CultureCult Magazine (Issue #12) (Summer 2019)

E D I T OR IA L Jay Chakravarti

02

A R T I CL ES

FELICE PICANO H. P. Lovecraft and Time

PAM MUNTER Marilyn Maye : Passing It On

04 42

O P I N IO N

LYNDA PRITCHARD NEWCOMBE Learning a Foreign Language

28

E SS AY

MARSHA MITTMAN

A Magazine of the Arts, Literature & Culture

Transcending Third Dimension

63

Issue Twelve ● Summer 2019 Volume Th ree ● Number Four

F I C TI O NS

COLIN S. BRADLEY

CONTENTS

Someth ing Blue

EDWARD AHERN Echoes of Silence

MICHAEL PAUL HOGAN The Girl Boutique

P O ETR Y

58 62 21 11 69 50 35 27

ANTAL POLONY

IRIS ORPI

The Eighty-Four

PATRICIA WALSH

JAY SHEPHERD

RAJNISH MISHRA

Murray - A Love Story

22 36 52 12 46

K. W. PEERY PAT ASHINZE CARL SCHARWATH LYNN WHITE EDILSON AFONSO FERREIRA

P RESS

E KP H RA S T I C S T OR Y

MARK BLICKLEY Han’s Solo Photography: Keith Goldstein

S H O RT F I C T I ON

31

NILES REDDICK Great Balls of Fire

60

Editor JAY CHAKRAVARTI (Jagannath) Editorial Team S. DUBOIS || SHANKAR B HUSHAN © CULT URECULT Layout Design /Cover JAY CHAKRAVARTI Published by Jagannath Chakravarti from 11/1, Khanpur Road, Kolkata - 700047, West Bengal, India. All rights reserved. No part of this magazine can be reprinted/ reused in its entire form or in part without the written permission of the publisher.

Visit http://CultureCult.co.in

EDITORIAL

JAY CHAKRAVARTI Fear Fear comes in many shapes and forms. There are so many things we wish to express, we crave to let others know or simply shout at the top of our voices as if to declare.

However, fear stops us from doing so. Whatever the source of oppression may be, it is fear that eventually manages to choke our ever-enterprising voices which, under usual circumstances, find some way or the other to express our deepest thoughts and fears.

It doesn't always have to be political. Unfortunately it is most likely to be political. It most often is related to the society we inhabit and wish to mould in our own ways, even when it comes to the collective 'thought' of the masses.

Whatever else fear may be, it is always personal. It always manages to twist our guts in ways that make us crave the toilet bowl.

It always manages to let the light of our thoughts take a dark and unknown and unexpected road in the alleys of the mind before a kind of fear paralysis takes a hold of us completely.

I wish I could fill this column with everything that I have wished to fill it with ever since I began to plan this issue and consequently, my Summer editorial.

It is fear that stops me. Fear that could be political, maybe societal, definitely personal.

I even thought of keeping this page (symbolically or stylistically whichever is easier) empty, but then I started writing on fear and here I am.

A final word: if you wish to dip your toes into 'fear' a little more, do check out our first paperback anthology of stories: "Creep", featuring 24 horror fictions by 24 contemporary writers from around the globe. []

JAGANNATH (JAY) CHAKRAVARTI is an Independent filmmaker based out of Kolkata, India. Besides fulfilling the duties of the founder/editor of CultureCult Magazine, he enjoys dabbling in several forms of artistic expression including poetry, painting, film criticism and acting. He holds a Masters degree in English Literature.

02 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

ART: Jay Chakravarti

COVER STORY

H.P. LOVECRAFT AND TIME FELICE PICANO Artwork: Spawn of the Stars, Sofyan Syarief's artwork based on H. P. Lovecraft's story The Call of Cthulhu.

04 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

Some famous critic said that all fiction is about the subject of time.

H. P. Lovecraft

FELICE PICANO’s many stories, novellas and novels are translated into seventeen languages, and include national and international bestsellers. Four of his plays have been produced. He’s received awards for poetry, drama, short stories, and novels in the U.S.,U.K., France, and Germany. Picano’s recent nonfiction: True Stories, True Stories Too and the 1970’s memoir, Nights At Rizzoli, have received glowing reviews and awards. He currently teaches two writing workshops for the West Hollywood Public Library. His autobiographical novel, Justify My Sins will be published in 2019. www.felice.picano.net

Naturally I scoffed, because I don’t think that’s at all true: Don Quixote? The Wings of the Dove? Gulliver’s Travels? Proust, of course writes about time. It’s the subject of his great novel.

And, among the works of H.P. Lovecraft, which I’ve discovered the more I’ve read on, are great deal more varied themes and subjects than anyone might expect. But there is really only one, a novella, about time. And while it has hints of “recovering lost time” a la Proust, that is only a minor distraction, not the main theme; not by any means.

Only one piece of fiction, despite the fact that the more Lovecraft wrote and the deeper he traveled into his own imagination, the more persuaded this “strange tales” author became that he—and all of us—were living in some kind of blessed interregnum of time in which the worst obscenities of creation were somehow held at bay from us. At bay, yet at times they might come crashing down upon us, since the separation is permeable. Dagon might arise from the sea; Cthulhu might erupt from underground; other super beings might arrive through a tear in space and find their way to a New England farm house.

That became Lovecraft’s cosmology and his oppressive belief as he wrote on. The stories he wrote in his later years are all about the moments that those mind bending powers did break through -- with horrific repercussions.

So there actually is only one story about time itself in Lovecraft’s oeuvre;, however, it’s a dilly, and it’s the first piece of fiction to have had any kind of effect upon me, an effect so deep and all-encompassing that it’s difficult to say what that effect actually was, except that I never forgot the story and that it “opened my mind up” as a reader and I suspect as a writer too.

Partly this has something to do with when I read it.

I was eleven years old. I was a clever if not particularly brilliant child at that age and I was also an indifferent reader. I could read well enough; I’d been able to do that since the age of four when, imitating my older brother and sister, I taught myself how to read. I simply didn’t read that much. I read what I had to for school, but unless books were about my interests –the Grand Tour de France bicycle race, for example, I didn’t bother: I lived for the outdoors: for roller skating and soft-ball playing and especially for bicycles and bicycle racing. A few years later we would move to new house set to one side of the Belt Parkway at the edge of Queens at the border line of New York City and Nassau County, a roadway deep in lush local parkland. In front of our new house was a park and pond, and across the bridged main street was another pond. Together they were Twin Ponds which was what the new area was called. I was soon ice skating every night that those shallow ponds were frozen. So how in the world would that particular child come to read a writer as obscure in 1955 as Lovecraft?

Blame –or bless-- my Aunt Lillian and Uncle Bert. Both

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 05

of my parents were from rural Rhode Island (the scene of many Lovecraft tales) and my mother took us four children up there every summer in her gleaming new aqua, white, and chrome Pontiac Star-Chief station wagon for a minimum of two weeks and often longer to visit her beloved father, my Grandpa Ralph. Somehow my aunt and uncle decided I was a wonderful boy and they wanted me to stay with them much of the time I was visiting. You have to understand that my Aunt Lillian was the oldest child in her family, twenty years older than my mother who was the next to the last child.

My mother used to tell us how Lillian’s first son, my mother’s nephew, became her escort to dances and parties when they were teens. I could never understand this until I met her nephew, Henry, who was a grown man with a moustache, wearing a U.S. Air Force officer’s uniform.

Bert and Lillian were more like grandparents to me. They were in their sixties by then, with two grown sons who’d married and had already begun their own families. Bert had retired from work, and so the three of us --Bert, Lillian and me-- would go around together those memorable summer weeks away from my siblings: to parks and museums, to beaches, on day trips in Bert’s old Plymouth sedan all around Rhode Island together.

Also they treated me the way I always thought I ought to be treated: a kind of treatment I never got at home, where I was the third child of four, the middle child, the unplanned for and--I always secretly believed-- the unwelcome child. Certainly, neither of my parents knew what to think of me. Although it was clear from an early age that I was somehow special, they could never figure out how and what they ought to do about it. But others did. Although Bert and Lillian were really quite ordinary people, I felt that they wanted to have more children in their life. All they did was treat me with respect, almost like a little adult who had a lot to learn yet, and that seemed to work fine.

I’m not certain how it was that my aunt and uncle moved from their house on Federal Hill, to another, smaller and older one on College Hill, north of the Providence River and the prominent Capital with its big dome. We did return to the other neighborhood often-to visit their old friends, to shop in the Italian markets and butcher shops and ethnic bakeries there. But little by little they became accommodated to their new neighborhood. So that was the residence and neighborhood that I knew and came to love from visiting them.

They had very little garden space except a small front area for some huge blue hydrangeas. But Bert already had a large plot of vegetable garden he rented elsewhere, near the northwest edge of the city, among a square half

06 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

mile of other leased plot gardens. I would go with him a few times a week to weed, to help him water, and to pick various vegetables and fruit that my Aunt would then cook for us. In effect, Bert taught me all the elements of gardening that would come to fruition once I moved to Southern California.

Brown University is the main ornament of College Hill and takes up a central part of it. But to the south is the old dock area off Water Street which used to curve around to India Street down the hill at the Seekonk River where the more protected ships and marine commerce in Providence took place in the 17th and 18th Century. Before the highway was put up, the entire area was quite picturesque and I would walk around the hill and docks, either with my Aunt and Uncle or in later years if they were napping during a summer afternoon, on my own. Besides the very old homes and the thickly leaf-shadowed streets there were several historical plaques one of which noted that Edgar Allen Poe had lived only a block and a half around the corner from where I was sleeping and what he had written while in residence there.

There were a few small local libraries too, one down the hill, another at the Rhode Island Historical Society and another at Brown itself which, oddly, also had a children’s section. During this period, film producer Roger Corman was busily making films out of Poe’s stories. I’d seen more than a few and so the next time I was at the Society’s library, I asked for and took out a collection of Poe’s stories. Having read those, I next found a larger collection at the University’s library.

These held longer tales like “The Murders at the Rue Morgue, “The Gold Bug, “The Purloined Letter,” et al, and so I was bitten by the bug of detection and ratiocination. One time in the Public Library I told the librarian about this and got her to let me borrow several “adult books” of Science Fiction. That summer I went through that library’s entire small science fiction shelf of Asimov, Clark, Heinlein, and Sturgeon. I would discuss these books with her when I returned them and something I said made her say in return “Well, if you like that way-out kind of stuff, you’d probably like reading our local author. But you would need an adult’s permission to borrow his work.”

When I mentioned that to my aunt while neighbors were visiting for tea, one of the women said “Why, Howard lived just down College Street for years in his parent’s house. Remember, Nettie? We were young women and we used to see him coming and going at times. A tall, thin, pale man in old fashioned suits with vests and a tie.” Nettie remembered that and she added details: among them that she’d been astonished to

Mihail Bila's concept a rt based on H. P. Lovecraft's short story "The Temple"

discover that he was an author published in magazines and even one or two books over the years. Using the carefully coded language of the time around me, they still made it clear that both of his parents had been institutionalized for mental problems and that despite being briefly wed, once Howard’s own Aunt Lillian had passed, Howard mostly lived alone--and might have also had mental problems. She also told us that while Lovecraft had died years before, that a man in the Midwest who’d possibly known him or studied with him, named August Derleth, had just begun putting out his works again in limited editions via something called Arkham House Press in Sauk City, Wisconsin.

With my agreeable Uncle Bert in tow, I managed to borrow new editions as they slowly came into the libraries. One or two I used my own savings to buy.

Most of them were “strange” stories. When Bert tried to read one in some misguided effort to either share or guide my reading, he said that it made his thoughts “all jumbled up.”Not mine. I thought they were gorgeous: as well written as Poe’s tales, but more modern in language, and as the librarian had predicted, they were very “way-out”. It soon became clear that Lovecraft had written many stories and had eventually developed his own personal mythology or cosmology and it was unlike

any other I’d come across. When we returned to New York later that summer, I tried to borrow or buy as many of these books as possible. That was how I came to read “The Colour Out of Space” and then “The Shadow Out of Time.” Only years later, in fact just last year, did I read the final novella in that amazing trilogy: “At The Mountains of Madness,” a novella so way-out that it was rejected by Lovecraft’s usual outlets, the groundbreaking 1920’s/1930’s magazines: Weird Talesand Astounding Stories. # The novella-length “The Shadow Out of Time” begins like many of his tales with an internal set-up of some length, in which a narrator tells his story: Dr. Nathaniel Wingate Peaslee a university professor of economics, experienced an unanticipated fainting fit while lecturing and underwent a period of eighteen hours when he was completely amnesiac. Not only that, but Peaslee eventually “recovered” but he moved awkwardly as though unused to his own body and he spoke equally oddly as though he’d never used his vocal chords before. This period of never quite readjusting lasted “five years fourteen months and five days” until he endured a second, equally deep fit and short coma, after which he recovered astoundingly shaken and out of sorts. Months

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 07

later, he began to have lengthy, disturbing dreams, and it is those dreams’ content that becomes the gist of the rest of the tale.

Too shaken to return to work, and now aided by his youngest child, a student of psychology, Peaslee relates how he then interviewed those who “knew” him between his two bouts of coma, and eventually how he even followed the footsteps of that unknown to him “interim person” whose insatiable curiosity took him around the world into strange lands, meetings with occultists and leaders of bizarre cults and religious sects.

The more he and his son looked into it, the more it seemed as though Peaslee had been “replaced” in some manner during those five years plus; the more he recalled in his dreams, the more he came to believe that while he’d been “gone” he’d been in another place, one he increasingly could identify as nowhere on the current earth. In truth, the more he could recall the more difficult it became to even recognize what time period he had lived in while he was mentally “replaced.” But increasingly as he remembered the biota and land and seascape, he became convinced that it must have been “sometime between the Permian and the Triassic eras,” i.e over 150 million years previous to our time.

“My conception of time—my ability to distinguish between consecutiveness and simultaneousness—seemed subtly disordered; so that I formed chimerical notions about living in one age and casting one’s mind all over eternity for knowledge of past and future ages.”

This is frightening enough to him but not as bad as him recalling what he himself looked like “back then” and it was like no creature anyone had known. However Peaslee comes to call those folk The Great Ones because of their knowledge. Trapped in the Mesozoic Epoch and in one of their odd bodies, he was put to work in one of their libraries writing. Writing what, he does not know. Eventually over the years he comes to understand that the Great Ones could project themselves over great spans of time both forwards and backwards and more importantly --into others’ bodies.

In this fashion, they’d come to comprehend their own doom, as well as that of humankind, and even the later reptilian and even later intelligent insect societies that exist or will exist on earth. But there was always a fear of some primal race, long suppressed underground somehow yet feared by the Great Ones.

A letter from an oilman in Western Australia— then as now one of the most unoccupied regions of the world—leads Peaslee, his son, and an investigative team to find inexplicably old monolithic ruins in that desert all too familiar to him from his “dreams.” Drawn he does not know how, Peaslee goes alone one night into the

08 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

place more deeply than he ought to. As a result, he discovers that the feared creatures’ tightly locked underground has been opened by earthquakes that also toppled the unmistakably familiar library wherein he labored while within the body of a Great One. He locates that file drawer he himself used to store his writing then and he is both astounded and satisfied that it is written in English and in his handwriting. While escaping with it, however, he missteps and ends up falling into an abyss.

He only comes to inside the camp, tattered and shattered and without his “proof.”

On the ship home, Peaslee writes, “If the thing did happen, then man must be prepared to accept notions of the cosmos, and of his own place in the seething vortex of time, whose merest mention is paralyzing. He must, too, be placed on guard against a specific lurking peril which, though it will never engulf the whole race, may impose monstrous and unguessable horrors upon certain venturesome members of it.“ And also “If that abyss and what it held were real, there is no hope. Then, all too truly, there lies upon this world of man a mocking and incredible shadow out of time.” #

How could a story like this not blow an eleven-year-old’s mind? The concept of “deep time,” not really all that common even now, was pretty much unknown in 1955, except by some professional geologists who were still trying to figure out how old the earth really was. The idea that there have been previous intelligent non-human races on the planet was also very new. Never mind that there will be future ones surpassing us. Today, speculative documentary films like “Earth After Man” are still unique when aired on Public Television. Yet 75 years ago in this novella Lovecraft wrote of a genus of “black beetles in an advanced insect society” seen by forward mind-throwing Great Ones that they believed would last longer than human civilizations.

How much of this speculation did I “accept” at the time? I’m guessing a lot or at the least, a great deal.

Not that I ever spoke of it to anyone. Not really. For one thing it was too private and Lovecraft was too precious and rare and special to share with other children.

Second, I was already trying to cast off the “weird” or (non-gay) “queer” descriptions of me by my older siblings and their circles of friends. In this effort I was undoubtedly helped by the fact of my physical appearance.

Junior High photos show that I was a cute, curly headed boy, with big eyes, and as I mentioned I had solid boyish interests aside from this very strange reading. My high

The Unholy Worship, Gwabryel's artwork based on H. P. Lovecraft's story The Call of Cthulhu.

school yearbook says I was a member of the physics squad and the school magazine, of the toney audiovisual squad as well as the Honor Society. Women friends from those years I still know and see say I was a pretty ordinary if bright guy.

Even so, I have to wonder if that is when some kind of really crucial schism appeared between the external person I was and the internalized mad scientist/radicalartist-at-all-costs young man who I quickly became in the rich and heady cultural aspic of the 1960’s. Unlike most of my kith and kin and coevals, I had an unexpected door opened to me: Lovecraft’s writing and especially those really way-out longer works.

Some critics would contend that 11 and12 yearolds are the perfect audience for Lovecraft’s writings and in a sense this is so: at least for the shorter tales with their intent to creep you out. “Chill Air, The Tomb, Pickman’s Model:” so many of them are nearly perfect horror stories. But then there are other’s like “Zane’s Violin, The Document of Randolph Carter,” and these novellas I’ve mentioned which really have moved way beyond that simpler intent into uniqueness as they explore aspects of a personal psychology-mythology which place them far higher on the literary scale.

I have returned to Lovecraft’s fiction every decade since then as though it were some kind of essential fountain for me to be periodically refreshed by. I have viewed every movie made from his works, most of them popular Hollywood adaptations in the late 1960s and quite bad; but a few more recent independent films of

shorter length and with fewer real production values which are surprisingly better, or at least, more faithful and certainly more redolent of the Providence based author’s writing and his very strange concepts.

Nor am I the only one. An entire generation of authors younger than myself not only have read Lovecraft in his depth and extent, they are now writing books in which Lovecraft is a character, an icon, and an immense and obvious influence. Just this year Paul La Farge’s The Night Ocean, Caitlin Kiernan’s Agents of Dreamland and Victor Lavalle’s newest novel, The Changeling, have been published to readers’ and critic’s acclaim.

Several anthologies per year based on his mythos come out on a regular basis, with big name genre authors contributing. All are impossible without HPL’s existence, and work. The giant anthology of all his stories and novellas several years ago, was followed by another with The Library of America’s magisterial imprimatur. In some ways, it seems as though Lovecraft has replaced Poe and Hawthorne and even Melville as our great American precursor. While no one was noticing, what Lionel Trilling called The Anxiety of Influence has passed on from those previous high school classroom favorites to this sickest (in various ways) of 20th Century writers and forebears.

I believe because like myself, over the decades, the writers seem to have come to understand for themselves the truth of the adage which so typifies Lovecraft’s work and life: “when you look into the abyss, beware, because the abyss will look back at you.” []

The images on pages 06, 09 and 11 have a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.

Link to licence: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

10 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

POETRY

K. W. PEERY

Propaganda I met a hungry homeless man on the street today And he was wearing a bright orange sandwich board that said – 'The propaganda paid for

by Big Pharma convinced me their pills would ease my pain...

Now I'm hopelessly addicted and will be dead long before any of this really sinks in' []

Americana songwriter and Kansas-City-based storyteller K.W. PEERY is the author of seven poetry collections.

Peery is a three time Ezine Award winner. He’s a regular contributor in Veterans Voices Magazine. Credited as a lyricist and producer, Peery's work appears on more than twenty studio albums over the past decade.

Visit www.kwpeery.com

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 11

Photography: Adrian Malec

12 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

THE

84 SHORT STORY

ANTAL POLONY The Eighty-Four

There was something wrong with the sunlight. Yellow and unhealthy, it came through the windows like it were partially obscured though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was a bad omen. A mysterious force was warning me not to leave my apartment today. But it always did that.

I locked my door behind me and proceeded down the hall. I walk well. I’m 75 years old but I get around fine. I don’t need pills or medication, except I suspect that I’m coming down with Alzheimer’s. I find that some days I think things, remember things, that couldn’t have happened. I’m not old enough to have been in World War II, for example, yet I have developed distinct memories of killing a young blond man on a wet, rainy CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 13

field in France. Sometimes I see things that can’t be there, hear voices when I’m alone. I guess it’s my isolation speaking. I’ve been on my own for a very long time.

On the first floor of my building there was a black man with a dirty white beard rooting around in a trashcan. When I came into the room he looked up at me and grinned.

“I lost my phone,” he explained. “Wanna help me find it?”

“I’m busy,” I responded and walked past him.

There weren’t many white people like myself in the building. We are used to being subject to derision and hostility.

I walked outside into a busy landscape of auto traffic and winter coats. People bustled down the sidewalk. A woman with a cell phone jammed to her ear, speaking loudly into it, looked at me as she passed by as if I were something you’d scrape off your shoe. But she and her kind were the dirty ones, unwashed folk. They had no right to look at me like that. I had no choice but to live amongst them. I would never go to a retirement home. I would much rather die alone and independent, even if it meant being surrounded by people like her. I have too much pride for the alternative.

The bus stop was on the corner, in front of a liquor store and across the street from a brick grocery store. There were two young men near the bench; gangsters, idling violently, feigning ease and relaxation while in fact sparking with nerves. One of them smiled at me when he caught me staring. I guess I was nervous. I was always nervous stepping foot outside. I spent most of my time reading on my beat-up old easy chair. I remembered the young man I had killed. I wondered if these young men had ever killed anyone. Probably not, but you never know. East Oakland is a pretty violent place.

I walked to the bench and took a seat. I watched traffic. A homeless person trundled past me. He took some time to look at me. They were all looking at me.

Why were they smiling? And why did their smiles conceal such visceral anger? Was it directed at me, a harmless old man? They’re jealous of me, I guess. I had nothing to fear from the police, and that was the difference.

A cruiser passed down MacArthur while these thoughts crossed my mind, as if on cue. A yellow face looked out the window at me.

Was paranoia a symptom of Alzheimer’s? Delusions of grandeur? I held no such conceptions about myself. I was an abject failure, useless in all senses but to spend my Social Security check on rent and food. I had no friends, no children, and had never been married. I was a waste.

I knew from the last time I’d taken the bus, over

14 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

a year ago, that I could be waiting a while, and that it was a long jog downtown. I didn’t live near a BART station, but rather further up the hill, near I-580, off of MacArthur Boulevard. Popular vernacular had termed this neighborhood the Killing Fields. People died here regularly. Just like on that field in France, death was a common denominator, a constant presence and source of identity for the survivors. Some days you could feel it even through the walls of a locked and fortified apartment.

It was days like this, outcast to this nether-region of anger and poverty, when I lost my spirit, my will to live. I’ve heard this is common amongst people my age.

Socially isolated, hopeless, what reason was thereto get out of bed in the morning? Some days I just stayed there. Some days it felt appropriate. When up and about I got the newspaper from the newspaper machine in front of my building, as well as a daily dose of fresh air.

Meals on Wheels brought me my groceries. Of course there were events that forced me outside. Today there was a mistake on my Social Security check. I was going to their office downtown to see it rectified.

The two men near the bench were quiet. True societal outcasts, who, I imagined, thought they were doing pretty much what was expected of them. It’s dangerous to get to know people like that. Anything could happen.

The sunlight still struck me as strange. The whole day did. It felt like there was some large, nebulous entity watching me. I told myself that this was impossible.

That it was just my over-active imagination that conceived stories of death and destruction, experiences prior to my birth. But who’s to say what’s real and what’s not? If you remember something, if you feel something affected you, changed you, had an impact on your life, then it’s as good as fact, isn’t it? To live under mistaken beliefs is reality for many around the world.

After all, what else is religion if not a collective delusion?

“Wey’s coming by soon,” I heard one of the gangsters say.“Nigga’s always late.”

“Don’t know what on time mean.”

I scratched my head. Were they talking about drugs?

I looked over my shoulder at them, I couldn’t help myself. One of them was grinning right at me.

“What you think about it old man?” he asked.

“What you do if yo’ partnah never show up when he supposed to?”

I turned forward again.

“I’m talking to you old man,” I heard.

I shook my head and looked down at my hands.

Maybe I should answer him.

“Dumbass cracker,” I heard. “What you living in a black neighborhood for anyway?”

I still didn’t respond.

“I see your ass every day, when you get the paper. You the only white person around here.”

“Come on man,” his partner interjected. “He ain’t nothing.”

“I know he ain’t nothing. That’s why I’m talking to his cracker ass.”

He laughed.

“Ain’t no gentrification from that motherfucker, for real.”

My heart was beating fast. I put a hand on my chest to hold it in. Despite the cold a sweat was breaking out on my forehead. I felt the grip of mild panic, and told myself to calm down. There was nothing to be afraid of.

I looked at my watch. I’d been here ten minutes.

“I’m going to,” I said.

“And don’t you pick up your paper in the morning no more. I don’t want to see your stupid white ass.”

“It’s a free country.”

“Not for you no more it ain’t.”

I heard the wheeze of the bus approaching. I turned around again.

“Dumbass motherfucker. You ain’t got no idea how to deal with people.”

“I know better than you do,” I muttered under my breath, but then I figured the young man had a point. I could have handled that situation better. It was just this fucking neighborhood that got to me: So much anger, so many monsters like him; everywhere, creatures of despair. There was no fresh air to be had in a place like this.

The bus arrived and the door opened. I got on.

The bus driver, another hostile-looking man, watched

I was quite lucky to be able to get around so well. A lot of people my age were homebound, not be choice, like myself, but by bad health.

The gangsters had fallen silent again.

I put my hands on my knees, massaged the muscle above them. I was quite lucky to be able to get around so well. A lot of people my age were homebound, not be choice, like myself, but by bad health. I had a few more good years left in me. A few more years to read Shakespeare in my easy chair, reflect on my failed past, get the paper on the sidewalk in front of my new friend behind me. There could be worse fates, I supposed.

I looked down the street and saw the bus, the big eighty-four, trundling down MacArthur. It pulled over to the curb and stopped a few blocks away. It looked dirty and rusty and gaseous from this distance.

“Looks like your ride’s here, my man,” I heard from behind me.

“Come on, leave him alone man.”

“I do whatever I fucking feel like.”

I got to my feet, keeping my back to them.

“Hey! I’m talking to you motherfucker!”

I turned around and saw his leering face, his eyes twin beams of anger.

“I know you’re talking to me,” I said.

“You better get on that fucking bus before I kick your fucking ass!”

me pay my fair, then cranked the wheel left and pulled out onto the street. I grabbed the closest purchase to keep from falling over.

The bus had eight or nine passengers, four or five black people, several Latinos, an old Asian woman.

They were scattered about, some looking out the windows, some seated at the aisles, and two of them in the front of the bus in the two rows facing each other, where senior citizens are expected to sit.

I made my way down the bus. I’m a tall man. I can reach the overhead commuter handles easily. I switched sides with my hands as I went. The bus driver was rude and reckless. Even though I’m in good shape I had to be careful not to lose balance. I know the risks of a person my age falling.

I reached the back third of the bus, past the back door, where the double-seat rows facing forward are interrupted by twin rows lining the bus walls, like in the front. I sat down at one of these, closest to the seats facing forward. There was a young man sitting in the middle of the very back row. He looked just like the young man that had accosted me in front of my building. He wore baggy black jeans, a pea coat and a black Oakland Raiders beanie. He smiled at me when we made eye contact.

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 15

I checked my watch. It was 10:00 AM. I expected to spend most of the day taking care of this errand. I would fix myself a sandwich when I got home.

I’d had breakfast of eggs and toast. My appetite could hold itself.

The bleak scenery of MacArthur Boulevard rolled past as I stared out the window. We passed Castlemont High School. More young people got on, making fools of themselves, laughing it up, playing music loud on their smart phones. There was a young woman.

Accosted by two young boys, her hair playfully pulled, the two dancing around her. She snapped at her attackers and told them loudly to “Leave me alone!” They didn’t listen.

“You better stop!” the young girl yelled.

“I ain’t doing nothing,” said one of the teenagers, putting his hands up.

“You hella stupid.”

cording to the phone book the Social Security office was just a few blocks away. I was immediately struck by the smell of urine and the intensity of the foot traffic. There were businessmen with brief cases and there were drug addicts yelling at each other. It seemed like there was something going on, but it was obviously just another typical day.

I didn’t know this part of the city very well, but I had been to the Social Security office before.

I started down the street. At one point a suitwearing man brushed past me hard enough to cause me to momentarily lose my balance. I put a hand on the nearest building to steady myself, then shouted invectives at the man’s retreating back. He didn’t turn around.

His hostility was impregnable. I continued on my way.

The Social Security office was on the first floor of an office building from the 1920’s that also housed Oakland’s Unemployment services. I followed the signs

She wished that I was somebody else. Sometimes I wished the same thing. I hated people like her for making me feel that way.

She sounded like she was only half tired of it.

We were in the Laurel District now, one of the more fashionable parts of East Oakland. The sidewalks had gotten more crowded, full of people of all ages and colors, even some white people. A middle aged woman, a little fat, dressed in a hoodie and sweat pants, sat across from me and smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. She wished that I was somebody else. Sometimes I wished the same thing. I hated people like her for making me feel that way.

Before long there were white people getting on the bus too. Dressed and made up casually, I supposed that these were what you call ‘hipsters’. They looked so soft. There was something about them that inspired me to stare, as if I was so used to being on the receiving end of it that I’d grown to think it normal. I know it’s not normal. There was just something fascinating about all the folks I saw, the multitudes of categories they fell under, the menace, good cheer, or practiced neutrality they exhibited. I hoped that the young man who had harassed me in front of my building wouldn’t be there when I got back. But who knows how long a person like him would keep up with his nefarious activities.

The bus left East Oakland not too much later.

We circled sparkling Lake Merritt via Grand Avenue and arrived downtown. I got off at 14th and Broadway. Ac-

16 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

to the office I was looking for, which was just off of the lobby. Cheap, ugly fluorescent lighting illuminated the place. There were rows of chairs with about ten people seated in them, facing a row of desks bisected and divided from the public by a transparent wall of plastic glass. There was a short line of elderly folk waiting to be serviced.

The line took about fifteen minutes. I watched a soap opera on mute that was playing on a television built into the ceiling corner. When it was my turn to go forward I took my latest check and stub out of my pocket.

“How can I help you?” asked the woman with stringy brown hair behind the counter as she idly stapled together a packet of papers and slid them into a drawer.

“There’s a problem with my latest check,” I said, sliding the paper into the plastic-glass’s opening where it met the desk.

“Can I see your ID and your Social Security card?”

I took them out of my wallet and slid them under the glass also.

“What seems to be the problem?” she asked, considering my identification and then looking me in the face.

“You got my name wrong.”

“We did what?”

“Look. See?” I said, pointing at the check. “My name is Leo Jassden.”

“Yes,” she said, looking where I was pointing.

“That’s not what it says here.”

“No it’s not.”

“So that’s the problem. How am I supposed to deposit my check if the name’s wrong?” I asked, smiling congenially.

She looked at my identification, looked again at the check.

“But sir,” she said, “the names match.”

“Come again?”

“The name on your Social Security card, on your state ID, they match the name on your check. Dominic Fredericks.”

“Who?” “Dominic Fredericks, sir. And you sure look like the picture on your ID to me,” she said, pointing to the picture.

“Dominic Fredericks,” I mouthed, and looked down at my ID. Indeed, there was the face I’d seen so many times in the mirror: drawn, lined, weathered, bald at the top with a fringe of white hair. And there was the name, Dominic Fredericks, which, now that I thought about it, sounded altogether familiar.

“Leo Jassden,” I mouthed the phantom name.

“How on Earth…?”

I felt embarrassed, as if someone had played a trick on me. I had come all this way for nothing. I had forgotten my own name. I guess it had been too long a time since I’d heard anyone say it.

“Leo Jassden,” I repeated. “I must have read it in the paper or something.”

“It’s the name of our State Senator,” the woman explained, still smiling.

“Senator Jassden,” I mouthed. “I know I’m not that.”

I reached for the paperwork and the woman slid them under the glass toward me.

“I wish I could help you,” she said, and sounded like she meant it.“At least it’s a problem we don’t have to fix,” she offered.

This struck me as too much. She was trying to commiserate with me, as if I needed commiseration. I didn’t need commiseration. Not from a total stranger.

“It’s a problem no one can fix you dumb cow,” I said. “Now give me my things and let me out of here.”

“Don’t you call me names, sir,” she said pointedly.

“I’ll say whatever I damn well feel like,” I said, now looking her in the eye, shoving my identification

back in my wallet, the check back in my pocket. “I fought in the war, ma’am. I’ve earned the right to some respect.”

“No one’s disrespecting you.”

“Damn right!” I said, quite ineffectually. “This society’s forgot the people that owe them.”

“You’re the one that made the mistake, sir.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” I thundered.

“Okay. I’m done here. I wish I hadn’t come all this way in the first place. A man my age shouldn’t have to take care of these things alone.”

“I’m in complete agreement with you, sir.”

“Goodbye. Thanks for your consideration,” I said, ironically.

The woman only smiled back at me.

I left the Social Security office in a daze, crossed the street and found a bus stop that had the number eighty-four. But how could I be sure that it was the right number? Everything was suspect now. I sat on the bench with my head down and my hands in my pockets.

No one could see, no one could tell, but tears had come to my eyes. How had so many years gotten away from me? I’d worked in the Civil Service. I attended college. I fought in the war. I remembered all that. But since retirement everything wasa blur, the days, weeks, months, indistinct and shapeless. They say the number one killer of old people is retirement. Was I living proof of this adage?

The bus arrived. I boarded. A fat white man with a mustache and wearing a green and gold A’s cap was sitting behind the wheel. He watched me pay my fare, and then I walked into the bus to take a seat by the window about half the length back. The bus was pretty full.

As it snaked its way through the streets to MacArthur Boulevard it lost and gained passengers at a steady rate, and, the inverse of what happened on the way here, the average skin tone of the riders became darker, the clothes cheaper. I was returning to my netherworld, away from anyone who looked like me, from anyone who acted like me, from anyone who was educated like me or appreciated literature like me, evicted from hospitable shores. How had I ended up here? I couldn’t remember that either. I think it had something to do with government subsidies.

We’d reached the Laurel District, and stopped across the street from the Oakland Ballet School. I watched a little white girl and her little black girlfriend get on the bus. They were beautiful, the one with frilly blonde hair, wearing a skirt and leotard, the other with a cascade of dark curls flowing from her head to the middle of her back. They took their seats in front of me and started talking to each other but I couldn’t quite hear

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 17

them over the bus’s engine. Smiling animatedly, they were turned toward each other as if they were going to play a game of patty cake. I felt something like jealousy looking at them, their whole life before them, the freedom of many years to come. They were so beautiful, so pure. I couldn’t look away.

The bus was emptying out. The little girls kept talking to each other, childish smiles on their beautiful faces, oblivious to the miserable people around them. I wished I could be so lucky. No, I was only too aware of those who didn’t appreciate associating with a person who looked like me.

The bus kept on exchanging passengers, one to two blocks at a time. I was trying to listen to the girls, as I found their innocence a sort of antidote to everything else. But then, when the bus pulled over at fifty-fifth avenue, I saw a very particular kind of man get on.

His skin was dark, but so grimed over it was almost grey. He wore a large Raiders puff coat, torn and ragged and dirty at the shoulders, like it had recently spent time smeared heavily into the ground. He had a dark green backpack slung over one shoulder, and a mottled, salt and pepper beard that blurred the lines of his chin and neck. He paid his fare, transferring the change from his pocket one coin at a time, then patted the bus driver on the shoulder and turned towards the rest of the bus. Taking no time to survey his surroundings he lurched down the aisle. He walked in fits and starts, and was obviously drunk. His stink assaulted my nostrils. Like me, it was probably little more than habit that kept him going every morning. But, unlike me, he was dangerous. You could tell by the look in his eyes.

I saw him sight the girls. His black eyes settled on them and his footsteps paused.

The bus pulled out into the street.

The man looked about himself like he was about to do something he didn’t want anyone to see. I was reading him like a book, but had he seen me? Our eyes hadn’t locked, and I was staring right at him. I suppose next to the beauty of the two girls, still facing each other, smiling and laughing, I was hard to see. Even in my white skin I didn’t stand out as much as they did. He knew what wasn’t like him, what needed defiling. It was a compulsion of long-ingrained impotence that I recognized.

He continued to make his way down the aisle. He crashed into the seat across from the girls. The black girl was closest to him, and she looked over her shoulder at him a moment before turning back to her friend. The two shared a giggle, hiding their mouths with their hands.

“What you laughing at?” I heard the monster say

18 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

in a low, gravelly voice.

I sat up. My heart was racing. I recalled killing the young man in France.

“I said what you laughing at?”

“Nothing mister,” the black girl said over her shoulder. “We’re just playin’ around.”

“I ain’t nothing to laugh at. You girls should know better.”

“Hey!” I said. “Leave them alone.”

The monster looked at me, stared hollowly into my eyes.

“I’ll speak to whoever I damn well feel,” he rumbled.

The girls turned around, noticed me, then turned and faced forward, not speaking to each other any more.

“You don’t want none of this old man,” said the gray man, staring me down. “You don’t know where I been my whole life.”

I didn’t answer him. I tried to return his gaze. I wanted to draw him away from the girls, whose attention he clearly craved.

“Where you two headed?” the monster said, facing the girls again.

The girls didn’t acknowledge him.

“HEY!” he called out, causing a stir from the passengers further ahead on the bus. “I’m talking to you!”

“Really mister, we’re just on our way home,” said the white girl, leaning forward and looking past her friend.

“What you doing living around here? This ain’t the neighborhood for two little girls like you.”

“I could have told you the same thing,” I interjected, drawing the monster’s attention once again. The girls continued to ignore me.

“What you want old man? I ain’t talking to your cracker ass.”

“Nothing,” I answered. “Just to ride in peace.”

“I ain’t riding no other way,” he said.

“Something going on back there?” I heard someone up front say. The gray man appeared not to notice.

The girls were talking to each other in whispers.

Then they stood up.

“We’re getting off here,” said the black girl. “You two have a good day.”

“What’s that?!” called out the man. “You two don’t need to leave on account of me.”

The girls walked past him. He turned his body towards them as they passed.

“This is our stop,” said the white girl quietly.

“Well guess what,” he said, standing up. “This my stop too.”

“No it’s not,” I said, standing up along with him

and blocking his access to the girls.

“Hey you leave them be!” someone called out.

“Old man, you best let me pass.”

“Or what?” I said. “You’re gonna hit me?”

The bus came to a stop.

“What the hell’s going on back there?”

“There’s two men fighting.”

“I’m calling the cops.”

“Break them up first! There’s children back there.”

The gray man walked up on me. He was probably in his 50s. He was solid, well built. His eyes were wide and flat, emotionless and purposeful.

“Open the door please!” The white girl called out.

“Don’t you two girls go nowhere!” the man suddenly shouted and lunged forward, pushing me aside.

The girls screamed. The bus erupted into roars of disapproval.

The man grabbed the white girl around the waist.

“The motherfucker’s gotten away,” I heard someone say.

“Call an ambulance,” said someone else.

I opened my eyes. I saw the little black girl, sitting back in her seat, looking shell-shocked. I might have spared her friend a terrible experience or worse. Her eyes were filled with admiration. Seeing such a look was truly a foreign sensation.

A crowd of passengers had gathered around me.

“You okay, sir?” I heard someone say.

I closed my eyes and nodded.

“Maybe I’m not so useless after all,” I said.

“You seen that man before?”

I shook my head.

“Yeah, me neither.”

“Little girl’s probably frightened to death.”

“They went different ways though,” someone else said.“At least he’s not still after her.”

“You okay sweetie?”

The bus driver, his silhouette illuminated with a halo from the yellow sun coming through the windows, was kneeling down next to me.

I grabbed the man around the neck and tried to put him in a headlock but he was too big for me. The door of the bus opened and the man started down the stairs, taking me and the girl with him.

“STACY!” called out her friend.

“HELP ME!” the little girl screamed.

In an attempt to answer her call, I tightened my grip on the man’s neck and bore down. I heard him choke. After a moment’s struggle (we were all still on the bus) he let the girl go and she ran screaming onto MacArthur Boulevard. I watched her go and felt a brief ray of optimism because I had just done something good.

“Motherfucker!” the man mumbled, then took hold of the arms around his neck and effortlessly pried them loose. A moment later I was flattened on the floor of the bus with a wet, crunching explosion to my nose.

The man fled down the stairs, but, I saw, ran in the opposite direction down MacArthur as the girl had.

I was breathing heavily from the struggle. I smiled. When was the last time I’d done something like that? I couldn’t remember. But my heroism had not been without cost. A throbbing pain afflicted my nose, made its way to my chest and my brain. Maybe I was going to die.

There was no response.

“Okay! Everyone off the bus. The next eightyfour should be about twenty minutes from now.”

I opened my eyes but the world was swimming indistinctly.

The bus driver, his silhouette illuminated with a halo from the yellow sun coming through the windows, was kneeling down next to me.

“Don’t worry, sir. I’ve called an ambulance. They should be here soon.”

“Where am I?” I wondered out loud, having forgotten.

“You’re on the eighty-four bus. MacArthur Boulevard.”

“Am I dying?”

“No you’re not.”

But my head and heart hurt something fierce.

“Did the little girl get away?”

“I think she did. I didn’t see the whole affair.” He paused, then said: “Did you get a good look at the man who attacked you?”

“But I attacked him.”

“You can tell the police that when they get here.”

I closed my eyes and drifted off. When I opened them I was being loaded onto an ambulance. I supposed

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 19

that this day hadn’t been for naught after all. Even people like me could sometimes have purpose. I hoped I would never see the gray man again, but I wished the opposite in regards the girls. I will never forget the look on the little black one’s face after I’d saved her friend. I hoped neither of them would ever forget me.

On the way to the hospital I drifted into sleep.

They told me later that I’d suffered a broken nose, and they fitted me with a metal and plaster bandage I was to wear all day for several weeks. My life continued as it had before my trip to and from downtown. I avoided the gangsters on the corner, but continued to collect my newspaper from the sidewalk, and read books in my easy chair. My life seemed to have found new meaning.

Now I knew what I was actually capable of: tangible good deeds. But, as the days came and went, the memory receded further and further into the past, and I found with some horror that, once again, I’d forgotten my own name. I picked up names from the television and the newspaper, but it wasn’t me. I couldn’t trust my own memory.

I took the bus to Highland Hospital to get my nose worked on. They removed the caste, and I took the bus back. It was quite rare to see little children on the bus alone. What I had seen was an aberration of faulty

parenting. I would, most likely, never have to rise to such an occasion again, though a part of my wished otherwise.

I tried to maintain what I knew was a tenuous grip on reality. Maybe I would just die and get it over with. What else was I living for, anyway? I had to continue to remind myself what was true and what wasn’t, like my name, Dominic Fredericks, which was real, and that field in France, which wasn’t.

I suppose there are things in the world worth holding onto. Illusions are not one of those things. It’s better to be honest with yourself, even when honesty is inconvenient or hurtful. People tell themselves things that they wish were true; people see what they want to see, hear what they want to hear. I was no different. But maybe, just maybe, as I passed my days I would find another chance to do something right. After all, good things come to those that wait, and that was one thing I knew I was good at: waiting. I could wait my whole life, and be ready when the moment comes to step up. At least now, after the gray man and the little girls, I knew that I was capable. I would live one day at a time with some purpose now, and wait for another like situation to present itself. Anything was possible, right? []

ANTAL POLONY is a 32-year-old writer born and raised in Oakland, CA. He earned his BA in English from Tulane University, and grew up playing classical piano. He has been published in the literary annual Between These Shores, and in a zine produced by the Shut Up & Write group. Author Dave Eggers called him a “former student with breakout potential” in SF Magazine. www.antalpolony.com

20 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

POETRY

I’m Eight

RAJNISH MISHRA

I’m eight.

Now, that I’ve seen eight, nine, I’m sure, will not be as fine as they write in those tales.

Tales are just tales, I know, I’m eight.

So, they talk to me, I listen, and nod, then I do what I want.

I’ve seen when I wait long enough their talks do end and they leave.

Sometimes I look at them, look not listen, and think of all I’ll do after the talk ends.

Then I wait, and wait some more, and they leave.

I am made to sit in a corner, punished, grounded.

So I wait, and wait, and they leave.

Then I play, alone, in my corner, book in my hand.

I’m safe, punished, and alone, while they think I’m reading as ordered. []

What’s the Harm?

My mobile’s memory stores details, but it’s old.

It’s not smart, my mobile, and old.

I don’t delete some numbers.

They’re dead, I’ve been told.

Not the numbers.

I thought to call, once at least, at least one of them, then I did not call.

What if I made that call Tomorrow?

Tonight? now?

Is it too late now?

Sometimes I think I should give it a go.

What’s the harm? []

RAJNISH MISHRA is a poet, writer, translator and blogger born and brought up in Varanasi, India and now in exile from his city. His work originates at the point of intersection between his psyche and his city. He edits PPP Ezine.

Photography: Ca tharina

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 21

SHORT STORY

COLIN S. BRADLEY

SOMETHING

Blue

The ancient wizard moaned in his sleep, his thin hands clutched the thin, tattered blanket and rivulets of sweat dripped upon his stained pillow. The dream was always the same, the youthful upstart that had named himself king stood upon Slaughter Bridge near the end of the great battle, waving the sword and screaming like some kind of slow witted idiot.

Slow witted or not, Arthur and his supporters fought ferociously and Mordred was lucky to have escaped with his life. The desperate and starving populace had blindly accepted the annoying upstart the second he’d removed the sword from the stone and the rage in their hearts lent power to their arms thus ensuring the battle at Camlann had been lost long before swords were drawn and arrows loosed, even so the fight had been brutally fought and the blood stained grass lie testament to the carnage and lent further credibility to the aptly named bridge. Like many that day, the ancient one lie wounded on the battle field, life blood leaking out to seep into the black British soil, his numer-

22 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

ous injuries engaged in their own mighty struggle against the powerful healing spell that he administered to himself in the hours before his arrival.

Luckily, his wounds had closed and by eventide the wizard found himself limping toward the border of The Barrowood his face hidden deep with the hood of his heavy black cloak. He couldn’t go home to the castle and his laboratory deep within the dark corridors underneath the dungeons as new management had taken over Camelot. His devices, jars and collections were lost to him now, countless years of acquiring and summoning were now gone and rage consumed him.

Finally, after hours of walking, stopping frequently to catch his breath, the wizard threw back the hood on his cloak and beheld the Barrowood as it loomed before him. The legendary forest was off limits to all as over the centuries many wood-be adventurer entered the wood only to never be seen or heard from again. Stories of Elves, Sprites and child stealing Trolls within the ancient forest occupied late night story time at local taverns and many a night he’d sat beside the peat fire, disguised and clutching a mug of ale listening to the liquor fuelled tavern talk.

Standing now before the Wood, he felt a raw apprehension that he was unaccustomed too as he gazed upon the ancient timber, twisted boughs and gnarled limbs that seemed to capture the light of the waning day and reduce it to a darkened mist that blanketed the way within. There was no trail or road to be seen so the wizard drew his hood back on, clutched his staff and took his first step into darkness.

He awoke with a start, threw off his blanket and stood naked, fists clenched in fury as he recalled the details of the reoccurring dream, the violence of the battle and the flaming pot of pitch that had claimed his beard and hair.

He reached out and grabbed the cracked porcelain cup that sat atop the bedside table and lifting, drained the last of the dark wine. In truth it was more vinegar than wine but beggars can’t be choosers and he counted himself lucky to have found several bottles of the stuff and a few bottles of brandy

Photography: Reimund Bertra ms

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 23

hidden in the cellar of the aged tower that he’d stumbled upon after days of wandering in the darkened forest.

The tower stood gray and forgotten, a relic of a long forgotten time covered in thick, creeping vines and moss, it tilted dangerously southward but it had a mostly intact roof that kept the rain out and 3 floors of space that he could occupy.

As soon as the wine hit his belly it rumbled and he was immediately reminded that the priority of the day was food. He’d managed to collect some wild onions and few leeks that he’d boiled into a thin, bitter soup but that was 3 days ago and he hadn’t had anything since.

His body, though long lived was dependent upon food and drink unless he wished to enact a long sleep, a lengthy hibernation that he was in no way ready for yet.

One day it would be necessary but now was not the time, it was way too soon and despite his recent losses he was enjoying this plane.

He pulled on his breeches and doe skin boots in haste, eager to venture forth out of the tower and check the traps he’d set on a tiny, almost hidden game trail he’d discovered, a few area’s scattered with small bones gave him hope.

The first two deadfall traps yielded no more than morning dew however his spirit began to rise when he heard a rustling commotion as he approached his yet unseen third trap. He rounded a bend in the narrow trail and saw a red streak fly into the dense thicket and a startling shade of blue under the large flat stone that had been tripped. The wizard knelt down and lifted the heavy rock and beheld a small creature, man like in appearance as it had two arms, two legs a torso and a head.

It was about four inches long and the wizard was startled to see that it even wore a pair of little white pants and a little white pointed hat that fell to the ground as he lifted the diminutive fellow to get a better look.

“What have we here?” he muttered under his breath as he took a closer look. The blue color he’d noticed as he approached was the brilliant cerulean shade of the creature’s skin and the parts not covered by its small trousers stood in stark contrast to the leafy green and brown environment in which it made its home. He noted also that like everything else in this world, the creature bled a deep scarlet from a wound on his head caused by the falling stone. It was quite clearly dead and despite his curiosity the rumbling in his stomach put his questions on hold as he stood up to make his way back to the tower and an iron cook pot. A small glint caught his eye before he made to leave and he bent down and retrieved what appeared to be a small, intricate hand mirror that had obviously belonged to his kill. He picked it up and also grabbed the little hat that had fallen off

24 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

the creature and was amused to see it adorned with a tiny yellow flower. Turning to leave he stopped short in astonishment as he beheld a red colored house cat crouching on its haunches in the center of the game trail, blocking his way and staring at him silently. It was a large framed animal but he also noted it was thin from hunger and a slight quiver in its body conveyed anger at being robbed of a potential meal. Looking closer he saw a collar around its neck with a small metal tag that bore the letter A. Its narrowed and furious gaze gave the wizard pause and inspired him to skirt around it as he made his way home.

Mordred split a thin twig across his leg and added the pieces to the fire in the hearth. It was beginning to be a respectable blaze and his stomach growled in anticipation. His normally suspicious nature would never let him kill such a rare and curious creature but his intense hunger won the battle. He removed the small white trousers and noted that the creature displayed no genitalia whatsoever, it was a blank spot that required him to pierce its hindquarters with a skewer and drive it up through the body exiting the upper back just below the neck, leaving the head to sway when he placed it over the fire. Grabbing the handle he’d formed on the end of the hickory stake he slowly began to turn it round ensuring an even roast. After a few minutes the air in the decrepit tower was filling with the succulent odor of roasting meat. The wizard hastily withdrew the now brown skinned game and placing it on a chipped plate, withdrew the skewer. Slight bubbles of liquid dripped from both of the piercings and without another thought the starving wizard raised the dripping meat and bit deeply into the side. He was rewarded instantly when a scalding mixture of fat, entrails and bone hit his tongue. The combination of flavors caused him to gasp aloud and the blood from bone pierced cheeks only added to the exquisite bite. He hesitated to swallow, his desire to make the experience of tasting the little blue marvel last briefly overpowered his painful hunger. Before he knew it only the little head remained and with a shrug of his shoulders he popped it in his mouth, he brought his molars together with a loud crunch and an immediate rush of sweetness flooded within and as he swallowed the final pieces, only one thought remained, more.

Several hours later he lay upon his sleeping pallet his belly and thoughts full of dripping blue meat. He didn’t remember falling asleep and it seemed that no time had passed at all before he awoke to the misty dawn glow that crept into the chamber. Despite his comfort he had to make water desperately and made to rise only to discover that he couldn’t move. The cobwebs of sleep were drifting away rapidly and what

started as curiosity became concern when he realized with sickening clarity that during his slumber, someone had snuck into the tower and tied him to the pallet. He was able to raise only his head and in doing so beheld that his arms, legs and torso were lashed tight with over a hundred tiny leather cords that despite his now panicky efforts of trying to escape the unyielding bonds, held him completely bound and motionless. He also discovered, much to his additional consternation that he wasn’t alone. Every surface in the room, every windowsill, table and chair was occupied by the little blue skinned creatures. There must have been a hundred of them and they did not look happy. In fact, one of them looked murderous and his rage caused his little blue chest to heave. He must have been a leader of some sort Mordred surmised as he bore a tribal marking upon his arm in red. They must have a knowledge of the Art he surmised as he discovered that his fingers were also bound and he couldn’t form any incantations. He was, at

matt, plunging her blade into the top of his cheek. He let out a garbled yelp as she pulled the still buried knife downwards, opening the flesh on his cheek. At once three of the creatures jumped from the table, grabbing her and attempting to restrain the murderous blue terror. They managed to pull her off but not before she’d managed to open a large gash on the right side of his face. As they pulled her away struggling, he saw that she didn’t have her blade and assumed that it was still jammed into his bleeding cheek. He felt the hot blood as it leaked out and in a new found rage of his own he struggled mightily against his restraints to no avail. His anger was seeping out just as his life-blood was and it began to transform into an emotion that was unfamiliar to the wizard, a deep and real fear began to grow as he realized that he was truly helpless and at the mercy of these little murderous fucking gnomes.

When the little blue female had been removed from the scene, the shrill muttering of the group

The blue color he’d noticed as he approached was the brilliant cerulean shade of the creature’s skin and the parts not covered by its small trousers stood in stark contrast to the leafy green and brown environment in which it made its home. their mercy.

“Well hello my little friends!” He stammered, unnerved. At the sound of his voice a few of them looked to one another and whispered softly. Their squeaky little voices would have made the old one smile under other circumstances, but trapped as he was and the fact that he had consumed one of their own gave him pause in showing any disrespect. He smiled, “I don’t suppose any of you speak my words?”

As he looked closer at them he beheld that they all were very similar in appearance, they all had the same body, clothing and facial features. Looking closer from his cramped spot he did however note little differences between them. One had a vague, perhaps dim expression on his face, one carried a wicked looking thresher and one smaller fellow actually wore tiny little spectacles.

His gaze drifted towards the small night table that held his wine cup and he saw what looked to be a female of the breed approaching slowly, a violent rage in her countenance. While the males all wore white breeches and hats, the female wore the skin of an animal and had bright yellow hair tied up in a warriors top knot. She carried a miniscule blade that to him looked wickedly sharp. She came to the table’s edge and twisting her face in a rictus of fury, screamed and leapt onto the sleeping

stopped at once and they all began to chant a single word simultaneously. It started slow and quiet and rose in pitch as it continued. The word wasn’t familiar to the wizard but it sounded like they were chanting “Pata” over and over. The candles seemed to flare then diminish and Mordred beheld a single new figure on the windowsill, the streaming light of the morning sun obscuring any detail, but it was one of them, a new one to the group. The rest of the group erupted in a primal howl as the new one jumped from the window to the bedside table in one leap, covering an amazing distance for one so small. His second jump landed him on Mordred’s chest and he saw that this creature was the same as the others, but if his snowy white beard was any indication, much, much older. He also wore red pants and hat though they were of the same style.

He walked slowly towards the wizards head, never dropping his gaze. The look in his eye wasn’t anger or rage, in fact Mordred detected a hint of puzzling sadness and despite his fear a slight hunger was beginning to grow within.

“Dost thou speak in the common tongue?” The tiny creature asked softly.

“I do little one” Mordred replied, his mouth starting to water.

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 25

“Thy name?”

“I am called Mordred by some.” The wizard stated before thinking.

“Where is the one thou hast taken?” He asked, his gaze unwavering.

Mordred hesitated before answering, the look in the elder one’s eyes told him that he knew the truth anyway, “I hungered, I ate.” Was his reply.

A single small tear crept down the elder creature’s cheek disappearing into his beard as he slowly withdrew his own tiny blade from behind his back. “Mine child was not thine to consume” he whispered advancing.

“Wait!” The wizard stammered, trying to withdraw yet unable to move, “What is your name? Might we converse a bit more before your blade falls?!?”

The blue creature slowed his advance, “My name is known only to those before thee, mine children, mine own.” He raised his blade and the collective blue minions began to voice a soft hissing, “But thou may name me Skinner.” He stated as he began to cut.

Mordred’s scream was cut short when all of the sudden a boarded window in the south wall exploded in splinters and a red flash flew into the room and lit upon the floor. The red cat Mordred had seen in the forest howled in fury and grabbed two of the creatures in its jaws. It shook them violently and dropped the lifeless bodies to the stone floor, broken and ripped. The collective blue army attacked as one and lit upon the feline with a vengeance pulling tiny fistfuls of fur, striking over and again. The cat grabbed another of the attackers and

flung it directly into the last remaining bottle of brandy that shattered and knocked over a lit candle, a fireball erupted from the liquor and lit upon a few of the miniature attackers causing them and their brothers to shriek loudly. They moved as one towards the exits of the tower, jumping through and falling out the windows and door. The leader withdrew his red dripping blade and jumped to the floor to escape the burning tower, he reached the door and looked back towards the wizard who met his gaze.

“Soon, thou shalt pay thy debt, only thy flesh will amend…” he said and then was gone.

A bit of flame burned through a tether and within minutes, Mordred had freed himself with the female’s blade that he had pulled from his ruined cheek. He looked to the cat that once the fire was out, stretched languidly and curled up in front of the hearth and licked his many small wounds without a care.

Remembering the letter A on the cats collar he thought of a name that fit his new companion; “Azrael, the destroyer of worlds” he whispered softly.

He collected a few odds and ends to begin the intricate task of renaming himself, it was no easy feat but if the little gnome in red pants was a practitioner of his art, then it wouldn’t do for him to possess Mordred’s true name. As he worked his thoughts drifted unbidden to a gargoyle statue that he’d always admired that guarded the entrance to his former home he smiled as a name, foul to the ear began to form in his mind. []

C. SHAND BRADLEY was raised in the shadow of the Sierra Mountains in Northern Nevada. He spent his formative years hiking and camping amongst the towering pines and diving the chilly depths of Lake Tahoe. Since then he’s made a living tending bar, selling Chevy’s and serving as a Federal Police Officer in Washington DC. He has returned to the glory of the Sierras to write full time.

26 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

POETRY

EDILSON AFONSO FERREIRA

A Brazilian poet, EDILSON AFONSO FERREIR A, 75, writes in English rather than in Portuguese. Largely published in international journals in print and online, he began writing at age 67. He was nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2016. His first Poetry Collection – Lonely Sailor – is coming soon, scheduled to be launched in London, November 29th 2018, with one hundred poems. He blogs at www.edilsonmeloferreira.com.

Nocturnal Refugees - After “Night Hawks”, by Edward Hopper -

Night that brings with itself lack of love,

Cherished Desires I feel I could never be related to owls, bats and wolves, or other nocturnal animals.

I love at daylight to stare at the world face to face, entirely visualizing all its beauties.

I love the sunrise that dispels the blackness, exposing and revealing everything, without shame, measure or prudence.

I love to feel that we’re on the road again, to a future we aren’t aware of, but confident in one Almighty who, closely and amorously, hidden and discreet, maybe even shy, drives and guides all of us.

I love the noise of people on streets and alleys, corners and places, jointly seeking to move the hard wheels of time.

I prefer love vows made clearly under the sun than those made in the rapture of night passions.

I must confess that, on some sunny days and blue a sky, I dream of riding the winds high and high, looking for the lost realms of Paradise. []

hesitation on living, even fear, as escaping and fleeing from world’s demands.

Night passing far away from others not long ago, paraphrased by so many poets always praising, since ancient times, beauty of mutual warmth and human complicity.

People hidden in a furtive safety of a dull bar, unable to come out of their shells and share some good news, perhaps hidden desires or love secrets, yet distrust and uncertainties.

Yet unable to reach that souls’ communion, entire and unique humans’ purpose, fearful to break supposed barriers, walls and fences that separate us.

Where the firmness of our ancestors, never afraid to penetrate dangers of dark and haunted nights?

Where the joy and smiles, where the words that had spoken their dreams and drawn their desires?

Words and desires that built the world they bequeathed us which we are about to lose, deaf and dumb for its beauties.

Unhappy and disinterested, we will transfer to our sons only aridity and dryness, our aloofness and our despair. []

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 27

OPINION

LYNDA PRITCHARD NEWCOMBE

Learning a

Foreign Language Give up the idea of being perfect So you’d like to speak Spanish, French or Italian – or even Arabic? But you’ve convinced yourself you’re useless at languages. Rubbish!

I believe there is no such thing as a person who is not good at languages. And I’ve been teaching languages for over thirty years. There are just people who are motivated and willing to work and those who throw in the towel before the fun begins.

With repetition, you can learn about fifty useful phrases, some key vocabulary and pronunciation rules fairly quickly but, most of all, you need to be willing to

28 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

converse. The more you keep talking, the more you’ll improve. And if, say, a Spanish speaker tries to help you out by speaking English – get them back to Spanish quickly!

Learning to speak another language isn’t about talent but about self-belief. You need the confidence to take that risk of sounding foolish. And if you take one thing from this piece, it’s this – give up the idea of perfection.

Just be willing to keep talking. Make mistakes – but keep talking. Most people are not “useless” at languages.

They just give up too easily.

And don’t use Brexit as an excuse for quitting. We’ll

probably need other languages more after Brexit.

The journalist Matthew Syed, the England number one table tennis player for many years, argues in his book Bounce that when we think of success we often cling to myths about ability and talent. Matthew believes that it is practice, not talent that actually matters.

He describes how essential practice and hard work is for high achievers from the worlds of sport, music and chess and demonstrates that we can all accomplish many things that seem far beyond our current capabilities. It’s just a question of work and practice.

Matthew asks, ‘Where is the evidence for the pessimism emanating from those who make comments such as “I am not a natural linguist” or “I don’t have the brain for numbers” or “I lack the coordination for sport”?’ He believes it is often based upon nothing more than a few weeks or months of half-hearted effort.

I couldn’t agree more. I began teaching languages in 1982 and over the years I’ve seen many students give up. Like Matthew, I have noticed that the main reason is lack of work and practice time. They nearly always expect it all to happen as if by magic. By turning up each week at class they thought they would be able to become fluent speakers. Wrong!

Jack Nicklaus, arguably the most successful golfer of all time says: ‘Nobody, but nobody, has ever become really proficient at golf without practice, without doing a lot of thinking

and then hitting a lot of shots. It isn’t so much a lack of talent; it’s a lack of being able to repeat good shots consistently that frustrates most players.

And the only answer to that is practice.’

So do you want to speak another language enough to put in some time and effort? Great. You are half way there.

But how to succeed? First work on your nerves. You must be free of anxiety. If you are constantly worrying about what others think of you instead of using what you know and learning from your mistakes you won’t progress. Anxiety impairs performance.

In my experience students who are willing to take risks and experiment with language, even to the extent of making themselves look foolish, are often the more successful language learners in the long term.

So how do we eliminate the fear factor? ● Try to find one sympathetic fluent

Canvas: Garik Barseghyan Text Graphics: Mary Pahlke

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 29

•

•

•

•

speaker to give you practice opportunities even if it is just five minutes a few times a week. Saying what you’ve learned aloud as often as possible will really help. If you cannot find someone in your area speak on the phone or use Skype.

Have phrases ready such as “Please speak more slowly.” “Again, please.” “Please don’t turn to English. I want to learn language X.” And make sure you know like a parrot details about yourself – where you live, number of children, hobbies, likes and dislikes, holidays, work etc. and prepare questions to ask others about these topics.

Spend time sharpening up your pronunciation so that native speakers are able to understand you.

Think of people you know who speak English as a second language. It is so much easier to chat with them if their pronunciation is good even if they make lots of grammar mistakes, isn’t it? We have a friend who comes out with such gems as, “My wife she make chicken from India. She is a good cooker.” As his pronunciation is clear these gaffes don’t matter.

Build up a vocabulary as having a reservoir of words boosts confidence. Keep a small vocabulary book with you at all times in your bag or pocket and note down all new words you come across. Look at the book in odd moments while waiting for an appointment or for transport.

Make your language learning fun. Learn some songs and karaoke them on YouTube. Watch films. Use subtitles in the early stages.

•

•

Keep your eyes on your goal which could in many cases be chatting to the locals in your target language. Even more importantly, plan short term goals along the way. One week learn key words for food and drink, another learn the vocabulary for booking train and bus tickets.

Look back on these goals regularly to keep you motivated. Every month, look back at what you have learned and can do. Even if it is not as much as you hoped it is more than you could do one month earlier. You may not know all the words you hoped you would for food but you are really clear on your favorites – that’s progress.

Three things you must not do: Don’t be impatient and give up when life gets in the way. Keep going at bite size language sessions each day, spending a few minutes looking at your vocabulary book perhaps or listening to a song.

Don’t be daunted by the long road to fluency. Enjoy your creative journey rather than focussing on the length of the trip. Make each step of progress towards your goal fun.

Don’t be put off by fluent speakers who are impatient or laugh at you. There are plenty more fish in the sea and some of them speak the language you are learning.

It’s all about practice. It’s all about repetition and not giving up. You will speak another language if you follow these guidelines and stick at it. []

With an M.Ed. in Adult Education and a Ph.D in sociolinguistics, LYNDA PRITCHAR D NEWCO MBE’s main work background is in teaching languages. She has over thirty years’ experience teaching for many organizations including Cardiff University. She has written three books on using Welsh in the community and coauthored chapters in books on language learning, besides publishing many articles in popular magazines in English and Welsh on language learning, travel and cats. She was brought up in the South Wales valleys but now lives in Cardiff with her husband, Robert and her cat, Heidi Haf.

30 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

STORY

MARK BLICKLEY

EKPHRASTIC FICTION

Han’s Solo PHOTOGRAPHY

KEITH GOLDSTEIN

I’ve had this recurring Bridge Dream for nearly fifteen years. It first appeared one night after being exhausted by cram studying for my Bar Mitzvah. In this initial fantasy I was a swaddled infant left on the very beginning of a long and twisting walkway through a vibrant yet desolate forest. I was crying and there was blood from my bris seeping through the fabric covering my groin.

We don’t need to dig Freud up from his grave to figure out I was about to undergo a ritual of manhood, so I must’ve been thinking about the genital mutilation that first signaled my acceptance into the tribe. What’s quite disturbing about this recurring dream as it appears today is that after fourteen years of experiencing it, I’ve only move forward incrementally from the bloody infant that was first placed on this forest path, into a six year old boy that balks at moving forward. In the real world I’m about to turned twenty-eight.

and not to feel so shy and unworthy. I’m always terrified of saying the wrong thing. In High School I didn’t really have a girlfriend because I always hung out within this circle of friends that were both males and females. Most activities were communal, not individual dates. Recently I joined a dating app called Bumble. On Bumble only women can initiate first contact which I like because it reduces the stress of rejection, yet I’ve been registered on this app for five months and have yet to receive a single hit.

I’m presently undergoing E.M.D.R. (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing) therapy, which also includes hand tapping and listening to ambient sounds, like ocean waves, via headphones that seesaw these sounds from ear to ear to promote a kind of aural hypnosis. One of the side effects of this treatment is that it can cause vivid, realistic dreams, but my recurring dream happened years before I entered therapy. My

Every day there’s somebody crying out what privileged assholes we Millennials are, so I always feel pressured to pretend I’m happy.

My name’s Han because my parents are both Star Wars freaks and the worship of this film series is the only real religion practiced in my household. They obviously were not the only disciples. When I was in Pre -K, there was another boy named Han as well as a girl named Leia.

What’s strange about my abandoned boy at the bridge recurring dream is that it’s always just a prologue to whatever else I’ll be dreaming that night. This winding walkway always introduces whatever anxious or peaceful visions my brain has decided to focus on that night---nightmare, erotic ecstasy, exciting adventures, idyllic beauty.

These days in my dream I am a first-grader who is really hesitant about moving forward, but I also see it as my feet turning into the classic ballet 4th position. My mother taught ballet for years so perhaps my foot position on the bridge is a nod to her. Once again I don’t need to disinter Freud to figure out this bridge snakes into a representation of my life’s journey. By the way, did you know that babies double their birth size by age five months? Yet in my recurring dream I remained a crying, bleeding infant for years ---no physical growth, no emotional growth.

I’m a bit confused about relationships with women. My testosterone tells me to be more aggressive

32 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

therapist insists I keep a journal between sessions in order to maintain the session’s progress she insists is occurring.

My shrink Martha works for the V.A. but please don’t think I’m some sort of Veteran war hero suffering from PTSD. I never even enlisted in the War Against Christmas, yet I’ve never known a world without suicide bombings, school shootings and acts of terrorism that take place in my backyard, not in some distant land.

Martha is also an ordained Lutheran pastor but she never mentions God in any of our sessions.

I tell Martha I’m so sick of reading/hearing reasons why Millennials can’t grow up. My shrink calls it a “First World” problem not unique to young men my age. I am depressed and anxious all the time but don’t know why. I am always smiling and laughing at jokes I don’t think are funny so people won’t discover how unhappy I am. I feel like I’m faking everything. Being an adult to me means not doing things you enjoy doing, yet that’s nuts because my parents still act like kids at Star Wars Conventions.

Why am I so miserable? I had everything I was supposed to need while growing up--- emotional and financial security, a good education and now I have a more than decent paying job. I do feel guilty that they are so many less fortunate than me and know it is un-

manly to be so constantly sad. Every day there’s somebody crying out what privileged assholes we Millennials are, so I always feel pressured to pretend I’m happy.

My shrink says I should spend less time always surrounding myself with people and more time being alone, even if it means being bored at first. But I can’t relax by myself. I tried all different kinds of things, but I can’t slow down my goddamn anxious thoughts. I’ve tried drugs, porn, video games and even different kinds of meditation—Zen Meditation with mindfulness on breathing and intentionally focusing on the moment.

Then I did Metta meditation to focus on a loving kindness towards myself as well as empathy for other people.

In my final workshop I studied Sufi mediation to try to achieve mystical union with a Supreme Being.

In every class and workshop I’ve taken, I seem to be the only one who can’t obtain this metaphysical knowledge and peace. I would often comfort myself in class by thinking my fellow students are just bullshitting their enlightenment to try to make me feel like shit---but thoughts like that defeat the entire purpose of meditation, which is to get to know myself and pull away from the outside world to focus on my inner world, instead of blaming everyone else for my failure. Do you understand how fucked up a person I am? Hell, I even get sad deleting old tweets because it feels like I’m flushing away a big part of who I was and who I am.

Last month Martha suggested I try using a weighted blanket that applies deep pressure touch. She says it simulates the feeling of being comforted, like a swaddled baby, and is supposed to help my insomnia and anxiety. So instead of fighting my anxieties like a real man, I retreat into acting like a fucking baby again, all tucked inside my crib beneath a blanket with 30 pounds of pellets sewn into it. So far it hasn’t worked.

When I ask Martha how she arrives at the concept of what exactly my emotional age is, she turns the question back on me and asks what do I believe is my

emotional age? I tell her I don’t know anything except first my dick is snipped at birth and then as I advance in life I have my balls constantly broken by social proclamations that I MUST BE SUCCESSFUL! I worry I’ll never live up to my own expectations. I grew up being told I could be anything I wanted to be, but I’m coming to the realization that I’m not as smart, talented or special as I thought I was and that fuels an obsession with having to succeed. My friends and I seem to be growing up poorer than our parents.

My Mom and Dad can afford to go to Star Wars conventions all over the world but my important travel plans are still handcuffed by student loans.

I get incredibly stressed over not being able to find a WiFi spot, forgetting passwords to online accounts, the buffering sign when I’m streaming online— it’s like taunting me that my life is going in circles, like the areola of a maternal tit. I stress when unable to find my T.V. remote just as my favorite Netflix show is starting.

Why am I unable to advance past the age of six in my recurring dream? Is it because I’m a victim of helicopter parenting? During my childhood my Mom and Dad hovered over every experience and problem I had growing up. Cell phones are the longest umbilical cords in the world. I was taught to be afraid of strangers, playing sports, sexual contact. Is that why they claim we Millennials act more like children than adults?

This outburst of self-pity is very tiring, so I’m going to disappear under my state of the art weighted blanket and hope tonight is the night it crushes my recurring dream of being a child stranded on a spooky bridge inside a dying, primeval forest. And if my heavy blankie is unable to extinguish the dream, perhaps when I wake up I will have at least gained a year of emotional age so I will be a seven year old boy on that walkway, just three quarters away from achieving my true age of twenty-eight. []

MARK BLICKLEY is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild and PEN American Center as well as the recipient of a MacArthur Foundation Scholarship Award for Drama. He is the author of Sacred Misfits (Red Hen Press), Weathered Reports: Trump Surrogate Quotes from the Underground (Moira Books) and the forthcoming text based art book, Dream Streams (Clare Songbirds Publishing). His video, Widow's Peek: The Kiss of Death, was selected to the 2018 International Experimental Film Festival in Bilbao, Spain. He is a 2018 Audie Award Finalist for his contribution to the original audio book, Nevertheless We Persisted.

KEITH GOLDSTEIN is a freelance photographer and photo editor in New Y ork City. Keith began exhibiting his photography since the1980's. His work has appeared in many publications including ABC News Australia, Now Public, Flak Magazine, JPEG Magazine, Time. His work is included various private collections and in the Erie Art Museum, Brooklyn Museum, and the S.K. Neuman Culture Center, Brno, Czechoslovakia. www.keithgoldstein.me

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 33

Photographer Keith Goldstein's Arcadia Forest photograph of his son

POETRY

LYNN WHITE

Breaking Through It needs strength to break new ground when it’s as hard and solid as silence.

Or so I thought.

It needs strength to break through, to break the mould and reform.

Or so I thought.

But just suppose, the ground gives up it’s power and allows the colour to break through, bright so the delicate flowers can form, can bloom, can flourish fragile.

Will they then open up through the self shattered soil, and melt the frozen silence to make a space, an opening for a warmth, that will shatter even ice.

I think so. []

Out Of Sight Sometimes you just can’t see it a case of the wood hiding the trees, perhaps or the elephant sitting ignored in the centre of the room while everyone skirts round it unseeing.

Maybe that’s the best way to hide there in full view no one will notice until the lion roars and the chickens come home to roost on their perch of cliches. []

Daisies Unchained We buried our dreams beneath a wreath of daisies freed from their chains to mark the grave temporarily.

Waiting for each daisy death to hide them for ever, unless someone has the key that will release them and make them flower again. []

Lizard The lizard ran out quickly.

He sat on a rock and looked up slowly checking the progress of the sun.

It suited him so he stayed and stayed soaking up the warmth relaxing.

Relaxed but alert only moving when disturbed by food or danger moving quickly then back into his hideaway. []

LYNN WHITE lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined, and exploring boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for a Pushcart and her poems have appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Indie Soleil, Light Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com Photography: Samuel Zeller

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 35

FICTION

EDWARD AHERN

Echoes

of Silence

Art: Pu rple Fashion Tales by JR Korpa

Abbot Gregory watched Alan Carstairs shiver in his chair. It was November and the stone monastery walls and slate floors encouraged cold.

Gregory’s forehead wrinkled up into his bald pate.“What is your purpose with brother Tobias?”

“We need his special gift.”

“Pardon?”

“Toby was a maestro, a wizard of interrogation. Until he got religion-no offense- he was our best at crawling inside a suspect’s head and dragging out his secrets.”

Gregory pushed his chair back away from his desk and Carstairs by several inches. “We’re recluses, not sadists.”

“Father—“ “I’m a brother, not a priest.”

“Brother Gregory. We’d pick him up, and bring him back in three days, four tops. We would pay the monastery one hundred fifty thousand dollars, which I believe could be put to urgent use.”

Gregory stood up and half-turned his back to Carstairs. “Use your own people.”

“Our best already failed. Carstairs compressed his lips. “The questioning will take place with or without him. May I talk with him before I leave? In your presence of course.”

Carstairs glanced around at the shelf-loads of old books. His expression suggested he suspected paper lice and bookworms.

Gregory sighed, a decision made. “Please wait here.

Feel free to look through any of the books on the shelves.” The Abbot retrieved his cane and shuffled out 36 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

of the office.

Fifteen minutes later Gregory returned with a tonsured monk. “Hello Toby,” Carstairs said. “You’ve lost weight. Wish I could.” Tobias nodded, saying nothing.

Gregory sat back down across from Carstairs.

“Brother Tobias is under a discipline of silence.”

Carstairs’ smile was tense. “Toby, I know we didn’t part well, but it’s Brian. We finally caught the bastard, but our interrogators can’t break him. We’ll give you six month’s pay for four days’ work, in addition to what I

promised the abbot. You can donate it if you want. Please, Toby. We’re desperate. I’m desperate. We’ll provide whatever you need.”

Tobias put his left finger tips to his lips, then pointed the hand at Abbot Gregory.

“Permission to speak, Brother Tobias.”

Tobias cleared his throat twice. “It’s Tobias now, not Toby. The job broke me, Alan, and I’m done with it. You already know my methods.”

“We couldn’t get the mix right, too many negative consequences.”

Tobias flinched. He’d left because of fatal consequences.

Tobias glanced at Gregory. The Abbot’s expression was impassive, but Tobias knew how badly they needed the money.

Carstairs also showed no emotion. A room full of poker pros and I’m the mark. But it’s Brian.

“If I could crack him, you’d agree to release him with fresh documentation. All terms in writing and witnessed. And a guarantee that this is the last thing you’ll ask.”

“You know we don’t allow any paper trails…”

“In writing or no deal.”

“Jesus. All right. Abbot, do we have your blessing to use Toby, ah, Tobias?”

Abbot Gregory looked like a hockey fan who’d lost track of the puck, but recovered. “Yes, given brother Tobias’ assent.”

Tobias ushered Carstairs out and then returned to the abbot’s office. Abbot Gregory’s bony frame had sunk back into his chair.

“Your task is odious, brother Tobias, like flushing out our latrines. Patriotism aside, your service provides us with power and heat for months. I’m sorry you’re immersed in this spiritual cesspool, but your faith can save you from being soiled by it.”

Tobias stood in silent dissent. Gregory, in his ignorance, was wrong. Tobias knew what he needed to do and that God wouldn’t be taking part. The wages of sin are generous, but maybe not atonable. *** Brother Tobias waited outside under the arched entryway to the monastery. He stared at the stubbled corn fields across the road. It was just above freezing in Orange County, New York and the sodden wind blew through his wool robe as if it were gauze. His hands began to ache, and he put down his small overnight bag to rub them together.

He’s packed one change of underwear and sandal socks, planning on hand washing that day’s linens each evening. Even with a breviary and small wooden cross in the bag there was room to spare. Poverty has its advantages.

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 37

A gray SUV arrived. The driver said only “Seatbelt, please,” during the forty-minute ride, but was edged out

by Tobias’ complete silence. The ride ended at a brick office building notable for barred windows and paintedover glass. Tobias pushed the buzzer next to the fauxwood metal door and waited.

“Identify yourself.”

Tobias said nothing but turned his face toward the security camera mounted above the door.

“Identify yourself, I said! Oh, the monk. Wait a second, while I get hold of your escort.”

Perhaps a minute later the door buzzed and swung back a few inches, then was pulled completely open by another bulging sport coat who studied him while holding a picture. “Brother Tobias? I understand you don’t talk. Come with me.”

Just inside the door was a security station with a conveyer x-ray. Once frisked and zapped, Tobias was escorted to Carstairs’ office. The massive wood desk suggested seniority if not authority. “Please sit down, Toby. I’ll take you to your room when we’re finished.

The cafeteria is closed, but I can get someone to raid the refrigerator if you’re hungry.”

Tobias shook his head no. He used his left palm and right index finger to indicate writing on a tablet.

“Of course, here’s a tablet. I can read what you write on my computer and phone.”

Tobias fired up the machine and began to type. ‘Will stay mute except for his questioning. You have drugs I asked for?’

“Of course. The first interrogation is scheduled for 8:30 tomorrow morning. The polygraph equipment is set up. What else do you need?”

Tobias resumed typing. ‘Just caffeine& coke shot pre-polygraph. If he beats machine, need go to delusion and pain procedures. Need to check out machine this eve.’

Carstairs looked up from his computer screen. “No problem. You know how sorry I am about that thing four years ago. We screwed up. But if this goes well I think I can get you back on the team…”

‘No chance,’ Tobias tapped. ‘You know he’ll be damaged goods by time I’m done?’

“Can’t be helped. Follow me to the exam room.” *** Tobias was normally asleep by 9:00, but the warm room and soft bed made him restless. Like his thoughts.

Can I justify going Judgement Day on him? Can I stay spiritually fit if I do this? Maybe and not a chance.

He washed his underwear in the bathroom sink and draped it over a radiator to dry. Then he prayed, first for

38 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

Brian, then for his fellow brothers, and lastly for himself. The next morning a uniformed guard approached Tobias as he was finishing off some leather-skinned scrambled eggs.

“Come with me please.”

Brian was already cuffed to his chair and further cuffed with polygraph sensors. His hair was unkempt and greasy.

“Hello agent Toby.”

Tobias cleared his throat. “Hello Brian. Been awhile. You’ll be questioned using techniques and drugs you’re not trained to counter. If I don’t believe what you say during the first session, we’ll move on to more painful drugs and techniques. I’ll be wired into your responses- pulse, respiration, brain activity. I’ll sense your pain. And your lies. If you refuse to answer, or garble, or prate nonsense, you’ll be electroshocked. Like this.”

Tobias pushed a button, and Brian’s body convulsed, his head snapping back and forth.

“Hurts like hell, doesn’t it? Avoid the pain, answer the questions.”

Brian shrugged off the residual pain and glared at him.

Tobias admired his obstinance. It’s good to be set against a professional, more satisfying. Then guilt flushed over him. Have I already turned back into Torquemada?

“It’s a metered flow of caffeine and cocaine, Brian.

You’ll think you’re having a heart attack. You’re aren’t, quite.”

Brian’s look was pressurized hate pushing to burst loose. “What’s with the funeral dress, Toby boy?”

“It’s Tobias now. Until yesterday I was a monk, growing vegetables.”

“Well, my pious farmer, when I get out of here I’ll make arrangements about you.”

Healthy attitude. Tobias signaled to an assistant who wired and pressure cuffed him so he could viscerally sense Brian’s reactions.. The drugs already had Brian trembling. making it difficult for him to maintain his counter-interrogation training.

“Let’s begin. Please state your name.”

He leered at him. “Brian Peabody, you cretin.”

Tobias briefly shocked him. “No editorial content, please. Where do you live?”

As the preliminary questions droned on, Tobias could feel the man tensing. He’s done this several times before, knows the trap questions will come in the middle of the easy ones.“Have you ever stolen classified information?”

Brian paused to stabilize himself. “No.” Even in his agitated state, Tobias sensed only faint quivers in Brian’s readings. He’s good. But shadings, a slight change of expression, a shift in Brian’s focus, an

inflection in tone, told Tobias that he wasn’t truthful.

He’d broken Russian agents trained to beat polygraph examinations, but sensed Brian was better. Hopefully these drugs are enough.

As the questioning continued Tobias grudgingly admired Brian’s Zen-like composure. I’m interrogating you by a book you’ve already read. Where are you in there?

Tobias adjusted the drug inflow as the interrogation continued. Brian had begun to sweat after the first fifteen minutes, and Tobias felt the readings get less precise as the skin contacts moistened.

Despite the drugs, Brian beat the machine. But not Tobias. He leaned toward him as their machine hook ups were being disconnected. “Brian, I have to congratulate you. That was very, very good. Too good in fact. We both know the questions you fudged. Tomorrow we’ll try a different approach. It has serious side effects that I’d like to spare you.”

“I didn’t think you cared. Do your worst. You can’t

away secrets. Chemicals ready for tomorrow?’

“Yeah. Scopolamine, sodium thiopental and midazolam. Quite the witches’ brew.”

On the walk back to his room Tobias silently recited his Vespers prayer, and by the time he sat on his bed his self-repugnance had almost submerged.

He prayed, this time for himself, thinking that he needed it most. *** The procedure resumed the next morning. Brian had cleaned up nicely. Tobias paused before starting the flow of drugs.

“Brian, listen to me while you’re lucid. These drugs are going to badly disorient you. They’re not perfect, there is no real truth serum, but you’ll become pliant and suggestible. They’re also dangerous, a negative reaction could spark a brush fire burning upa lot of your brain cells. You don’t have to take the risk, just tell me what we need to know.”

“… You’ll be questioned using techniques and drugs you’re not trained to counter. If I don’t believe what you say during the first session, we’ll move on to more painful drugs and techniques” hang me for what I don’t admit to.”

Tobias sighed. “Brian, as God is my witness, I want to avoid destroying your mind. I appear to have every reason to lie, but there’s a way for you to get out of here uninjured. If you provide the information and it checks out I’ll spare you mental violation. Better, you’ll leave this facility without being imprisoned. Jobless, homeless, but free.”

Brian’s stare was stony. “Your horror movie robe doesn’t scare me.”

“You did what your case officer asked. They’ve had several months to use the information. Surely they’d understand if you protected yourself? Your future usefulness to them is nil. Please, Brian, save yourself.”

His expression softened. “Nice try. We both seem to be locked into our roles.”

“Just think about it. Meanwhile, I’ll arrange for you to take a shower. Supervised, of course.”

Brian laughed. “Please. It’s way too late for Good Cop.” Carstairs was waiting for Tobias outside the examination room. His expression was sour. “He didn’t tell you anything.”

Tobias began tapping on his tablet. ‘Told me everything I need. Know where he lied, that’s where he gave

“Sounds like a guilty conscience, Tobias. Let’s get on with it.”

He administered the drugs and studied Brian as he was being hooked up to him. He’s screwed. Even if we let him go, his former team will interrogate him yet again. No wonder he’s stoic.

As the drugs took hold, Brian’s pulse and breathing were like his slurred words, erratic and halting. He laughed at unfunny questions and Tobias sensed him involuntarily wetting himself.

“Have you provided information to a person or organization for money??”

“Naw, hell no. Have to be stupid to do that.”

“Are you in the employ of a foreign government?”

“Nah. Working for one government is hard enough.”

Tobias led him through a tangled chain of questions that his deranged mind couldn’t keep track of, zapping him when he wandered off the path. As his thinking shattered Brian began revealing things.

“You said your contact’s name was Ballitnikov…”

“Wrong again. It’s Volodka, honest too, not like you.”

“You told Volodka about the agent code named Celery.”

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 39

“Celery, Asparagus, you’da thought we were Vegans.”

Brian began to sense Tobias’ emotions through the two-way loops that connected them-his fear of the intrusion and self-hate for what he was revealing. Brian tried to push him out but fumbled like a drunk warding off blows.

After fifty-five minutes he reacted badly to the drugs, convulsing and shaking the equipment so violently that accurate readings were impossible.

Tobias picked up his tablet and typed. ‘Have to stop or he short circuit. Give him shot to counteract drugs.

Need to flush out system.’

Carstairs came on the intercom while Brian was being administered the shot. “We didn’t get everything we need. You have to repeat the process.”

Tobias glanced over at Brian, who was still writhing.

He tapped, ‘Can’t. Would kill him before I extract info.

ately to your third shot, a mixture of mostly cyclosporine and pravastatin. The drugs react with your system to create pain in every muscle. We then manipulate your arms and legs, producing greater agony without inflicting permanent damage or bruising. It’s like a terrible attack of gout, but instead of just your feet or joints, all over your body. It’s elegantly terrible. Please don’t force me to do this.”

“Brian’s head had been bobbing while he spoke.

“Nice guilt ploy. You got some of it, punk monk, but you’ll never learn the rest. I can handle pain.”

Tobias sighed. He’s already half fried. He won’t make it.

The pain will shred him. “Let’s begin.”

Three minutes after getting the shot, Brian began shuddering, matted hair flopping across his forehead, eyes bloodshot and vacant. The questioning resumed.

Brian’s voice was guttural, as if his lungs hurt to speak.

Every time he lied or denied, Tobias would nod and a

I abandon a vow of silence so I can sin. Worse, I deform Brian’s mind for dubious greater good. And God help me will do it again.

No choice, we go tertiary.’

“You up for it?”

‘Never.’

Tobias had tried to hide inside his mind during the worst of the second procedure, visualizing himself in the monastery’s wainscoted chapel during devotions, trying to react to Brian’s anguish and dementia as if they were Latin chants. He’d failed. As Brian gave his befuddled accountings his somatic reactions had surged through Tobias’ system. But it hadn’t worked and Brian would suffer worse tomorrow morning.

I abandon a vow of silence so I can sin. Worse, I deform Brian’s mind for dubious greater good. And God help me will do it again.

Tobias forced himself to eat a large supper, and to go to bed at his usual hour. It was cleaner when the accused were dunked underwater and condemned if they floated. He had a brief, unkind thought about Brother Gregory and banished it, falling asleep just before 10 p.m. *** The next morning Brian was shuddering, his eyes half-empty of intelligence. Tobias walked over to him and leaned over to whisper “Brian, try hard to listen to me. I’m offering the same thing as yesterday. Tell me everything and you walk. Don’t tell and we go immedi-

40 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

white-uniformed man would grasp one of his arms or legs and twist it. Tobias winced in sympathetic pain with each twist.

Brian’s screams degenerated into gurgling moans, his eyes and nose began to run freely, and thick drool formed in the corners of his mouth.

Tobias had turned his head away but couldn’t block Brian’s pain inputs. He forced himself to stare. Brian’s pulse and blood pressure were chaos, and Tobias knew Brian would shortly be going into a catatonic state. He nodded to the white uniform.

“Wait!” Brian screamed. “Wait.”

Tobias waved off the orderly, stood up, still attached to cuffs and sensors, and leaned over Brian, their faces a few inches apart. “Brian,” he whispered, “you’re fighting to stay in a rat trap. Focus on the me that you feel.

There’s a way for you to escape both us and the Russians, but you have to give me the information first.

Blink twice if you agree.”

He blinked, then again. Tobias picked up his tablet.

‘Alan, he’s going catatonic. I’m giving him something to lower the pain.’

The response was quick. ‘Bad Call.’

‘Mine to make.’

Tobias put down the tablet, removed a vial from a shelf refrigerator, loaded a syringe and injected Brian.

He passed out seconds later. Tobias sat back down in the chair next to him, waited several minutes, then woke Brian by gently wiping the tears and mucus off his face.

He leaned over until his lips were against his ear and began to whisper.

“I’ve given you the complete antidote, don’t let it show. If you don’t answer the questions I’ll have to put you back under. When we’re done, don’t trust the identity they’ll give you, you’ll always be traceable by them, and they may at some point horse trade you for a spook of our own. Memorize this number: 203 222 1435. 203 222 1435. Call it from a burner phone. You remember the number?”

Brian blinked twice again, as Carstairs came onto the intercom. “Toby, what the hell are you telling him?”

Tobias ignored him. “Shall we resume, Brian?”

“Where did you usually meet Volodka?”

“Did you provide all of the Korean wartime contingency plan, or just certain chapters?

“Which ones?”

Some information Brian said he’d forgotten, and Tobias read him as truthful.

Tobias began typing on the tablet. ‘That’s everything significant, Alan. I’m finishing up.’

Carstairs lumbered into the room while Tobias was still standing in front of Brian. He silently mouthed ‘Thank You.’ Tobias smiled. He mouthed back, ‘you’re welcome.’

Carstairs was in his face. “Toby, what the hell did you just do?”

Tobias spoke out loud to him as he was stripping off the contacts. “Relax, Alan. You got the information, and it’s legit. Now come through on your promise for him. And give me the info on his new identity so I can check and make sure he’s all right. You know what happens otherwise.”

Carstairs subsided. “Yeah, we got a lot more than I thought we would. Once we verify a few things I’ll release payment to you and the monastery. And I’ll get the

perp released with new ID. It’s what we agreed, but I don’t like the way you just played me. What did you tell him?”

“Reassurances to gain his trust. Making it secret made it more powerful. I lied, it worked and you got what you needed.”

“That’s the devious son-of-a-bitch I love. Come back with us.”

“Never, sorry. I’ll clean up and get ready to go. And return to silence.” *** Abbot Gregory looked down at the stacks of hundred-dollar bills on his desk, then up at Brother Tobias.

“We’re solvent for another year. I can look at you and guess what you had to undergo. You have our respect and thanks.” He paused.“Ah, Brother Tobias, you’re also under a vow of poverty, might we be able to utilize your six months’ pay as well?”

Tobias put his fingers to his lips, then pointed his hand at Gregory.

“Permission to speak.”

Tobias cleared his throat. “Unfortunately no, Abbot.

The money is committed to another charity.”

“Do I know it?”

“No. It’s quite small. And given to secrecy.”

“Irregular, Brother Tobias, but very well, so long as you don’t keep it.”

That Sunday, Tobias joined the other monks in their chants. A hundred fifty people sat on hard folding chairs listening to them. When the performance was over the monks dispersed and the crowd began filing out. Tobias met a man in an alcove and handed over a parcel.

“Not my business, brother, but why does this guy get new docs and deluxe treatment?”

“Sin offering. Or maybe atonement for shared memories.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Pox Vobiscum.” []

ED AHERN resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over two hundred stories and poems published so far, and four books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories, where he sits on the review board and manages a posse of five review editors.

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 41

Maye in 1967 Copyright: ABC Photo Archives/Getty Images

42 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

ARTICLE

PAM MUNTER

MARILYN MAYE Passing It On The nightclub is dark and seedy, but I can easily identify the bones of what was once reputedly a hotspot for the Rat Pack in the 1960s here in Palm Springs. An alleged quote from Frank Sinatra covers much of one wall, meant to evoke a different era: “Alcohol may be man’s worst enemy but the bible (sic.) says love your enemy.”

It takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, like entering a theater just before the movie starts. I make my way in slowly, using the din of conversation as an auditory compass. As I round the corner, I can see the silhouettes of tables and chairs and the moving profiles of people. Directly ahead is a small stage with a mic on a stand in the center. Upstage is a grand piano, surrounded by several monitors. I can’t make out faces or even the boundaries of the crowd noise. Even with the muted ambient ceiling lights, my eye catches a color – a golden shock of tightly coiffed hair.

There is no doubt that the back of this head belongs to Broadway, night club and recording star Marilyn Maye, the nearly 88-year-old singer we have all come to hear. She is not going to perform, at least in the traditional sense of that word. She is conducting a Master Class, open to twelve nervous singers and maybe 25of us watchful auditors. It is the same class she holds in cities where she performs and has likely repeated a hundred times across the country.

I had first heard Marilyn Maye when I bought one of her early albums in one of the last free-standing record stores in Beverly Hills. It was probably 1966. I listened repeatedly to this person I had never heard of

before and only later found out she held the record for the number of appearances on Johnny Carson’s “Tonight Show.” There was something about the clarity of the voice, her arrangements and her choice of songs.

I could sense the warmth and vivacity, her complete engagement with each song, the effortless sound. After the Tonight Show fame, though, she seemed to disappear for decades, continuing to perform at a club in Kansas City, her home then and now. In the ‘90s, she was “rediscovered,’ returned to frequent New York performing and became the darling of the cabaret world.

But now 20 years had passed. And in the interim, I had had a singing career of my own. But I wasn’t here to relive all that. I wanted to understand her longevity, her magnetism and her endurance.

Two nights before the class, she had awed an audience of a thousand at the Annenberg Theater in Palm Springs. She offered her tribute to Sinatra, an icon closely associated with Palm Springs, and held the crowd for two solid hours without either a break or sitting on a stool on the stage. She weaved her way through well over thirty-five tunes – both his and others – via medleys and complicated modulations. Only once or twice did she falter, her memory challenged by the show’s musical complexity, among other things. Her patter was charming, her energy indefatigable.

Now, in this intimate setting, each singer would get about twenty minutes of her laser-like focus. There is palpable disquietude in the room as we await the start of the five-hour class. I cautiously grope my way to a small table by the wall, about ten feet away from The Legend.

After her students find their seats, I am able to get a

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 43

Photo: Seth Wal ters

clear view of her. She is dressed in basic black, adorned by a red sweater, colorful scarf and shiny yellow bling from her oversize earrings to the clunky bracelet. Is the low lighting to preserve the illusion of youth? In every photo I’ve ever seen of her, her face assumes the same configuration – layers of false eyelashes unable to weigh down her wide open blue eyes, face heavily made-up in a golden hue, a closed-mouth amused smile, a snuggly lean toward others in the picture. From my perspective, both in the front row for her performance the other night and my perch in the club, she looks exactly the same. She could have walked out on any stage with its bright theatrical lighting and given a performance.

She takes the stage precisely at 1, the scheduled start. The crowd hushes.

“Hi, everybody. This is the ‘Art of Performance’ not a singing lesson.”

She fumbles a bit with the paper she is holding.

“It’s hard work, not fun. You have to have a passion for it.”

I could see people nodding in agreement.

“The audience is the star, kids. It’s your job to serve them.”

Throughout the class, she would often refer to us as

44 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

“kids,” which I suppose we were from her perspective.

“Don’t worry about being good. Worry about doing your job.”

She then turns to the man now sitting at the piano.

In his rumpled suit, he resembles an insurance salesman who has accidentally stumbled into the wrong place.

“This is John Rodby.”

Everyone applauds, likely hoping it will court his favor when it’s their turn to sing.

“John, how long were you with Dinah Shore?”

“Twenty-six years.”

More applause. How many of these people know who Dinah Shore was?

“Now, kids. Remember that lyrics are conversation.

You need to look at the audience.”

She points to an older, frumpy woman sitting at a table directly in front of her.

“Did I look at you the other night?”

I didn’t remember her raising her hand as one of the attendees at the Annenberg, but she briskly nods her head up and down.

For the next few minutes, she passes on some practical tips. Never use a stool because it doesn’t flatter the body “unless you’re 94 pounds.” And don’t wear short

skirts or sleeveless tops, she opines.

“The audience is supposed to be watching this,” she points to her face. “Not this,” she stretches out her covered upper arms. We all laugh.

“So let’s get started,” she says, moving to her seat at the table in the middle of the room. She adjusts the mic on the stand at her left. “Who’s first?”

The first few singers reveal why they’re there within the opening eight bars. The first man has a resonant baritone but lacks stage presence and proper phrasing.

The second, a woman closer to Marilyn in age, sings every word as if it’s a final plea to spare her life. Marilyn makes suggestions to each in a supportive, kind way.

Though she sang “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” in her Sinatra show, she fails to correct the second singer who persistently sings the wrong lyrics to that Cole Porter classic. Neither student can concentrate long enough to remember Marilyn’s suggestions, so there is much repetition. Marilyn offers this without complaint. After each vocal attempt, there is always applause, deserved or not.

Over the next five hours, she provides both comfort and support to each performer, no matter the level of professionalism and talent. Though she had commented early about the importance of wardrobe, she politely refrains from mentioning the infelicitous choices made by most of the people standing in front of her.

There is a disparity of proficiency here, not surprising given the absence of any screening. It’s apparent that the “master” in “master class” refers to the teacher, not necessarily the students.

One middle aged woman chooses to sing “Blame It On My Youth,” evoking incredulous smiles while another, a Bernadette Peters lookalike, stuns us with her treatment of the very funny “Rich, Famous and Powerful” that is stage-ready. We know immediately that she has performed this number in a professional venue and probably more than once.

After more than two and a half hours, Ms. Maye calls for a break. She spends most of it talking to the people around her. Does this woman ever sleep, I wondered? The night after her Annenberg performance, she was the guest of honor at a huge party. And now, the next day, here she is.

As the afternoon wears on, we can all see common patterns and could have provided

many of the suggestions ourselves. Intonation is an uncomfortable problem for several, partly corrected by Marilyn’s suggestions about adequate breathing. Some swallow their words, phrase in odd ways or completely miss the meaning of the lyric.

Her interventions are varied, tailored to the level of her student.

“Hold that last note ‘til gangrene sets in. It’s your money note.”

“Don’t fade at the end. Hold it strong, sweetheart.”

“Remember, this is the first time you thought of it.”

“Emphasize that word….that’s it, honey.”

“Your voice sounds great. Don’t be afraid.”

“Let’s try that in a lower key.”

“See what you’re doing with your hands? Perfect.”

She is stumped only once. Well into the fifth hour, a man opts for a fast patter song with lots of words, showing more memory than vocal chops.

“Boy, that’s very involved. I don’t know what to do with that. Let’s hear your next song.”

I wonder if she is getting tired. In the last hour, her instructions become a little garbled. She refers to altering the first ending of a song but is actually talking about the second. She’s mortal.

Leaving a little after six p.m., I wonder what the singers might be saying to each other. Are they hearing anything they don’t already know? But how often does a performer get to be critiqued by such a respected pro, one who has been in the business for almost 80 years?

And they are likely to be able to repeat her treasured words of praise longer than any proffered vocal or styling suggestions. As a former singer, myself, I wonder how my own stage presence might been improved by an afternoon such as this. Inspiration if not much information.

Walking alone to my car, I imagine Marilyn heading for a quiet bar in another venue, ordering her Appletini before heading off to dinner with friends - ready for a night on the town, accompanied by a now familiar sense of satisfaction that she has passed on what she has learned to another generation or two. [] PAM MUNTER is a Pushcart nominee and has an MFA in Creative Writing and Writing for the Performing Arts. She has authored several books including When Teens Were Keen: Freddie Stewart and The Teen Agers of Monogram (2005) and Almost Famous: In and Out of Show Biz (1986). She’s a retired clinical psychologist, former performer and film historian. Her play Life Without was produced by S2S2S, and nominated four times by the Desert Theatre League, including the Bill Groves Award for Outstanding Original Writing and Outstanding Play (staged reading).

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 45

JAY SHEPHERD is a T oronto lawyer and writer. Almost fifty years ago, an editor told him that, while his craftsmanship as a writer was sound, he didn’t appear to have much to say. He recommended going out and living life, then coming back to writing later. He did, and now he’s back. His blog can be found at https://jayshepherdwriting.wordpress.com/ author/jayshepherd2014/ Art: ‘Au tumn Love’ by Simeon Solomon

46 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

FICTION

Murray JAY SHEPHERD

A Love Story

Rachel rubbed her neck and adjusted her position in the chair one more time. She didn’t dare stand to stretch her legs. It might disturb Murray. Murray could not be disturbed. This was the first time in days he was close to sleeping.

I’m so tired, she thought. Maybe when I was younger I could have done this, but now I don’t know how much longer I can last.

She looked around guiltily, as if someone might overhear her thoughts, and think her cold and selfish.

After all, at worst she would end the day with a crick in her neck and an aching back. Murray’s pain was so much worse than that. A familiar wave of feeling – she had grown so used to it – burst over her for the millionth time, a mixture of love, guilt, sorrow, pain and everything else she had ever felt.

Murray was dying. Murray had been dying for months, maybe years, although to Rachel today it seemed like forever. How long can a man spend dying?

She felt like a traitor for wanting to know. But she desperately wanted to know.

The figure on the bed shivered, and so did Rachel. Could she imagine the pain? Weeks earlier, when she was spending her days in this chair talking with Murray, he tried to tell her about the pain. Of course, he wouldn’t really tell her how it felt. That was Murray.

However much he might need to reveal his true feelings, he couldn’t do it if it caused pain to someone else.

But she had insisted. She had to know. Reluctantly, and without any of the hard edges, he told her how the cancer felt like it was eating his flesh, from the inside out. He told her how sometimes the pain was so familiar that it didn’t even hurt any more. He told her that it hurt him more to see her sorrow than to feel the

disease gnawing at his vital organs.

She loved him for saying that, and even more for really believing it, but she didn’t believe it was true.

Now the pain was worse, much worse. She could see it flash in his eyes when he tried to hide it from her.

She felt it – physically, as if the cancer was contagious – when he tried to talk to her to raise her spirits. He was doing that less in the last few days.

It looked like the body on the bed was calm once more. Rachel felt her body relax, too. She hadn’t even noticed how tense she had become. His pain was her pain. His life was her life. And Murray was dying.

This afternoon they had a visitor. At first, Murray had experienced a constant stream of visitors.

So many people loved him. A life of feeling for other people, someone said of him, and it showed in the effect his cancer had on everyone. An hour wouldn’t go by without someone else appearing at the door. It was almost too much. Sometimes she even had to send people away, because Murray tried to be so… healthy… when they were around. He didn’t want them to be hurt by his pain.

Of course, he couldn’t really hide it. Even if he could have gritted his teeth and played his old self on this hospital stage, the effects of the chemotherapy and the radiation treatments made him look so much worse.

Once, when she was angry at the doctors for not making him well, she accused them of just using the treatments to make him look as bad as he felt. She told them the treatments never did anyone any good. They were just there so the person would end up looking sick.

She meant it at the time.

She was angry a lot. At first, it was the doctors.

They were supposed to make people healthy. Whenever

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 47

she was sick, they always made her better. Why couldn’t they make Murray better? His health was more important than hers. They obviously weren’t trying hard enough.

The doctors were trying, she finally decided, even though they were all really too young to understand how incredibly important it was that Murray get better. But Murray was just dying. That was it.

Murray had tried to explain that to her. Cancer kills people, he said. I have cancer, and in the end I will die. Nothing can be done. I can fight it; I will fight it; but, in the end I will die.

He cried when he said that to her. He didn’t cry for himself. He cried because he knew that he had to help her prepare, and that the process of preparing would hurt her. He couldn’t stand to see her pain. Just as Rachel couldn’t stand to see his pain.

She was angry at the visitors, too, for a while.

Where did they all go? When they needed Murray, did he only show up once and then have other things to do?

He was always there for them, no matter how much they needed him. Sometimes he had to neglect his family to be there for them. But he was there.

After a while she stopped blaming them for not coming. It was hard to look at him. When he tried to talk, you could see the pain. His stutter, a burden he carried all his life, became at times an insurmountable barrier. When it got to his lungs – how cruel diseases can be – he couldn’t overcome the stutter with strong breaths, as he used to.

Yet he had to talk. He had to make everyone feel better. That made her angry too. Murray could be so stupid. Why couldn’t he think of himself sometimes?

Rachel wasn’t even angry at Peter any more. That took a long time, but she thought maybe now she understood. Murray told her she could not be angry with him. She hadn’t told him she was, but he knew. He always knew how she felt. He loved her a lot.

She remembered Peter at three, when they first realized he was disabled. She was just newly pregnant with Alan at the time. Murray had taken Peter to a specialist, and the test results were positive. It was like Murray that he accepted the problem without question.

The first thing he thought of was how to make sure it didn’t hurt Rachel or Peter. Murray felt responsible for everyone he loved. And sometimes she thought he loved everyone.

Many times she felt Murray protected Peter too much from his disability. She never said so – to anyone – but he knew she thought that. When Peter’s marriage failed, Murray was so quick to be the emotional safety net that Peter wanted. Maybe too quick. Who could

48 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

tell, even so many years later?

Peter told her that after the first few visits to the hospital, he couldn’t stand it any more. He said his father was so close to him, the pain was like his own pain.

He said his father understood how he felt, and would be happier if he stayed away. Until he was better.

Murray told Peter he would get better. Peter knew that wasn’t true.

Peter said his feeling for his father wasn’t like anything other people could feel. He said his father was too special to him. He said no-one else could possibly understand. Rachel cried out inside that she understood, but she didn’t say it to Peter. Maybe later.

She had hoped Peter might come today, but it was Sammy instead, Murray’s younger brother. He was also hurting, but he didn’t show it to Rachel. Rachel was his brother’s “little woman”, and he had to respect Murray’s wishes to spare her as much grief as possible.

Sammy didn’t understand Rachel at all. Maybe he understood Murray. Maybe not. She thought he probably did, in his own way. People, even two brothers, can be so different, she thought.

She didn’t really listen while Sam brought Murray up to date on the business and the investments. Sam and Murray were in business together, a business set up by their father but now theirs. It had grown, and they had investments, and then they sold the business and later bought it back, and all in all everything was going fine. She had heard the story before. Same old.

It scared her a bit to think that she would have all that money. Murray had always looked after the money, in his very precise, almost compulsive way. Sammy thought that Murray, although the older brother, was the weaker brother, and not really much of a businessman.

He kept neat records, Sammy thought. That’s the best you could say of him.

Murray let Sam think that, all the while making sure the business was successful. Sam could be so narrow in his judgments about people, but he was really a good soul underneath that cold exterior, Murray used to say. Rachel wasn’t always convinced. He was Murray’s brother, though, and Murray watched out for him.

And Sam would look after the money for Rachel, just as he thought he had looked after it for Murray all these years. Sam would be one of the executors of the estate, along with Rachel and the two boys.

She couldn’t do it alone. Murray was wrong on that one. He didn’t know she had heard him, but she had been outside the room when he was talking to Alan.

Your mother, he told Alan, is smarter than all of the rest of us – you, your Uncle Sam, me, Peter, all of us. She pretends she’s just a housewife, incapable of doing any-

thing for herself when it comes to money or other practical things. Don’t let that fool you. Your mother was brought up to live through her husband, and she does that very well, but she was always capable of anything she wanted to do. Anything. I wish I’d seen it earlier, or even been more persuasive in convincing her. But she’ll do just fine after I’m gone, he told their son. She heard Alan crying at that point, and she walked away.

Alan never cried. There was some of Sammy in him.

Murray had always wanted her to be a teacher, ever since they first met. He said teachers were the most important people in society, and she would be the best.

There were times when she couldn’t bring back those memories of sixty years ago. And, there were other times, like now, when she could feel the fresh air on her face, and smell his boutonniere as he stood at the front door.

Rachel was no longer smug about Murray. She

Sammy had left at some point. Maybe he said goodbye to her. She didn’t remember.

She looked at Murray’s wasted body in the bed.

Rachel could remember when she thought how uncomfortable it must be for a tall man like Murray to sleep in the small beds provided in hospitals. Now he seemed to be a small speck lost in the vastness of that bed.

Yet she was wrong about all old men being ugly.

Murray – even with his hair almost all gone, and with the pasty pallor of death on his face – was more handsome now than ever before in his life. In fact, Murray was never really ugly. Even at nineteen, when she said that to her mother, she didn’t actually believe it was true, not about Murray.

She found herself staring into his closed eyes.

Finally he is sleeping properly, she thought. Could he be as tired as she? He must be. Not just from the pain, and the disease, and the lack of sleep. For a whole lifetime, he has carried the burdens of other peoples’ happi-

Rachel could remember when she thought how uncomfortable it must be for a tall man like Murray to sleep in the small beds provided in hospitals. Now he seemed to be a small speck lost in the vastness of that bed. was for a long time, but then it seemed so petty. Maybe it was because so many of her old friends started having such troubles – with their spouses, with their kids, with their lives. At some point she just decided that the smugness was unbecoming.

She was still proud of Murray, though, just as she was then. Sure, he was a tall, funny-looking, bookish sort of guy who wasn’t very popular with the girls. Sure, you never saw him on the sports field, except for crosscountry running, which he did badly. Sure, he had such a stutter that many people simply avoided talking to him.

But she had been right. Rachel, popular and attractive, sought after by many boys, had followed her instincts. She didn’t see the handsome faces and stylish clothes of her other suitors. She saw his depth of personality, and sensitivity, and caring.

She once told her mother that all old men are ugly, but not all of them are kind and caring. Her mother, as always, said nothing, but at the wedding was more proud of her daughter than anyone thought she should have been.

I should be crying, thought Rachel. I’m remembering things that were such happy times, and they are over. No more tears left, perhaps.

ness on his shoulders. Wouldn’t that make him tired very, very tired?

Rachel looked around the room as if it were new to her. The dusk outside the window told her she must have drifted for some time. Murray seemed comfortable, perhaps more so than in several days or even weeks. She knew she had to leave, if only to eat.

Murray would be very upset with her if she skipped another meal to stay with him.

She crossed to his bed and kissed his cheek lightly. Love gushed out of her heart, as it always did when she kissed him.

Something else touched her heart, though, something different. She looked at him again. The room was too quiet. Where was the rasping of his lungs as he fought for air? Where was the gurgling of the oxygen bottle?

She held his hand for the last time. He couldn’t feel it any more, but she could.

To her surprise, though, it wasn’t Murray she was thinking about, nor was she thinking about herself. In her mind, she was already going over how to soften the blow for Peter and Alan. She didn’t feel so tired any more. []

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 49

PHOTOGRAPHY & POETRY

CARL SCHARWATH

Maye in 1967 Copyright: ABC Photo Archives/Getty Images

06 CultureCult Magazine Spring 2019

Chances

Abiding

The flame will be ignited, a soothing amber glow will seduce me to gaze into the burning colors of a life past and the perishing embers of a mistake.

The past will never arrive The future will overwhelm The present disguised in the discovery We will fail each other. []

Resurrection In the damaged Allegory of utopia.

Hope rejuvenates The anamnesis of Memories stored In another past.

The brightness, the brilliant scintillating luster can only capture my vision of a future.

Inflamed with optimism, love and hope Perhaps our lives can be healed?

With this fire nothing will come Because nothing truly is Loyalty will fail in the echoed words Of our life together.

Waiting for your

Anxiety orbits Amidst the constellations Aching to return To the ordinary world. []

Crepuscule

Living between all boundaries the light is always within grasp winding through the face of another.

Entangled in the capsule of darkness waiting to move forward in love and paint a new beginning. []

CARL SCHARWATH, has appeared globally with 150+ journals selecting his poetry, short stories, interviews, essays or art photography. Two poetry books 'Journey To Become Forgotten' (Kind of a Hurricane Press) and 'Abandoned' (ScarsTv) have been published. Carl is the art editor for Minute Magazine, a dedicated runner and 2n d degree black- belt in Taekwondo.

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 51

FICTION

MICHAEL PAUL HOGAN

The Girl Boutique MICHAEL PAUL HOGAN, from London, England, is a poet and journalist whose work has appeared extensively in the USA, UK, India and China. The author of five poetry collections, he is currently working on a collection of Surrealist short stories.

Photography: Annie Spratt

52 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

In the bed in the bedroom of the apartment on Xiaop-

and once again closed his eyes.

ing Lu, Xin Pu Wang, with customary reluctance, opened his eyes

c-lick In the bed in the bedroom of the apartment on Xiaoping Lu, Xin Pu Wang, with customary reluctance, opened his eyes and, through a narrow aperture between pillow and duvet, saw his wife, Hong Ma, walk left and right, visible only from the shoulder to the waist, firstly wearing an oyster-colored brassiere

c-lick and then, a minute later, passing again through his abbreviated line of sight, maneuvering her left arm into the sleeve of a cream silk blouse

* Xin Pu Wang spent the majority of his days either walking or cycling around the backstreets of Shenyang, taking photographs with a Zenit camera. One day he went into one of the noodle shops on the food street near the Qing Dynasty palaces and said, “I am the loneliest married man in Liaoning Province. I have no job, my wife openly disrespects me, and nobody will publish my photographs.”

The proprietor, who was very old, came to his table. He said, “Good morning to you too, young fellow. What will you have?”

“A bowl of spiced noodles,” replied Xin Pu Wang, “with pork and bean shoots.”

“It is our speciality,” said the old man. He seemed

He walked unsteadily between the rough-hewn cigarette-burned wooden tables as one might walk on the deck of a ship, holding the backs of chairs for support.

c-lick c-lick No sooner, however, had she disappeared than she reappeared, facing the bed as she deftly buttoned the blouse up to an invisible neck, doing so with an attitude of disdain as palpable as the material of the pillow against his cheek. He felt her eyes boring through the duvet, her perfectly-painted scarlet fingernails hovering above the top button

c-lick before she turned and disappeared for the last time, her tangible presence now reduced to the noise of high heels on the wooden floor and finally the emphatic closure of the apartment door

c-lack c-lack, c-lack c-lack, c-lack c-lack SLAM! while in the bed in the bedroom of the apartment on Xiaoping Lu, Xin Pu Wang turned over to face the wall

very happy. He walked unsteadily between the roughhewn cigarette-burned wooden tables as one might walk on the deck of a ship, holding the backs of chairs for support. He called out the order to a chef somewhere out of sight. Xin Pu Wang took a photograph of the interior of the shop

c-lick FLASH! The light was wrong, but it didn’t matter. A little of the old man’s happiness had rubbed off on him. It was worth recording. * One day Xin Pu Wang returned home to find that his wife had, during his absence, been in, got changed, and gone out again. The reason he knew was that her original underwear had been cast on the bed and the blouse and skirt he had (through the narrow aperture between pillow and duvet) seen her put on only a couple of hours earlier were suspended from a hanger which was itself suspended from the outside of the wardrobe door. Why had she changed her mind (and her clothes)? Frankly, he neither knew nor cared. But what struck him with a sud-

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 53

den and extraordinary force was this – The items of underwear on the bed had been thrown down in such a way that (certainly by accident, not design) brassiere, panties, suspender belt and stockings were not just facing up but also in exact spatial proportion as though being worn by an invisible woman.

Xin Pu Wang felt an overwhelming sense of discovery.

The stocking that would have been (that was?) on the right leg was draped over the end of the bed in such a way as to give the impression of 3-D. Not only that, but the stocking that would have been (that was?) on the left leg was bent at the knee in such a way as to be intensely, almost wantonly, seductive. Xin Pu Wang, the Zenit still slung around his neck, sat down very slowly on the stool that matched Hong Ma’s dressing table. He stayed sitting there for some time.

be heard (albeit faintly) in the courtyard of the neighboring apartment block. Xin Pu Wang turned his head to the window to listen. He turned off the tap. *

c-lick FLASH! * After an hour or so Xin Pu Wang would resume his wanderings, on foot or by bicycle, the Zenit slung around his neck, through the backstreets and alleyways of the city, usually ending up at the noodle shop on the food street near the Qing Dynasty palaces

The items of underwear on the bed had been thrown down in such a way that (certainly by accident, not design) brassiere, panties, suspender belt and stockings were not just facing up but also in exact spatial proportion as though being worn by an invisible woman. * Every day for the next two weeks Xin Pu Wang only briefly patrolled the streets looking for photographs before returning home and arranging – rearranging – Hong Ma’s underwear in such a way as to represent

What?

What indeed? Xin Pu Wang would undress to his white Y-front underpants and sit on the corner of the bed.

One morning, down in the courtyard, a knife-grinder in a three-wheeled motorized cart could be heard advertising his services through a tin megaphone. What had always previously seemed like a harsh and intrusive noise became, on this occasion, strangely soothing. The imaginary woman on the bed (wearing, on this bright December morning, a black under-wired bra, matching panties, nearly-sheer charcoal-gray stockings and – oh, recent inspiration! – a pair of lacy costume gloves bought for some party Hong Ma had attended years before) smiled in her sleep. For the first time since this – romance? – had begun, Xin Pu Wang felt ashamed of the erection that distorted the cheap cotton fabric of his own underwear. He very carefully removed himself from the bed (so as not to disturb her) and put his penis under the cold tap in the bathroom. The knife-grinder could still

54 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

陈氏四季面条 where he was recognized and greeted by the proprietor, Mr. Chen,

CHEN’S FOUR SEASONS NOODLES who would bring him a laminated cardboard menu and then, not bothering to wait for an order, turn to the kitchen-end to shout for spicy noodles with pork and bean shoots. Xin Pu Wang said, “When I first came here I was the loneliest married man in Liaoning Province. I had no job, my wife openly disrespected me, and nobody would publish my photographs.”

“That is reasonable,” said Mr. Chen.

“Now,” continued Xin Pu Wang, “I am dreaming only of my new-found imaginary love. I am sincerely happy. Thank you.”

“Thank you?”

“Thank you. I might have committed suicide in your restaurant,” he hesitated, “had you not been so kind.”

“It is our speciality,” said the old man. He seemed very happy. He took a packet of cigarettes out of the pocket of his shirt. He said, “Come again, please. We are seldom not open.” and returned to his counter, using chair-backs for support, the counter behind which were shelves containing bottles of Chinese alcohol in red and gold boxes, in blue and gold boxes, and in boxes of red and blue and gold. *

c-lick FLASH! * One day, returning home from Mr. Chen’s, Xin Pu Wang did a double-take as he walked past a row of small shops

c-lick rewind c-lick and saw the mannequin in one of the windows

rewind c-lick FLASH! The name of the shop was written in Chinese

王氏时装 and in English

WANG’S GIRL BOUTIQUE and was set back from the pavement down a small flight of concrete steps. Xin Pu Wang, strangely light-headed, descended from street-level, treading carefully on the icy concrete and aware, for the first time, that the laces in his shoes were mismatched, the left-side pair a noticeably different shade of brown from the right. He stood in

front of the window. The light was poor but the mannequin was still beautiful. He pushed open the glass door and was greeted by a gold-painted plastic teddy bear on a mock-Grecian plinth that said, “Ni hao!” A woman, small, rather plump, with elaborate hair that she patted with the palm of her hand, appeared from behind a counter towards the rear of the shop. Her blouse was a cheap shiny man-made material that Hong Ma would not have been seen dead in, but she had a kind face and her smile of welcome was genuine rather than professional. She said, “May I help you?”

Xin Pu Wang opened his mouth to say something polite but all that came out was: “How much?”

“How – ?” The saleswoman followed his gaze.

She said, “Oh, you mean – Yes. The hat? Forty-five yuan.

The blouse, thirty.”

“No. Everything.”

“Everything? Skirt, sixty. Belt, twenty. Shoes, oneoh-five. Ten percent discount if you buy two or more.”

A brief pause. “Fifteen for cash.”

She smiled. She was obviously in need of customers. He said (with a calmness that surprised him), “You misunderstand. I mean, I don’t just want the clothes. I mean, yes, I do want the clothes. But I also want the lady wearing them.”

There was a silence, a very tangible silence, while the saleswoman processed what she had heard. She said, “Let me fetch the manager,” and departed with a brief glance over her shoulder. The mannequin gave Xin Pu Wang a beautiful smile then immediately straightened her face as the manager appeared from an office somewhere out back. His attitude combined curiosity with annoyance and he was smoking a cigarette. Xin Pu Wang explained what he wanted. The manager’s initial curiosity was swiftly replaced by an attitude of casual disrespect. He said, “Nine hundred. For everything. Including the clothes.”

He looked at his cigarette. He tapped off a cue-tip of ash. It made a small plash on the white-tiled floor. He smeared the toe of his shoe over it. He looked up at Xin Pu Wang. He said, “It’s a good offer. You won’t find better elsewhere. Song Wei?” The saleswoman, previously so nice, now seemed embarrassed and was occupying herself with making tidy a rail of fake-fur coats. She stopped what she was doing and patted her hair with the palm of her hand. She said, “True, Mr. Zhang. Very reasonable.”

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 55

and glanced briefly and uncomfortably at Xin Pu Wang.

The manager, Mr. Zhang, looked down at the smear of cigarette ash on the floor and Zorro-zedded it with the toe of his shoe. He glanced back up. He said, “Well?” and there was silence for two maybe three seconds. Then: “You will have it by this time tomorrow,” said Xin Pu Wang, hardly aware of the actual tangible reality of the (grossly inflated) sum, “and please accept this as surety. It is worth quite as much.” He maneuvered the camera strap over his head and handed the Zenit to the manager. He turned to the saleswoman, Song Wei. He said, “And thank you so much. You have been sincerely kind. You remind me,” he smiled a shy smile, “of

– at least not until he was conscious of the tickly sensation of tears on the side of his nose

c-lick SPLASH! and whether or not he was entirely aware of it even then we cannot possibly know

rewind SPLASH! c-lick SPLASH! c-lick SPLASH! *

c-lick * Outside, in the ice-hardened courtyard, nineteen sheer stories below, a knife grinder advertised his presence through a battery-operated tin megaphone

Xin Pu Wang arrived home to an empty apartment. He automatically unslung the Zenit from around his neck and seemed mildly surprised it wasn’t there to unsling. a friend of mine, Mr. Chen.”

The battery-operated plastic teddy bear that said “Ni hao!” said “Ni hao!” as Xin Pu Wang pushed open the glass door of the boutique and stepped out onto the ice-hardened, breath-freezing January streets of Shenyang. * Xin Pu Wang arrived home to an empty apartment. He automatically unslung the Zenit from around his neck and seemed mildly surprised it wasn’t there to unsling.

He went on through to the bedroom and sat down on the bed next to that morning’s arrangement of bra, panties and tights. The bra was red, the panties black, the tights semi-sheer with a bluish sheen. With a small shudder he brushed them aside – almost immediately (and a little guiltily) re-smoothing the tights where they had become rouched over an imaginary thigh. The low winter sun came through the window blinds in flimsy sheets grained with dust. Xin Pu Wang touched the cup of the bra where it joined the strap, then ran his hand along the strap until it curved underneath an imaginary back. At first he was not even aware that he was crying

磨剪子来锵菜刀 and on the food street near the Qing Dynasty palaces Mr. Chen steadied himself between two rows of cigarette-burned wooden tables

c-lick and wiped a laminated menu for spicy noodles with a damp cloth

s-lick c-lick FLASH! while in the office of Wang’s Girl Boutique the manager, Mr. Zhang, smoked a cigarette and looked disdainfully at the Zenit camera that made a clunky ornament on an otherwise uncluttered desk.

c-lick FLASH! *

c-lick When Hong Ma returned home in the early evening she

56 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

wrenched down the casement of the living room window

c-lick SLAM! and proceeded into the bedroom, where the window was also open. Items of underwear she recognized as her own were bizzarely arranged on the bed’s counterpane. A blouse and skirt were hanging from a wire coat hanger on the outside of the bedroom wardrobe, and Hong Ma glanced at them briefly before releasing the bamboo slats of the window blind

shutter-shutter slapper-slapper shutter-shutter slapshut SLAT! and switching on the electric overhead light. She took a

critical look around the room before dumping her Daphne shoulder bag on the bed and kicking off her shoes. She removed her ear-rings and clinked them down on the glass-topped dressing table. She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She came back into the bedroom. She undid the pins from her hair. She undressed. She unhitched her brassiere. She unpeeled her stockings. She removed her panties. She dropped everything in a jumbled heap on the bedroom floor. She glanced at herself in the mirror. She tilted her head sideways and touched the side of her cheek. She shivered.

She closed the door of the bathroom. She entered the shower.

c-lick FLASH!

[]

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 57

POETRY

IRIS ORPI ART: Claude Monet, 1908 Saint-Georges majeur au crepuscule.

IRIS ORPI is a Filipina poet, novelist, and screenwriter living in Chicago, IL. She is the author of the novel The Espresso Effect and the collection of poetry Rampant and Golden. She also wrote the original story and screenplay for Sons and Brothers, which garnered four awards at the 2018 International Excellence in Visual Media Awards, including second place for Best Film. Her work has appeared in dozens of publications all over Asia, North America, Africa, and Europe. She was a 2014 Honorable Mention for the Contemporary American Poetry Prize and a 2018 nominee for the Orison Award for Poetry.

58 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

Verses for the Early Sunset I have lied to the beginning of summer about my intentions I have become what the solstice sky had warned me never to love but to merely observe with an open heart and now pieces of me are turning blue around the edges from the cold, from the missed opportunity of throwing my soul through the narrow gap between the ephemeral light and its immortal calling because I was busy drawing blueprints for a magnificence that might encompass a season that is both effervescent and untamed and a passion that can easily climb over walls. []

The Vagrants inside my Head Sour and slovenly old words from memory ambling across the otherwise quiet of my reveries.

I hold a grudge against a past that changed its course without warning. Sometimes I still hear what was said, designed to hurt as deeply and permanently as possible, and think about the bridges they set fire to. Camouflaged among sticks and stones were death threats and the death traps of intention; I have been broken in places deeper than bones. []

Ex Libris I have dogeared the nights where the sky was your face and the stars were the story of us you are all my creases and protruding corners gently reminding me that the pages time has buried still exist and oh, how the words still glimmer []

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 59

SHORT FICTION

NILES REDDICK

Great

Balls of

Fire We think it was the neighbor on the other side of the Lewis’ family that called Ms. Lewis at the elementary school where she taught and told her their garage had exploded and firetrucks, police, and ambulance personnel were all on the scene. They’d tapped the fire hydrant by the curb of our house and doused the garage. The road had been closed and the neighborhood crowd that gathered had been pushed back one house over on each side for safety, since there were small explosions and balls of fire rolling up and unfolding in the sky.

Carl, my neighbor, said, “It’s a damned shame.

His Mustang is destroyed.”

“Why is that a shame? They probably had insurance.”

“They better have,” Carl said. “That ’67 Shelby GT 500 Super Snake was worth more than $1m.” I was impressed Carl knew such factoids, and he was smart

60 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

ART: “Cottage on fire at night”

by Joseph Wright of Derby

about money, too. He was a fundraiser for the local university and had bounced like a tennis ball from one college to another up and down the Eastern seaboard. I thought he’d make a great car salesman if he ever got tired of university development, though he might not like the title.

“Damn,” I said. “That’s a lot.”

“Yep, one of the more expensive ones. He’d refurbished it completely. I talked to him about it and he showed it to me once.”

When Ms. Lewis arrived, she tried to run in the garage, and they had to restrain her. She kept screaming “He’s in there. Get him out.” She fell on her knees and screamed and her neighbor friend got on the ground and held her while she rocked and sobbed.

I told Carl, “If her husband was in there, he’s got to be dead. There’s no way he could’ve survived that

fire, the heat, the explosions.”

“It’s a shame,” Carl said. “They were having trouble. She was leaving him for the principal at the school.

They’d been high school sweethearts. He put her through college. She was to get that car in the settlement, since she didn’t want the house, and my wife, who’d heard from the neighbor on the other side, said she was afraid he might kill her. I guess not. He must have been so rattled, he went completely crazy.”

“You know a lot, Carl. I didn’t even know their names. Now, I feel bad, like if I would have known them, I could have done something.”

“They weren’t close to a lot of folks. Apparently, he kept to himself. He was a distant cousin of the singer Jerry Lee and people were always using him to try to make a connection.”

At some point, a tow truck came and pulled the still smoldering car from the garage. They emergency folks covered it as quickly as they could, but not before Carl and I saw what looked like a burnt body slumped in the driver’s seat. His wife had been allowed to go inside the house, her friend still holding her.

My wife and I decided not to go to the visitation or funeral, since we really never knew them, and within a couple of weeks, a clean-up crew, like ants, came and removed all the debris and cleaned the concrete slab. We learned he’d cancelled the special policy on the Mustang a couple of weeks before, and the investigation proved he’d shot himself right before the fire engulfed the garage. We also heard the life insurance company policy didn’t pay out for suicide, and within two months, the house sold and Ms. Lewis moved. []

NILES REDDICK is author of the novel Pulitzer nominated Drifting too far from the Shore, a collection Road Kill Art and Other Oddities, and a novella Lead Me Home. His work has been featured in eleven anthologies/collections and in over two hundred literary magazines all over the world including PIF, Drunk Monkeys, Spelk, Cheap Pop, among many others. His new collection Reading the Coffee Grounds was just released.

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 61

POETRY

PATRICIA WALSH

Modern Forgery Wasting time while eating, an unnecessary step, being fed on other particulars, a consummate joy, Watched in threat of creation, lost in transfusion bleeding into a sympathetic hole before time.

Forms less common than others, not coming out, suicidal transgressions calling the diseased.

Fanfaring to others a ritual beheading, hearing it on the radio doesn’t help matters.

Expecting to be fed on a meagre salary, succinct for others, arranging types of food, salvation for all the world, dividing the spoils, sweetheart deals under orders unblamed.

Motivations lost in the numbers’ crunch.

Academic failures keep the falterers at bay.

Recycling situations where none exists now, reclining after satisfaction redressed forthwith.

Sleeping alone, tailored for another purpose, high-handed hopes answered differently, listing to this garble, blackening names over a phase, minor arcana as appropriate.

Translated into song, a melody follows after, bicycling a girl thing, no right to choose, cleaning the bran-tub that is advancing quietly a number calling up through forgettable dues. []

PATRICIA WALSH was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork, Ireland. To date, she has published one novel, titled The Quest for Lost Eire, in 2014, and has published one collection of poetry, titled Continuity Errors, with Lapwing Publications in 2010. She has since been published in a variety of print and online journals. These include: The Lake; Seventh Quarry Press; Marble Journal; New Binary Press; Stanzas and others,

The Fake Numbers Rotting in the shallow, don’t ever underestimate me, sifting through damnation good to call, deciphering handwriting a purgatory decreed, cleaner than a whistle doing the country proud, tapping into veins of certainty as in the past.

Boldly going where some take their holidays, identical photographs cut through experience, plumping for the Rolls Royce for ideal escapades, suffering for the formulaic gist of the mill, hoarding plastic like a sin at the dinner table.

Fueling the numbers’ comeuppance , blank still taken for a ride by the most staple food, completing hard transaction by way of post, traipsing, panicking, getting the fill of exercise, defunct masterpieces not meting any joy.

Hold on for dear death, this stinging food, misunderstands the necessity of blowing over, helping through to the other side at least, bearing with the weight of sin to the end of the age, cutting crossways to distinctions for here.

Finding a market for your cut-off bones, descending into heaven from the constant screech, scattering the meagre, other-thought as always, plating gold over all your superb actions,

Photography: Samuel Zeller

62 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

ESSAY

MARSHA MITTMAN

Transcending Third

Dimension

I’ve been chasing a chimera, considered an illusion or fabrication of the mind – both conceptually and literally – for over twenty-five years.

It all started with my husband’s depression. After he’d had a session with his psychologist, the doctor pulled me aside and very gently said “Your husband is dying.”

At the time, I took his words figuratively. But then, a year later, during a completely unexpected visit to a Buddhist monastery while in Thailand, an ancient seer warned me that my husband would die in a year.

And the unthinkable happened – almost to the day.

How could these two men have seen the future?

And been so absolutely certain of what they’d seen that they were comfortable giving such numbing information to me? *** So there I was, a fairly young widow. With independent children, and parents who still had each other, time was suddenly my own.Life as I knew it was over – I found myself considering “What next?”

Between the prognostications of my husband’s death, and some events I’d experienced earlier in life that couldn’t be explained by our logically trained western minds, I decided I wanted answers.

Back then no one spoke about spirituality or the “paranormal” except in the context of traditional religions. And there was nothing to read except ancient texts that often seemed, with their convo-

luted allegories and antiquated language, to have little relevance for a contemporary seeker. Moreover, some perplexing personal incidents had been shelved for years because there simply was no context for them in my accustomed western culture. I decided this was the perfect time to augment my understanding of all these seemingly inexplicable occurrences, and reinvent myself. My chimerical search to transcend third dimensional limitations began…

Years before, I lay down when my toddlers were taking an afternoon nap, and a couple seconds later found myself up on my ceiling staring down at my body –completely aware I was wide awake atop my bed’s blue comforter. Yet a “part” of me was up on the ceiling…

Later on, after learning to meditate to deal with the stress engendered by my husband’s illness, I was catapulted out of a deep meditationhigh up into the sky, though I was conscious at the time and aware my body was still sitting in my rocking chair.

And then there were all the flying dreams where I actually “saw” events occurring in real time. What did it all mean?

I decided to find out – I engaged my chimera.

Iembarked upon a true quest, a journey of spiritual discovery. I wanted to understand what “else” existed beyond our programmed minds – our minds that are molded so we fit into the families/customs/beliefs/societies/countries within which we’re born and bred.

Photography: Annie Spratt

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 63

Photography Fabrice Poussin

06 CultureCult Magazine Spring 2019

Everybody was derisive; said I was crazy; what I was searching for was a fantasy. And yes, after a while I began to think they were right because I didn’t see any immediate results or changes, and at times I was confronted by extreme difficulties – physically, mentally, spiritually, emotionally. But I was determined to uncover a different, deeper, more expansive understanding of the human experience.

I started by scaling back –sold everything, gave up the big house and comfortable life style, and moved into a bare one room white-walled studio apartment. I poured overspiritual texts; meditated consistently; met regularly with a mentor; practiced yoga; journaled dreams, symbols and “coincidences;” fought to control my monkey mind and transcend my karma; and began volunteering with underprivileged and immigrant children. I changed what I ate; what I did; people I spent time with; what I thought; how I lived. And there was backlash from family and friends. But on some deep primal level I knew there was more to this life than what we consider, and I was determined to uncover such understanding...

There were travels – to six continents. And gurus, elders, priests, monks, rabbis, imams, shamans, lamas, rinpoches, ashrams, silent retreats, monasteries, and innumerable sacred sites. Meditating alone at Machu Picchu’s Temple of the Sun in Peru I was “visited” by an Incan elder in a vision. In Wales, walking towards an ancient stone dolmen I suddenly saw a Druid welcoming me. At Sillustani’s sacrosanct burial mounds near the Bolivian border I had an encounter with an eagle – which remains, to this day, one of my guides. The “mandatory” trip to India elicited a surprising tangible connection to a 12th century female devi. Native American ancestral spirits “drummed” me down a sacred mountain. Visions of monks with dolphins showed up in Sedona’s famed red rock canyons which, I later discovered, were the bottom of a vast prehistoric sea eons ago. Many other incarnate and disincarnate entities both taught and kept me company on my journey. And there were images of past and future lives – some wonderful, some terrible.

Yes, I’d begun to transcend the third dimensional vibratory existence within which we imprison ourselves.

Which we in the west erroneously believe is the only reality. Finally, after a number of years, pieces of a huge multi-dimensional puzzle that is ever-present started to fit together, ultimately leading to a deeper understanding of self, functionality, others, purpose, love, interconnectedness, the collective unconscious, world, cosmos, divinity. And quantum physics…spirituality and science are finally conjoining.

There were also in-depth discussions with various indigenous peoples like the Aleuts, Maoris, Aborigines, Hopis and Sioux. And practitioners of Kabbalah, Sufism and Gnosticism, as well as followers of Taoism, Confucianism, Hinduism, Buddhism and Zoroastrianism. Even whirling dervishes. Through it all – the epiphanies and lows, the surprises and pain – something within kept pushing for deeper clarity and understanding, for some synthesis. No matter how difficult the twisting, obscured road, there always seemed to be guidance.

From all the studies and travels I discovered there’s an ancient body of knowledge permeating our entire world, known only to a few. This knowledge is irrespective of locale, origin, ethnicity, teachings, religions – but is nonetheless included in the latter in various guises not generally apparent to mankind.

This knowledge, for lack of a better term, is called “Ancient Wisdom” and is based upon immutable Natural Law – the inherent non-human rules that govern our universe. Today, remnants of these teachings can be found in the yogic traditions of Eastern religions (Hindu, Buddhist, Taoism, Jainism), and in the mystical writings of the western Abrahamic religions (Gnosticism/Christianity, Sufism/Islam, Kabbalah/ Judaism). Various tenets can also be found in indigenous and aboriginal teachings the world over.

The teachings deal with man’s ability to expand his consciousness to the point where he is able to transcend generally accepted human limitations; to move interdimensionally on varying universally vibrating rays of light/energy.The ancient knowledge is actually a blueprint for achieving this: to use a spiritual system built into the body to ultimately come to understand the reality of existence and the universe irrespective of human teachings. And to become the essence of what one actually is –consciousness and spirit – rather than the material being one has been programmed to believe one is.

In other geographic areas this Ancient Wisdom was referred to as “Mysteries:” the Eleusinian Mysteries during the Minoan and Mycenaean periods; those of Isis and Osiris in Egypt; the Adoniac in Syria; the Persian Mysteries; and the Phrygian Cabirian Mysteries.

Pre-Bulgarian history as recorded by Diodorus in the 1st century BC, reports that Tharops was gifted with the Thracian kingdom and taught the secrets of the Mysteries. It is further written that Tharops’ son Oeagrus inherited both the kingdom and the secret rites of the Mysteries from his father. Oeagras’ son was Orpheus,

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 65

Art: Jon Sell Cotman

who redefined these ancient rites into the famous Orphic Mysteries, long buried in western literature.

For the nay-sayers, in 2014, at the request of the Director, I supplied some of the above information to the Trakart Museum in Plovdiv, Bulgaria, for use in English language pamphlets and tours explicating the exhibit of their “fialas,” small ceremonial glass bowls. These exquisite bowls are part of a permanent exposition “Glass in Ancient Art – 7th c. BC to 4th c. AD.” Each illustrates a different symbol associated with the various levels of an individual’s transcendence to a higher vibratory level, i.e. to a more inclusive level of consciousness.

Ignored, denigrated, considered “myth” in our culture, this ancient body of knowledge is now being validated by modern science – there are parallels to string theory, quantum physics and the quantum field. Dr. Amit Goswami, a renowned theoretical nuclear physicist with whom I’ve studied, reports “Consciousness is the ground of all being.” Theosophist Helena Blavatsky stated “Civilization has ever developed the physical and the intellectual at the cost of the psychic and spiritual.

The command over and the guidance of one’s own psychic nature, which foolish men now associate with the supernatural, were with early Humanity innate and congenital, and came to man as naturally as walking and thinking.” Einstein concurs: “The intuitive mind is a

66 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12

sacred gift and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We have created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift.” *** A series of magnificent temples flank Egypt’s Nile River.

They are aligned so as to correspond to the aforementioned energy system inherent in humans’ bodies, though little of this is known or practiced here in the technological west. In reality, cultures worldwide have been using this system for eons for health, growth, spiritual awakening, and consciousness expansion. As such, I saved my trip to Egypt for a later date in my journeys when I felt I’d have a bit of knowledge accrued. After all the years of study and travel to sacred sites I was hoping to achieve an “awakening” to this higher consciousness and understanding by meditating in as many of these temples as possible. Due to unrest in parts of the country one temple actually had to be visited via armed caravan.

Many of the temples were open at night. After busloads of noisy day-tripping camera-toting tourists left I’d silently slip into their magnificent surroundings, find a secluded corner, and sit and meditate. Each temple was crafted and located along the Nile River to specifically associate with an ascending energy center in humans’

Art: The High Meeting by JR Korpa

bodies. I visited each temple in order, hoping to awaken each of my own bodily hubs in succession. When these energy vortices are activated and aligned – according to Ancient Wisdom tenets –connections to advanced consciousness, divinity, and expanded abilities (such as telepathy and telemetry) can be cultivated… …and absolutely nothing whatsoever happened! I was crushed. At least in the Great Pyramid I actually felt massive waves of energy, but at the temples –though I thoroughly enjoyed them for their beauty, architecture, and history –nothing of spiritual import occurred.

Finally, a number of years later, there was a major breakthrough. It was my original mentor who suggested I meditate ON England’s famed Stonehenge. And I suddenly realized that throughout all my travels I’d been meditating IN sacred places, but had never really meditated UPON them.

And that night, simply while meditating at home in my bedroom in an old robe and slippers, there was a magical vision. I suddenly saw myself standing in the center of Stonehenge, perched atop our globe. From a rising sun, rays of light started to penetrate the ancient site, eventually completely lighting up the interior of its stone circles with me still standing in the center. And then, as if the earth below my feet was hollow and I was seeing its spherical crust from within, all of the sacred places I’d visited all over the world suddenly lit up and shot thin threads of light out to me, standing there in

Stonehenge’s center, to be absorbed by my body.

The stones were next: they each shot threads of light into my body as well. And I intuitively knew – after all the years, study, travel, and derision–that my energy centers were being awakened, activated and aligned. Not in Egypt, not in far-away exotic places, but right at home – in my robe and slippers.

The road was chimerical – it wasn’t always definable, straight, or easy, and it’s different for every person. It got bumpy at times, and occasionally there were detours and even an accident. The journey mandated questioning each step, and every aspect of existence and accepted reality in order to reach a far deeper understanding of who and what we are, and what we’re all capable of.

This new awareness, with its associated gifts and abilities, is inclusive and accepting of everything and everyone, and truly available to everybody. For ultimately, after all the searching and travels, I’ve come to realize the most important aspect of the journey is meditation. To quiet and empty our minds enough so as to facilitate leaving our accustomed, accepted, programmed level of knowing, therein being able to access a higher vibratory level of existence. The road then reaches out to the seeker – for the Destination is already imbedded inside each and every one of us. And at that point the seeker finally realizes that truly, his chimera IS the reality, and what is considered to be real is the actual fantasy… []

MARSHA WARR EN MITT MAN’s poetry/essays/short stories have been widely published in American, British, German, and Australian literary journals, magazines, and anthologies. Recently: Pure Slush, The Wild Word, Rat’s Ass Review, SETU; a sixth Chicken Soup for the Soul tale. A memoir, You Know You Moved to South Dakota from New York City WHEN… is forthcoming from Scurfpea Publishing. She’s authored three chapbooks - poems from Patriarchal Chronicles: Women's Worldwide Tears are being crafted into a staged production. Mittman’s received multiple poetry/prose distinctions in the US and Ireland, and was awarded a 2019 Writer’s Residency at the Fairhope Center for Writing Arts.

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 67

POETRY

PAT A SHINZE

The Nature of Gifts the best things and the sweetest moments and the finest experiences in life are free. everything that defines living is free: free as air and the flow of thought. free as water and the epiphany of rain. free as earth and the bliss of nature. free as fire and the flux of winds. free as confusion and wanton misery. free as success and callous failures. free as sorrow and tortuous memories. free as puberty and the touch of senescence. free as laughter and loneliness. free as death and silence. free… as the feeling that surges through a soul when its lover whispers unto its hearing: “Darling, I love you!” []

The Theory of Puberty puberty is more than a word. it is more than an escape of hormones, more than heights and fat and flesh, more than bleeding mounds and voices, more than pictures of dance and hate, more than girls hipping up in lingeries, more than boys taking their first, hard breath as men in jean trousers and cotton singlets. puberty is a boy crawling into punctured silence over tasteless salts and nightmares puberty is a girl trying hard not to cry, over mossless hills and arid portals. puberty is prejudiced, the type that colours entrants in the paint of passion or grief; in the paint of luck or acceptance. in the colour of butterflies or worms. [] Art: Silke Lemcke

CultureCult Magazine Issue 12 69

Beyond the Darkness the sky waits and the sun tarries for the bird to remember it can fly and soar high even when its wings defy will and the storms rage unkind. see, my dearest reader. it is not strange to forget purpose. it is not new to drift into cluelessness. it is not a sin to fail and falter. even the crow oversleeps seldomly until the dewy dawn tickles her long throat to obey nature's order. even the flaming fire may forget how fiery and bright it can burn until it sees the ashes of past exploits and remembers itself as a song of lights and thunders. at times, frequent or infrequent; our finest moments in life are often borne when we remember the forgotten words: that we were made for more than what is; that this cannot and will not be the end. []

PAT ASHINZE is Nigerian by birth and citizenship. He is an hybrid of two major Nigerian tribes, Igbo and Yoruba. Writing, to him s the only way i can talk without being interrupted. He is fluid in his writings, revolving within the axial stream of poetry, prose and whatnot. He believes in the power that poetry can wield in a universe as vast as ours. Currently, he is pursuing a degree in Medicine at The University of Ilorin, Kwara state, Nigeria. He unrepentantly loves eating roasted plantain and drinking palm wine.

Rigor Appetit

(Haiku)

life is a banquet hosted by God. death: the irresistibly majestic dessert. all shall eat; all must dine: forever. [] Art: Ra ctapopulous

70 CultureCult Magazine Issue 12