’s kind of like that old adage, “When everyone else yells, whisper,” except ours is, “When everyone else sleeps, work.” During my interview, I asked why they just didn’t work during the day and got a look that I can only describe as Bela-Lugosi-esque.

May 16
I must say, the people here are as nice as they are pale and anti-reflective. This past Saturday night, I threw a party at my house—kind of a “thanks for bringing me on board” party—and every one of them stood at the front door and waited for me to invite them in before they even stepped foot inside my place. I know what you’re thinking: “Um, hello? They’re obviously very courteous. Why can’t everyone be as courteous?” And I hear you loud and clear. Loud. And. Clear. We can all learn something from these upstanding individuals.

May 19
One thing I’ve noticed is that nobody works past closing time. Everyone scampers home right before dawn breaks, which means I’m usually the last one in the place, locking up and what-not. I don’t mind at all. I usually get more done when everyone’s gone anyway. What’s strange is, I never see any of my coworkers in town during the day. Don’t get me wrong: Transylvania is a big town, and I don’t expect to run into someone every day. But when I worked in bigger towns at my previous jobs I still had the occasional run-in. Not here, though. Also, I’ve noticed a lot of people I do see walking around during the day wear neck scarves.

May 23
The most amazing thing happened over the weekend. An account executive named Roderick banged on my front door seconds before dawn. He kept yelling his name and screaming for me to open the door. Something about his girlfriend kicking him out. Anyway, I’m a little slow in the morning (especially before I have my coffee!), so I’m all like, “Okay, okay, I’m coming.” But when I opened the door, there was no Roderick. There was only a pile of dust! I know what you’re thinking, and I thought the same thing: Roderick is not only an account executive, but also a very talented magician.

May 24
Roderick wasn’t in today. What a shame. Really wanted to shake his hand for that fine trick he did over the weekend. Maybe tomorrow.

May 25
Still no Roderick.

May 31
We’ve been winning some serious business lately. We’ve been raking in our fair share of awards as well. Cleaning up, as they say. In our case, cleaning up figuratively and literally, as our staff has made it a habit of immaculating the place after a reporter from Adweek or AdAge shows up. What’s strange is, nobody ever sees that reporter again. Actually, one time, a reporter did return to his publisher’s offices, but—get this—he didn’t even remember going to Ogilvy Transylvania! I heard he got off the plane thinking he went on a seven-day vacation to Sandals Resort with Linda from his HR department. I guess he simply became so overwhelmed—glamoured, in fact—with the sheer brilliance of the Transylvania office that he forgot himself and everything he had experienced while he was here. There really is no other explanation.

June 1
Where the fuck is Roderick?

June 7
We truly have ever kind of account here. Seriously. You name it, we’ve got it. Except for the Garlique account and the Eastern European branch of Jade Dragon’s disposable chopsticks division. Not sure why we haven’t landed those two yet. Just can’t win them, I suppose. I brought the subject up to my creative director and he looked like he wanted wring my neck or something. That’s the last time I’ll bring that up.

June 21
I’m starting to think Roderick isn’t coming back.

June 28
Just fell asleep at my desk and now I have a throbbing pain in my neck. Tried getting up to go the bathroom, but I could barely stand, much less walk. Think I’ll just stay right where I am. Feeling a little tired anyway. Oh, well. Good night.

Mel Bosworth has fiction in Metazen. You can also buy his novel Freight.

Everyday Genius has published an e-chapbook by Nicolle Elizabeth.

At Used Furniture Review, three fictions by Vallie Lynn Watson.

Andrew Roe’s Accident appears in The Sun. Brava!

Katy Resch has fiction in Painted Bride Quarterly as well as the new issue of LIT (#20).

Recently at Wonderfort, Thomas Patrick Levy and Len Kuntz. Also, they’re looking for submissions so send your best work to Wonderfort because they are full of wonder, or as you might say, wonderful.

Sarah Malone has a story in the Atticus Review.

Extended Play Magazine debuts with work from Carrie Murphy and JA Tyler.

Matthew Lippman has not one but two poems in Sixth Finch.