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combustion.lit March 2015 || No. 1
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All rights reserved. Copyright goes to the respective authors and artists. Cover photo credit: Anonymous
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The combustion.lit Team:
Talia Flores ………………. Co-founder, Editor Miranda de la Rea ……… Co-founder, Editor
A Letter to the Reader: Sometimes we forget that there is beauty in fragility. It is easy to see exquisite grandeur in a lasting structure, a scenic landscape, or a timeless work of art. But there is a gentle loveliness in a flickering flame: delicate and vulnerable, but with the potential to increase in strength and size. Sometimes we forget that there is beauty in destruction. Passionate, thriving vivacity is beautiful and strong, but humans are also attracted to tragedy, and there is something magnificent in a raw, uninhibited blaze. Sometimes we forget that there is beauty in death. There is a sad elegance in dying embers, as their brightness fades and the air around them cools down. Eventually, there are only ashes left, from which new life forms. Fire signifies life, death, and rebirth — essentially, change. We are at our most beautiful in motion, as we are growing and evolving. This issue is about transience, about reflecting upon the past and looking toward the future, and about the thoughts and feelings that we feel so intensely in the present. Thank you for sticking with us through this trying yet rewarding journey. We present to you the fruits of that journey: the first issue of combustion.lit! — Miranda de la Rea and Talia Flores, Editors-in-chief
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Table of Contents Christie Ballew // City of the Heart // page 6 Molly Schlamp // A Beautiful Tragedy // page 7-8 Talia Flores // Auburn Leaves // page 9-11 Hannah George // Miniskirt // page 12-13 Won Gyeong Seong // Awake, My Son, A Man // page 14-18 Ashley Van Eyk // Blossoming Potential // page 18 Zachary Taqi // My Grandmother’s Birthday // page 19-20 Amanda Beeck // Masks // page 21-22 Jess Filiaggi // Marionette // page 22 Miranda de la Rea // A Loneliness the Size of the Universe // page 23-25 Michael Schippmann // Trees of My Youth // page 26 Ciara Smith // The Spirit Wood’s Close // page 27-29 Gabi Smith // Push Me, I Won’t Jump // page 30-32 Alice Liu // Reach // page 31
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City of the Heart, Christie Ballew 3/26/15
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A Beautiful Tragedy Molly Schlamp
They had been in love again and again, Past times of passion and of unfeeling, Always returning to learned curves of mouth, Giving each other a home to be warm, Convincing themselves the feeling was full, But the emptiness, in the love, lingers.
The shadow of fear in her eyes lingers. “Are we going to start over again?” When he’s not there, she cries her heart to full, Wishing she could be his and unfeeling. The hurt between her layers keeps her warm, A familiar mask of faith around her mouth.
He lays a gentle kiss upon her mouth. The sigh he breathes within him now lingers. Her hands and face and eyes and heart are warm. Bliss at having her in his arms again. Fly and fall and forget the unfeeling. The space between them couldn’t be more full.
It’s never long before the air is full Of hollow words that come from only mouth, Left to drown in the depth of unfeeling. The connection they thought they had lingers. They just can’t seem to draw it out again. Something about the bitterness is warm.
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When he is gone, her thoughts of him are warm But nevertheless, entirely full Of falling back into routine again, Nothing but dreams of mind and breath of mouth. Through stirring feelings, the silence lingers, Thin as the line from love to unfeeling.
There’s beauty in the art of unfeeling. Something about the bitterness is warm. The happiness in the hurt always lingers. Emptiness so deep it makes them feel full. They ache for depth like a kiss craves a mouth. A beautiful tragedy comes back again.
Ever unfeeling to keep themselves full Of the warm nothingness breathed by their mouths But love, in the emptiness, lingers again.  
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Auburn Leaves Talia Flores
The setting is a city. A crowded city. No specific location; it could be Chicago, New York, Dallas. But one thing is certain: it exemplifies crowded urban life. Flashing neon lights. Blaring car horns. A cacophony of sights and sounds. You watch chaos of the streets, then flick your attention to a zoomed-in image of the sidewalk. Amidst the masses of fitted suits and hair-sprayed buns, you pick out and follow a seemingly random man. This man looks no different from the rest of the passersby; he is not overly attractive, but not extremely unattractive either. He walks with purpose, too consumed with checking emails on his phone to take in the city scenery he has passed by a thousand times. With his fast, long strides, he quickly reaches his destination, a large grey building nearly identical to the rest of the tall skyscrapers. You continue to follow the man as he glides through sliding doors, ignoring the greeting of a pretty yet plain secretary as he enters the elevator. The man exits the elevator and hurriedly sits down at a plain-looking cubicle, surrounded by uniform workspaces containing identical-looking office-workers. You watch the man as he completes his work, typing multitudes of letters into a bright screen for hours upon hours. Finally, the chiming of a bell signals the end of the work day. The man and the other workers rise simultaneously, and clock out in an ordered swarm. You follow the man as he walks out of the noisy office and into the equally loud city. It is now evening – you can distinguish the change in light from bright daylight to softer, more nostalgic sunset colors. After crossing several more streets, you and the man finally arrive at a small, shadylooking club venue. The bouncer nods for the man to pass through, recognizing him as a regular. Entering the club, you and the man are enveloped in a blanket of pulsating music and strobe lights. Despite knowing that the man comes here often from the recognition of the bouncer, he seems out of place, awkward and ungainly among sensual dancers in his suit. The office-worker positions himself near the bar. “The usual?” The bartender asks. The man nods in response. The barkeep passes the man a bourbon, which he sips casually. You carefully watch the man as his gaze sweeps across the dance floor - he appears to be looking for someone. Throughout his stay at the club, a number of girls approach the man, too drunk and hyped up on the club atmosphere to care about his ordinary appearance. He ignores the majority of them, keeping his eyes focused on the dance floor. It is now very obvious that he is searching for a certain person - he has done this so many times, though, that he maintains low expectations, evidenced by his lackadaisical posture of slumped shoulders and a loose March 2015
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grip on his glass. His gaze does falter when a young auburn-haired woman approaches him, but after searching her face he merely sighs and turns away. ... He is at the office again. The chime for the end of the work day signals, and the workers rise to clock out. As the man is poised to leave, he turns at the sound of his name. “Hey, Forbes!” A fellow worker calls. “Do you wanna come bowling with us later tonight? Drinks are on us!” Forbes dismisses his coworker’s invitation with a wave of his hand. “Sorry, I... have to go,” he replies vaguely. The coworker scowls at Forbes’s rebuff. “Probably going to that same dingy club he prowls around at every night,” he mutters to another worker. Normally, this would be true. This evening, however, was different. This evening, Forbes felt even more nostalgic than usual, warm rays of setting sunlight splashing across his face as he makes his way down the street. The normally chaotic noises of the city are muffled, taking on a calmer and more relaxed air. Forbes’s destination is not an uproarious club this time, but instead a quaint café. Faint acoustic guitar music drifts through the air, and Forbes’s face seems to relax at the calmer setting. Rather than entering the café, however, he simply stands at the window, an onlooker peering in. He searches the inside of the café much liked he probed the club looking for someone. After a thorough search, he turns away disappointed. As he turns to leave, though, he suddenly stops, afflicted by the sound of bubbly, musical laughter. Spinning back around, Forbes gasps, but you only look at his eyes; the eyes reveal what words cannot. You turn and see, through the window, a couple sitting in the café. The man’s face is indistinguishable, his back to you. The woman, however, has a face alight with laughter, pearly whites shining and ocean-blue eyes sparkling. One slender hand rests in her lap, the other calmly holding a glass of bourbon. Short auburn hair, styled in a bob, flows as she throws her head back. Forbes quickly turns back to face the street, running his hands through his hair. As he leans against the café window, he reaches into his wallet and pulls out a photo. It is crumpled, wrinkled, and stained, yet you can still distinguish a picture of Forbes and the same auburn-haired girl from the café together. Hands shaking, Forbes stretches out his arm. The fingers holding the photo seem to unfurl, but at the last moment they clasp the photo again, saving it from flying into the wind. Forbes slips the photo back into his wallet and walks away from the café, looking at the ground dejectedly. The auburn girl’s laughter can still be heard, echoing off the abandoned alley walls. ... Back at the office, the coworker who invited Forbes out earlier passes by his cubicle. March 2015
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“How was last night?” he asks suggestively to Forbes, shaking his shoulders. “Did you get fancy with the ladies?” Forbes avoids meeting his gaze. “I didn’t go out,” he lies. The coworker drops his act. “Oh,” he says flatly. “Well, if you’re not doing anything tonight, you’re still welcome to join us at the bowling alley.” For the first time in what felt like forever, Forbes returns his coworker’s gaze. “Thank you,” he answers softly. Even with this step towards gregariousness, Forbes does not join his coworkers at the bowling alley. Instead, he finds himself at the familiar scene of the club, accompanied by throbbing music and flashing lights. Forbes has resumed his well-known place at the bar, once again holding a glass of bourbon. His eyes no longer search the dance floor, but instead stare at his shoes depressingly. With this sullen appearance, no girls saunter up to him. You focus your gaze on Forbes for a bit, fully taking in his sadness. Eventually, you realize that in his other hand, Forbes holds a wrinkled photo of himself and the auburn-haired café girl. “Would you like to dance?” A beautiful voice cuts through the thumping club music. You first see Forbes looking up, but you turn to the girl before you can see his reaction. A petite woman faces him, red lips parted in an innocent smile. Light blue eyes sparkle, and auburn hair styled in a bun shimmers under the strobe lights. Far away, acoustic guitar plays. You flick your gaze back to Forbes. He takes another look at the photo again, then back up at the woman. The look in his eyes and his slight smile tells all: she is not the same, but she will have to do. “Okay,” he responds. Slipping the photo back into his wallet, he sets his glass of bourbon on the bar and lets the woman take his hand. You watch Forbes and the girl trounce into the jungle that is the club, the electronic beat overpowering. As you turn to leave, one last strum on an acoustic guitar can be heard, distantly.
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Miniskirt Hannah George
Her miniskirt raped her. 10 pm on a cold Wednesday night, that spaghetti strapped tank top held a knife to her back and walked her “home.” Because in this world tight pants and a smile count as consent, curled hair is a gang sign, and a pretty face means, “you had it coming.” Those golden hoop earrings dropped something in her drink, and her belly button ring glimmered like a green light – telling him – go – Her stilettos walked right into his trap. She had to know this is what she went shopping for – a man’s approval. The receipt is proof of consent, but she can never take any of it back, because she got what she paid for, right? He got a perceived conquest actually was a felony actually was her innocence actually was her bra strap peeking at him just enough to count as asking for it actually was a relationship status that just asked for it actually a laugh between naïve lips that asked for it.
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She whimpers, asking for it back.
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Awake, My Son, a Man Won Gyeong Seong
Wir pulled the bowl of incense close to his chest and breathed in its vapors, his chest moving in and out as slowly and regularly as the waves of the ocean. Smoke twisted and curled, a veil of spirits from which two embers burned through the darkness of the tent like eyes watching. The shaman spoke, his voice as thin as the smoke. “Wir-naan. Are you prepared to die? Are you ready to reborn? Wir-naan, Wir the child, will you emerge stronger than you believed you could ever be, a man and lord of himself ? Will you become one of the starke, the heart of the village?” Wir nodded, eyes burning from the incense. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I cannot hear you, Wir – and neither can the gods.” “Yes, Geistganger, I am ready.” “Good,” the shaman said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He lifted a wooden bowl, filled to the brim with a liquid dark as the forgotten corners of forests. “Drink.” A sharp pain overcame Wir as he drained the last of the draught. It was as though a beast made of needles and knives became trapped within his gut, slashing the walls of his body in a desperate attempt to get out. Wir succumbed to the black, his mind empty save for the chanting of the shaman, inundating Wir like a typhoon. The first thing Wir noticed when he awoke was a tickling on his face and the warm embrace of the Mother Sun. A butterfly, its wings a deep red, was perched on his nose, quickly fluttering out of sight when he sat up. He was sitting in a field of rolling greenery, white flowers scattered about like sparse snow. Wir heard the patter of footsteps and before he could turn, a form rushed past him and grabbed his hand, pulling him forward. As he stumbled forward on bare feet, he looked at the figure urging him on — a girl, perhaps a few winters below his age, face round and beaming, hair dark and flowing like a black river or a sky of crows, shimmering in the spring sun. She laughed, a sparkling laugh like sparrows’ songs, and pulled on his hand. They ran like this for a while, the green field rushing beneath March 2015
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their feet as though the ground was moving, not them. They played games, racing and tackling one another until, exhausted and completely out of breath, they lay on the grass, finding beasts in the clouds. Then they were up and running again, cavorting across the field like mice on the first day of spring. Eventually they came to a cliff, a steep staircase cut into its side. Here, Wir stopped. The smile had fallen from the girl’s face. “I don’t like it here,” she whispered, hugging Wir’s arm, “Let’s get away. I want to play in the fields.” Wir shook his head and spoke, unnerved by the sudden change in the air. “There’s something I can do here. I need to go. Stay here, I’ll be back.” The girl tightened her grip, and Wir could feel her heart thud against his arm. “No, why bother? It’s steep. It’s dangerous. Don’t go. Don’t go, please? We’ll play more games, fun games. Can’t we go away?” “I can’t do that. Look, my name is carved into the first stair. Look at the arrow pointing up.” “What if it’s a trap? Look how steep it is! You’ll fall and hurt yourself! No, let’s go have fun instead.” Wir faced the girl, her eyes wet and on the verge of tears. He gently pushed her away. “I’m sorry,” he said, his stomach turning sour, “but I need to check. What if someone needs me? I will be safe. I’m agile enough and can run if anything threatens me.” “No!” The girl was crying now, and sank into a small pile at the base of the steps. Torn, Wir stepped around her and began his ascent when the girl grabbed his ankle. She was pitiful, pouting. At that moment, Wir wished he could have drowned in the sea of tears. Steeling his resolve for duty, he slipped her hand off his ankle and held it for a moment before turning and climbing the stairs once more, sobs drenching the air behind him. It was not long before Wir’s muscles began to protest under the strenuous tasks; seemingly facile, the stairs were surprisingly steep and narrow. Soon, Wir came to a sharp turn in the stairs where he found himself facing a slope rather than steps. As Wir tested the slope’s structure, the rock turned to dust beneath his foot.
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A breeze drifted by and Wir shivered. The sun had set in the meanwhile and the night had grown cold. Pressing himself against the wall and steps, Wir shut his eyes, praying that sleep would soon take pity. He flicked a small rock off the ledge of a step with his foot and listened to its clatter as it tumbled down the face of the cliff, sounding like bones breaking against one another. “How easy would it be,” he mused, “to let myself be pushed by unseen hands, pulled down by divine forces, and smeared against the floor by my weight? A simple turn would send me plummeting down and my soul upwards. “Why? Why am I here? I am here because I climbed here. Can I turn back? No, I would lose too much. Can I go forward? I must.” The morning sun stretched forth its hands as it climbed ever higher in the sky, and like a watch whose clockwork is set in motion, Wir slowly rose. Clearing the sleep from his eyes and mind, Wir looked to his obstacle. The crumbing slope still remained, a behemoth lying before him, waiting for the moment when he would set foot on its body so that it could rear out from beneath him and send him to his death. The first step slid across the dusty slope and nearly sent Wir tumbling to the ground. The next step steadied him, but pitched him forward. Wir took off on all fours, loping across the slope like a beast fighting for survival, dust, dirt, and rocks crumbling beneath his feet. He was no longer climbing, but falling upwards: up, down, up, down, Wir’s legs and arms pumped. His breath was ragged, choked by strenuous exercise and grime. No more pain. No more thought. Go. Breathe. Live. Wir tipped forward as his feet stamped hard ground. He looked around, surveying the area: a small dirt courtyard. A wooden platform stood rather ominously in the middle of the grounds. He walked around the platform and came to face none other than – The girl. She had aged somewhat, but was still beautiful regardless, perhaps even more so. She stepped forward and hugged him, much to his surprise. The air was taut as she guided him around the platform and began leading him back to the ramp. Wir made no attempt to resist, as though he were intoxicated, and let himself be taken.
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As soon as he stepped foot on the grime, however, Wir snapped up, as though he were waking from a dream. His feet began to furiously backpedal, skidding uselessly on the dirt. He twisted and turned, trying in vain to escape from the girl’s iron embrace. Her face was as welcoming as ever as she led Wir to his death. At last, he bent down and embraced her back. A scent of the meadow assailed him, as bitter as sulphur. Face wet with tears, Wir pulled upwards, feeling the pull dragging him down become weightless before crushing him down again. He stumbled, and went headlong; the girl’s arms loosened and her mouth opened in a silent scream as she fell. The dust turned to mud beneath Wir’s face. Slowly, he pulled himself up, a puppet with leaden limbs. Through the hazy screen of tears, Wir saw a mob, a wave of people whose hearts were set on spite, spirits aflame. He let himself be pulled along by the wave, tossed and thrown like jetsam. His body, a hollow husk, came to wash up on the platform, flesh roasting under the sun and the blazing gaze of the mob. Arms pulled him up like a ham of meat and he felt the rough caress of rope against his neck. The girl. A meadow. Running, but not afraid. Life coursing through his veins. Why was he there? What came before? A tent. A drink. Never mind, let’s be happy. He stood, a stool’s height away from death. A man whose jowls quivered as he spat words into the crowd stood nearby. Wir looked into the crowd. A shovel. A scythe. The implements of death. A face stared back at him in the reflection. Chin set. Eyes seeing right through him. A man. Suddenly, a sharp burning line was drawn onto Wir’s back and he turned to see the fat man brandishing a birch rod. “Murderer!” the fat man shouted, languishing on each syllable like the morsels of a fine meal. Slipping. Silence. No sound but the scuffle. A weight lifted and thrown. Why? Oh the skies above, why? No. No no no. The ground beneath Wir’s feet vanished. A tight embrace cut through his neck. Kick. Jerk. Writhe like a worm on the end of a hook. Perhaps I deserve to die. And he knew it to be true. The tent was cold and empty when Wir awoke. There was no more smoke, no time for such frivolities of mystique and show. Wir was blinded by the sun as he stood outside, March 2015
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feeling the sun bask his shoulders. Suddenly, a figure hurled out of nowhere and knocked Wir onto the ground, sending pelts into the air. The man scrambled to gather the furs. Wir picked up a bundle and handed it to him, receiving a smile in return and a “Thank you, uomo.” A small ember of pride glowed with in Wir’s chest as he gathered the furs. Uomo. Man. I am indeed a man. Blossoming Potential, Ashley Van Eyk
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My Grandmother’s Birthday Zachary Taqi The ball drops. One of my favorite toys at my uncle’s house. The ball rises. My cousin is also playing with his own rubber ball. The ball drops. Dribbling is so much fun! The ball rises. It’s my grandmother’s birthday. The ball drops. Today is the last page of a chapter. The ball rises Like the immortal spirit of a man. The ball drops. Each dribble is the sound of a heartbeat. Hushed voices. Crying. My aunt enters the living room. Tears fall. They only fall one way because They are not like the ball that can bounce back, defying the cold grip of gravity. They can only go down to the ground and remain there. “Abu is dead.” Dead. So what? That’s just another name for sleeping, but it’s longer. Stop crying. It doesn’t matter. Just let me play with my ball. But like the tear stain on the carpet, The sense of loss doesn’t leave the house. Me. My cousin. My aunt. My uncle. My parents. My grandmother. The atmosphere chokes us, but we children can’t feel the fingers. March 2015
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It cannot touch my grandfather. Not now. His body is a teardrop that cannot escape the gravity of death but His soul has already risen and now resides among the angels. Happy birthday, Grandmother. Happy death-day, Grandfather. My rhythmic dribbling can continue, but I can never give you another heartbeat. Maybe when I’m older, I’ll understand what has happened. Maybe when I’m older, I’ll realize that rubber balls can be punctured, never able to bounce again. The ball drops.
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Masks Amanda Beeck
It takes a long time to make a mask. You have to shape it, Paint it, Then, if it isn’t right, you have to do it again. Layers and layers of plaster and paint, one on top of the other. It’s like the earth, the core so covered in layers That we can only scratch the surface. Masks are confining, restricted to one emotion. They poison your lungs while shielding your eyes. They are death and loss. We cannot see behind well-made masks, Masks that hide others’ true thoughts and feelings, Masks that conform to society, imprint the restrictions of behavior into the wearer Like a computer knowingly downloading a virus But doing nothing about it, because no matter how awful and sickening it is to die like that, It is beautiful. Beautiful to be a part of something, beautiful to be wanted. And we are willing to risk it all for that beauty. We are willing to be confined to society, to the government, to human nature itself, If it would mean that we could be wanted. Loved. Needed. The masks we make are for others and for ourselves Without them we are lost, A Hansel without a Gretel, A map without a key, A compass without a North. The masks are worn for protection, for strength To be able to not cry, not scream, not curse to the heavens that somehow you were made wrong, That you were made different. We wear the masks to show society that we can be practical in life, So it doesn’t throw us away, Cast us aside. We make sure that everything we do is an assembly line: Where one goes, the others soon follow. We write about the heroes and the flowers and the romance, We read about the vampires or the daring heroines or the dragons, We watch the same shows, eat the same food, and sleep in the same dreams. March 2015
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Marionette, Jess Filiaggi We make sure that our masks’ roots stay firmly planted in our soil So that no matter how deep people dig, they’ll never reach the seed. We have to nurture our mask, our image. For it is a sapling, small and frail, But with time and love and respect it will one day be an oak. We are mothers of a child, Protecting it from the abuse of thoughts and words, From originality and uniqueness. It takes a long time to make a mask. I should know. It’s been sixteen years and I’m still working. March 2015
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A Loneliness the Size of the Universe Miranda de la Rea
You used to look up at the night sky and feel so small. The realization of your cosmic insignificance was magnificent, simultaneously so freeing and so devastating. You imagined what it would be like to be a celestial being, with stars in your eyes and planets on your skin, to try and feel less tiny and more important, maybe more beautiful. But lately, you’ve been looking inside yourself and finding nothing. You have become nothingness. You are a swirling void, a never-ending abyss, an infinite, intangible dark mass. You are a black hole, constantly absorbing taking matter into yourself and giving nothing back. Everyday problems and menial issues do not bother you, as long as you just keep consuming. You have transcended reality. Nothing blocks your path. You find that you are not concerned about anything. You don't care, you don’t care, about anything at all. This is the ultimate salvation, the ultimate path to true happiness. Sever yourself from all earthly matters, show neither pain nor attachment, and become a black hole, constantly absorbing and never giving back. This is freeing. No longer bound by restrictions or expectations, you can stop caring about petty perceptions and preconceptions. You stop caring about things that matter because they don’t matter; March 2015
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you are always observing and never fulfilling. You stop doing your homework at night because you really don’t give a damn at all. You don’t care about school, and you turn away from the chorus of grades college future coming from all directions. Your friends are your shields but you surround yourself with walls, a personal universe with surprisingly bad cell reception, so that you don’t have to read all of their texts asking if you’re okay, are you okay, stop saying you’re okay because you’re not! But you’re better than okay, you’re great, because nothing bothers you, nothing matters, and water is such a precious commodity in space yet you cry yourself to sleep more often than you would like to admit to yourself, but you don’t care, you don’t care, you don’t care. Home is where the heart is but your chest is empty. Your universe comes closing down around you but it’s okay because it’s your universe, nothing can hurt you, except you failed your last test and now you’re a shame, a disappointment, what a shame, what a shame, you bleed those words out onto tile floor as cold and smooth as metal, your future is grabbing you by the throat and about to break your neck but you don't even care because you're a black hole, a swirling void of nothingness, carefree and careless and completely apathetic. Black holes destroy everything they touch but the only thing you're destroying is yourself, except you don't care about anything, just March 2015
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keep touching and not feeling, keep opening your skin and keep trying to find the stars you sucked up, you don't care you don't care you don't care I don't care Black holes are regions of spacetime where gravity prevents anything and everything from escaping. But you're not a black hole, you're a human and you are right here, and you can't hold everything inside, and you can't bear the guilt and shame and sadness of you and the people around you forever, and one day you will explode. You will not explode in a brilliance of galaxies and universes, it will be anything but beautiful, but you will be torn down to shreds until you begin to rebuild yourself. The creation of all things began with an explosion, and you will create yourself from the dust and ice that you leave behind. You are not a universe. You are small and still realizing yourself but you are warm, like the sun, and like the sun much life revolves around you, and like the sun you are unaware of this.
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Trees of My Youth Michael Schippmann
Into the forest once again traversing the place of destined sin where people expect to find its harrowed twin a wretched, dark man with a menacing grin in a place where one dreads to see all they will find lurking is me, walking myself from tree to tree the ocean of land, where one is truly free My feet test and prod the surface beneath gazes the boundless abyss but this chasm holds both darkness and bliss a daunting beauty that beckons a kiss this request one cannot deny so into the unknown I must comply in part suspecting it to go awry but I did not discover what I expected to find Lavish damp moss envelopes the place a labyrinth of leaves and creatures to chase decaying limp trees sprouting new grace my fears conjure about a dierent face to unwarranted fears do people seem prone distorting serenity and procuring a false tone this misguided perception I cannot condone perhaps it is uncertainty of the unknown or unease when one finds themselves truly alone but within our being these values seem sewn as intrinsic in nature as the presence of bone but I am certain these impressions are not my own
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The Spirit Wood’s Close Ciara Smith
Some nights the lake glittered with innumerable stars, gracing the surrounding woods with haunting, undulating wisps of thrown light that gave it its name: the Spirit Forest. It was said that the stars were brought down by the gods for privacy when they bathed, and the lights were the shades that clung to them as a resplendent retinue. When the spirits were in the wood, every person knew they could sleep in safety, as long as they slept under the spirits’ eyes; when they were under the watch of stars both near and far, bathed in the light of the benevolent whispers of the glow, they were protected from beasts by the otherworldly charms of the gods’ own guardians. The safest nights were the brightest, with the sparkling waves of light and water brightening the entire shore and even the farthest corners, replete with shadows and their antithetical sisters. These were the nights when the bloated god came to bathe. He lit up the whole sky on his descent, and his perfect roundness was a thing of glory. The tribespeople were unfailingly proud of their bloated god; they were sure no other tribe could boast of one quite like him. According to the tribal raconteurs, he was the god of gods, the monarch of the sky, because each time he descended, his light could be seen through the thickest foliage and the heaviest clouds, and every appearance was accompanied by the gods themselves instead of simple shades. It was one such eve. The stars blazed from water and sky, and the children pointed at the white blaze that loomed so close, crying out in delight at the idea of a god approaching to bathe in the lake that they thought of as theirs. Their mothers shushed them, warned them that it was rude to point, that the gods were shy, they wouldn’t come down until everyone went to sleep. With affected wisdom, the children nodded solemnly, suddenly sympathetic toward the poor, timid gods who were afraid of mortals. With equally affected wisdom, the mothers once more assured them that the gods were not afraid, although when pressed for proof, they had none to supply. The god patiently waited, distant in the sky, as the tribespeople found the spot most inhabited by those trembling tendrils of light and gathered into it. One by one, they lay down at the edge of the forest, huddled together under the behemoth trees even though safe. It took longer than usual for them to settle, owing to an elder, who, the entire tribe agreed, was almost more trouble than she was worth. She attempted to settle behind a particularly huge tree, completely hidden from the glimmering lights, and the tribe assumed her addled brain was misleading her. Her grandson tried to lead her to the group, but she refused to budge. When she gestured at the water, the sky, and the tribe, he responded with a roll of his eyes and a renewed effort to relocate her. She moved her hands again and aimed her sightless eyes at the water, sky, and tribe, water, sky, and tribe, but he would not March 2015
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understand. Her words had long since left her, and she was led unwillingly to where the tribe lay, ensconced in the benevolent light of the spirits. Some had already dozed off, artless and serene, succumbing freely to sleep and entrusting their safety to the lights playing over them. The old woman slunk into place among them and sank to the ground, but she outlasted even the children that night in her determination to remain awake, disregarding the comments and barbs sent her way. Eyes raked angrily over her, but as they closed two by two, the low esteem in which the tribe held her became less evident. Persistent, the woman kept her face upturned, impudently letting the bloated god’s light shine into her blind, milky eyes until, at long, long last, sleep overtook her in deference to the perfect sky. Then, the sky shivered, ominous ripples echoing inscrutably through its heights. Far off, a shadow moved through the comforting dark that cushioned the gods. Immortal things do not always show themselves to mortals, so it remained hovering at the outside edge of reality, exploding with potential that the entire universe reflected with trepidation. The breath of the world seemed to still, the vitality of the universe died for a moment as its heartbeat fluttered. The old blind woman shifted in her sleep as her opaque eyes, veiled only by skin, tried to track the shadow that didn’t quite exist. The shadow became tangible with very little warning, lighting up with an uninhibited passion that threw sparkles of energy through the deepness of space, blazing bright though minuscule through the fabric of the sky. All at once, the universe released its pent-up breath with violence, shuddering away from the interloper that was growing brighter with every moment. The wise old woman awoke in terror, a hoarse cry ripping from her throat as she tried to peer into the sky with her useless eyes. Around her, the tribe awoke, no longer protected by the dancing whispers of light that they knew so well. Those spirits had turned red, dancing a perverse parody of their benign waltzes, poisoning corners of the forest that their ancestors had never reached as the tribe scattered in tragic, ineffectual attempts to escape them. Above the havoc, the bloated god seemed to tremble in his place as his light was tainted red and the sky lit up in every abominable color. A light that belonged in no sky had invaded his, and blotted out the stars and the spirits until it was just him and a red and blue monster that ate up the sky. Below, a poor blind woman’s tribe turned on her as her blind eyes sought out the forest, her safety. Babbling in language that no one understood, she stumbled towards it, but large forearms made it clear there would be no such favorable outcome. Her tribe beheld her, bathed in sacrilegious red and blue, milky eyes wide with panic as she stumbled hopelessly towards the trees crying convoluted words that her throat hadn’t spoken in years, and pronounced her responsible for the travesty in the sky. Her words, had they been understandable, would have been “follow me” and “it is coming.” Her panic was for her tribe, for the crying children who scattered into the forest March 2015
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with the wisdom of instinct, but without the means to survive, and for her children and grandchildren who had replaced the instinct to live with the need to know why. She sensed the shadow clearly now, and knew her impending doom, could feel the heat on her face as the leviathan bore down upon the gods’ pristine bathing grounds. The bloated god was gone from the sky, but still she struggled for the tree line in altruistic would-be leadership. Her kin and clan prevented her. The beast in the sky hurtled down to the earth, throwing off demonic spirits of its own that snarled at the tribe, so small and sad. As it rushed headlong through heaven to the lake, it abruptly flattened while still in the sky, sending fire shooting laterally as if it had hit a barrier, creating its own lake of hellfire in the sky where all the gods had once slumbered, so bright that the old blind woman saw light. There was a colossal boom that shook the earth and shot turbulence through the earthly lake that had somehow been hitherto undisturbed. No tribesperson ever heard again after that sound. It appeared, to the few who remained conscious, that the brutish fiend accelerated as it burst through the maelstrom and continued its descent. As it loomed closer, flames began to lick at its sides until it became a writhing, blazing mass of fire, the smoke from which clouded the sky with such speed one could have missed it in a heartbeat. Bathed entirely in red, the tribespeople finally ran, scattering into the forest in mortal fear as the demon raced downward, snarling. The old blind wise woman, though, knew better. It was too late. She slumped to the ground in a tangled heap, staring with clouded eyes into the vague red glow that she perceived in the space where she’d never seen the gods. She huddled there, shuddering, as the universe contracted around her and the world exploded. The ball of fire hit the lake with such force that it hit the bottom and then kept going. Steam erupted and expanded, mixing with the smoke and smothering the clearing. What was left of the contents of the lake folded over itself in its haste to leave the scene, leaving its ancient home to the newcomer and taking up residence on the forest floor, unwilling to share its new haunt with the fleeing tribespeople. Uncovered, the flames that had been strung out behind the speeding giant flattened and expanded, bringing with them a scorching wind and wall of dust that flattened whatever was imprudent enough to stand in its way. The maelstrom brooked no opposition. The universe bent its head in submission to the fire’s will as it ravaged the forest, burning endlessly until the ashes of human bones mixed with the ashes of trees and animals, and then were burned again.
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Push Me, I Won’t Jump Gabi Smith
The future is kind of this bleak expanse with blacked out lenses for a gaze that you try not to make eye contact with. You look away and splutter around and you avoid thinking about how there’s a target on your back and a countdown over your head and how you’re terrified because you know time is running out, but you don’t know what comes after the siren. You look into this daunting drop-off of possibilities that you watched your brother dive off of head first four months ago, and you curl your toes for balance every time your parents try to push you towards the edge, because it’s not your fault that you’re not ready. It’s not your fault that you have a bad center of balance or a lack of direction forward, that you don’t know where you’re going but you know where you’ve been and you liked it back there but you’re not sure if you want to go back. It’s not your fault that you’re not ready to swan dive into an abyss; they can’t blame you for not wanting to know what hitting the ground feels like. You didn’t ask for this, for the expectations and the questions that you’ve been trying to answer, blind and stumbling for the entirety of your life. You didn’t ask for the prying eyes in your present and your past trying to configure your future. You don’t want your palms read, just for your mother to hold your hand like when you were a kid crossing the street because really this isn’t any different. March 2015
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Reach, Alice Liu
You’re still watching your steps and holding your breath and waiting for the trap door to fall out and make you take the trip down whether you want to or not, only to find everyone who has ever tried to leave their world on your shoulders yelling gotcha and telling you that it was all one big joke. No one ever really expected you to jump. No one ever really expected a child to make a choice that can’t be taken back. That would be ridiculous. This is all so ridiculous. Gravity is tearing at my heartstrings and ripping me from the ground and burning all the brides I skipped over ten years ago. I would rather throw myself back over and just see what I can catch at the edges, but I’m not sure I can manage that fall either. March 2015
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And I could stand here and say that you’ve been spoon fed the stuff of stars, that your bones are forged in iron and other people’s blood, but maybe you’re just a kid too. Maybe you pay 22 dollars for a future just like the rest of us and your mistakes hang over your head until they hang you and someday you’ll walk into a meeting and someone will call you Mrs. and your first thought will be, “What does my mom have anything to do with this?” And maybe you’ll hold on to things that you scribbled in notebooks that even you can’t figure a reason to bother and remember and maybe you’ll never have to grow up, and you can just get older. Maybe, just maybe, if you’re lucky. If you’re careful, tucking four leaf clovers behind your ears like promises you’re not sure you can keep but you’ll sure as hell try. Like memories you don’t want to get tattooed but you kind of do all at the same time. Like the stuff of stars in your palms and cosmos in your eyes because fifteen-year-old you was positive that they could hold up the universe if they tried and the right person asked them to. and if you try just hard enough, well, maybe you can. I’m not going to be the one to stop you; that’s your choice.
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“From the first smouldering taper to the elegant lanterns whose light reverberated around eighteenth-century courtyards and from the mild radiance of those lanterns to the unearthly glow of the sodium lamps that line the Belgian motorways, it has all been combustion. Combustion is the hidden principle behind every artefact we create. The making of a fish-hook, manufacture of a china cup, or production of a television programme, all depend on the same process of combustion. Like our bodies and like our desires, the machines we have devised are possessed of a heart which is slowly reduced to embers.� ― W.G. Sebald, The Rings of Saturn
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combustion.lit || March 2015 || No. 1