- “Table of Contents”
- “you can’t mail an empty box, sir”
- “if you have somewhere to burn them the smell will bring you home” (poem)
- “Septermber” (poem)
- “I hate our favorite movie, our favorite song…”
- “Ms. October” (poem)
- “The Fall of Autumn”
- “Paid to Spill My Guts”
“Though this chapbook of poetry and prose is fairly brief, it nevertheless has several examples of something that occurs all too infrequently in the zine world: decent poetry. In his introduction, the editor makes it sound as if he casually dashed off some of his poems the week before. It’s entirely possible that this is the case, but his poems suggest rather more thought and craft than he admits to.
One poem encapsulates the longing of a long-distance romance: “Lost for hours in songs that I can’t/ but really want to unfurl/pretending I too can relate to every line/about a boy and a girl.” Even more poignant is an elegy to the editor’s mother that is likely the only instance of zine poetry that is capable of stirring true emotion.
This zine is well worth seeking out for these two poems alone, and it will be interesting to see how this writer develops in years to come.”
“Even with the clean look of this it is just over flowin’ with haunting stories, some just clips of the tale. Events are alluded to with a certain melancholy. A suicide, suspension from school, mailing autumn leaves, rotten love and playing a show with a dime instead of a pick.
With so much of this focused on the fall, it felt weird reading it in the middle of a hot summer day. The words are heavy and feel like winter is just around the corner. I really liked this.”
“As soon as I start reading Alan Lastufka’s perzine, I can see why his writing would be considered controversial enough to be kept out of the school paper, and his ideas subversive enough for him to be called into the principal’s office; after all, those are rather raw emotions expressed here, and that is something we try to discourage in teenagers. Years have passed since graduation, Lastufka tells us, and this might be the reason why the musings here seem like half-finished thoughts; perhaps they are simply half-remembered realities. The stories pack a punch, however, and though I smile at words such as “mathletes,” the concept fills my smiling mouth with a bitter taste.
Lastufka sends dead leaves through the mail; a friend of mine had once been delighted to receive a large parcel full of tumbleweed and to this day, I hang on to my dead roses like religious icons and hang them up to dry, to be forever cherished and associated with precious moments. I understand the birth of sentimentality, and shoeboxes overflowing with faded memories. I am sorry the wedding ring had to be returned. Couldn’t you guys work things out?”
PUBLISHER Alan Lastufka