Enertialcall Issue 9

Enertialcall Lit/Art Seasonal Magazine

Issue 9 Fall 2011

Featured Artist Lea Kelley Featured Poe-it Bill Harvey “Generate your wisdom, Oh Bio-Pilot” The Dirt Soildgers

Bruce Neff Abuse page.

Sheila George.

ONe act play..

KADA Nicola Thompson . .Dan Linn..

Petition page .Rachel Zarvis.

Jacob Oser. and Adam Bolivar

Bellingham, Washington

$15.00 usd

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Table of Contents Featured Artist Lea Kelley

This is a perfromance art.. Multi Media and teeming with abstraction from a sanity,and metaphysical interests. and the bowed head rises.. A poet first and foremost and yet not. for to be is to forget.

Galley Directory.. 7

Featured Poe-it

Ten years have passed since I last released the

Enertialcall. Ten Years of Bloodshed, Ten Years of Insecurity, Maybe ten years of denial.

Of last we spoke, I , and Thinkyhead, a small plastic bird I got at a yard sale, had created Issue Eight. We ended that issue complete, spell checked, filled with slanderous Ads, and Raw personalization. We were all about the Evil Bush (we were in 2000), We could see the investments of cunning since Reagan, We felt peace die with Carter, and hoped still in Clinton, But we lost that with Kerry, And wondered why the Military enters Leadership roles. We forgot the C.I.A. Our minds were awash with the I.M.F (Innocent Maturity Factor) and World Bank (World Conscious and Citizenship). In retrospect we didn’t see our power. Small magazines were piling up into the wood work. From every pore came pages and pages, formed of hands self-educated. The doers who refused with the advent of the internet, to mortgage souls for education.

We welcomed the Speed of the technological change leading to philosophic changes through understanding inner adjustments and a new advent of psychology and synchronicity. Understanding change.

That was then. Now if we make one magazine or ten thousand, It matter not what we say but that we said it. To espouse a singular nature of a natural whole water based unit.

When material possessions tax our existence we turn to higher schoras of inner peace which have no controls and no retardants. Toward this end Awareness is key.. and culture must lead.

I e The enertialcall Through change. We self teach. We learn ,adapt and help each other to do. This Magazine is the first step to a concept of media that promotes these ends. It is my perfromances of the abstradctions, to stop time with a second that writting its self becomes. a perfromance,, what is mine about ,, the perfromance is to give a shit. to feel and to say we are all...

We make this magazine to further the explaination and information accepted about self to enhance our universe. We create life with the creativity. We understand if only for a moment and have to be truned back to our redundancies.People have natural ablity to transend built into our conscious. If only we can understand what is infront of us. This starts with and understanding of who we are.And I think the

AGe of

Bill Harvey Four pages from Mind Magic...16

ONLINE @ Enertialcall.com

A perfromance Peice k.A.Ambrose.

Letters to the editor.....4 10 movie ideas.....Bruce Neff....5 By Abuse page...Sheila George......8 Twenty three West..K.A.Ambrose..10 ”the Tweleve top Men” ..Movie synopsis,....13 Rats don’t Read...Linus Hardwick....22 ONe act play.. Sort of. K.A.Ambrose...24 Of time is known time... Paul Gore....29 the Jester.....Nicola Thompson....29 I am Glad ... Howard Trudoe..31 Dan Linn...Pages........33 Petition page.....38 Tonight of love I felt...K.A.Ambrose ....40 The Harvest...........Rachel Zarvis....44 Face cracked torn healed.... Jacob Oser...49 Driven...Pillup Gelks...54

THE DEVIL AND SIR FRANCIS DRAKE Adam Bolivar..........59 Four on the Cover ..drawings by

...Kada

Metaphycis is Apon us. But I am a perfromances

artist ,Can’t trust me.. . I will not be the last to say this and i am not the first. But it needs saying over and over. I feel this and so create. We help others to create through creating. Artist are never paid enough for the work they put in. For it is a labor of love and hope. if not their work is shallow and I won’t publish it.

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Contact Kada@enertialcall. com Snail Mail Enertialcall Media p.o.box 2271 Bellingham,Wa. 98227

Now Accepting Submissions for Issue 10 Featuring the paintings of George Jartos “We Unite in the Mind

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Letters to the Editor

Please be advised that we actually didnt get any letters to the ediotr. Never have really, I just like to use this for small editorieals. but if the enertialcall did get any letters to the editor , which is Kada@enertialdcall.com, We would publish them, forth with.

We already share the Poverty for all.

And there are more of us then them.

The separation of feelings that technology teaches is self gratification while a hundred years passes by.

It is the man over god complex, or it is the technology which fuels the spiritual as Pre- Theoretics?

Just sayin. A Metaphysical word. Boo

Dear Editor Being without love, and kindness seems criminal.

All civilization seems corroded by doubt.

So as the study of living continues Am I only to love from a distance?

Joan from Cleveland Maybe I see energy dreams the wrong, but I live it. It is alternative, natural and an adventure.

The questions taken back to Adam, and Eve, the fig leaf (a parasitic vine) for the usage of the god’s light through Reason. Given bodies as an escape from heaven’s determined control and aloofness. They only knew guilt and eternal sin as the child is to the parent. The owe-r to the lender, (Giver) The body aches and moans, knows pain and balances physical will. They could not, as we can, Sing the father to sleep.

Have it Heaven , Too , And Reality, For, One to exist “IT” must be part Of Everything. Now. Then , And Forever.

IT must be natural.

With questions answered, we make history.

Yet history is the cowards controlling. For where do you think your doubt will leave, accept in fantasy, or reason with only limited applications, for what else has been the entirety of philosophy, Thinking slows down the process. (for which I know Nothing about) but to argue while such to me cannot explained and must be lived, and then taught, if you will, to what is felt.

“I feel there fore I am.”

A customer in Elderberry Dear Editor; Accepted feelings ,of the sun melting our slowly dissolving breathing space, confuses the soul. Accepting War and Death to children, brothers, lovers, friends, controls a sense of right.

Nationalisms are the separation of sharing, and propose only rules of dominances. If we all are equal, then let us spread equality of intellect. Let us change the Dessert into Solar collection parks with Green house food and do it. Let us buy the rest of the rain forest for a universal park system.

Buy all the remainder of the trees,, but without proclaiming of Non Profit grandeur,, but with feeling for a Global system with equality for all.

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Yo Dude; The chill in the air is the time. I may move soon, I may watch television again. But first I will write this.

It is the time of American Politics, but I dream of the Democratic Convention 2004.

John Kerry is the intended, having won most of the primary votes , Tonight starts the creation of sides.

The ludicrously is that there are sides, while the quiet majority has the weapons and is never elected and is always in power. Laugh hideously that a star trek episode might have been right.

How would you introduce Aliens? As a fact. You must have global power through consciousness. First, is by mediation, the wicked to fight against; to have peace as a rule of law and contribution.

Will Kerry Pay Back United Nations Debt. Equalize schooling and make the statement that the “MISSION OF DEmocracy is world peace through self sufficient governing. “ Realizing our hands are drawn tight with each passing day of humanity.

Here where we cup our hands to provide, we let the remains into commerce, and our products leave a residue and where the indigenous are replaced we apologize but it’s our fun loving media, and Advertising culture, which makes People think, that is American, but it is just corporate control.

It is dealing to a market that is free enough to choice what to spend on.

A market that is not hungry, or over populated. America is not SMALL. For it has been over produced on for only two Hundred and so years, that humanity has walked the planet. These are the years of conscious change and global Democracy.

As a collection of independent states, American has achieve the ability to exist alone, and within our borders, but even our Peace has been debated in battle. But through this all we are still standing from sea to shining sea, but we are, truthfully, the representation of cooperation and resolution achieving an equality with spirt through the intermixture and the acceptance of others, in what ever form our human culture push us.

Just another guy.

Bobvile,Or

Dear Editor: It seems funny to ask me to change more for what is our lives for the world . YOu do realize the economics of the globe are sabotaging what was once American, what was once, home of the free for the home of world dominating corporate lenities, that are controlled by the sell outs. People who only reach for a better life for themselves and corporate boards.. Who remain hidden while we grant them “personal” status. While we under fund our government. While our children suffer education’s fall out. Like the old system of surfs or slave or tenant farmer, has become the new system of minute labor and robotic industrialism, except anyone can get it. With the right suit and bow, the right miss attention. The “right” sight,, .. From the “INSIDE” we somehow elected to use derivatives instead of actual money. Like the DEad pedaled to get court favor in Russia (see Dead Soul

by Googol and TY wiki) , Now we have only constant reminders of everything we have done wrong, What is going to be the next world. After the environmental impacts on global economic stops all the true back bone of life. By stressing us out so much that we can not stand. And must be homeless to feel secure and equal to our finances.

What will happen and what are we to do?

YOu make a magazine So are you sold out to? Is your corporate funding stopping you from seeing like everyone else. Why are we so innocent? So dispatched to the ignorance.

Is it the schooling systems fault? Who can only take corporate bribes, to fund “Endowments”. so we teach the rules ,,oh shit that would mean , the whole system is created to crash,, its started with the teachers? I dont know but you as a publisher, you ars a writer, you as a man. Must feel this.You must see the system has been converted to a money maker, and when we cant get money we go for credit , and when we can’t get credit, We further defraud the government with bank bail outs or sell blood for Plasma . lol,, I though Haliburton was the biggest criminal , I didn’t know they were just the first leg.. The first start of global systemizations. HOw many millions went to them ,,,for a war?

So lost, I can not even stop to think any more, I guess that is part of the plan, Joe. Bellingham, Wa Dear editor.

If you looked at the world today you see the amount of media out there.. But why is it you have to create this one.. Is it cause all the other media bought and sold such that to say anything one has to have the approval of the overlords,, it get so hard to believe anything will make a difference.. Thank you for creating this.. And hope we find water before it is to late..

Bio Pilot Bob H. Harserer

10 Movie Ideas

by Bruce Neff 1) Twelve top men. Man is Denied Inheritance, Goes nuts In a Deluxe Five Star Fallout sheleter called the Glass City. Mysterious secondary plot and one beautiful Lab Tech.

2) Saint Hacker , A man vas Hacker.. Hacker gives money ,,modern saint tale.. “Super hacker” makes the man’s life better. A saint but the man risks his sanity to believe someone would do help him. The Super hacker asks questions of the man’s life. “Just cause you have the money what will you do with it?”

3) The Mini Cow Mystery - In the year 2025, Miniature cows ( And other animals) are developed, secretly . People find out,, and pull a devious and humorous plot to convince the scientist to admit who funded it.

4) Mini Cow Two The Corporate founders are brought to justice for animal right violations. And from that, animals get the right to vote.. And a kitten is elected President of the World ,, We Speak for a Picture of Trees. Sci-fi 5) A Hake Sack Youth. - A wild mix of real footage and animation, and five kids playing Footbag (haky sac) but each kick takes us to a different universe of matter and importance, like jokes of governmental abandonment in technocolor in the form of flowers talking,, and the morphing “trillionaries” who are a set of ducks,, The ultimate crux is a dream passed between people. All for the jam.

6) Plots, Come and Innocents -A novel in 30 fps with a colorful mixture of light and paint, from the underside of a glass sheet, with words constantly pouring forth, Novelettes, and the abstraction, to come back to a SINGLE VISION. 7) To Equal - A movie,, The United States government has decided we must have one hundred percent vote, and creates a day off for voters. There would be three separate stories, the conspiracy against, for, and a change in government after. Imagine Fountainhead with a simple love story of Plant people and the Controllers. Her names is Sanctity.

8) Mike and Miles - Two guys go on road trip with no money and a webcam. Eloquent conversations on being and burgulary, commonness and street performing and one minor love story.

9) A Glass heart - the story of a Stain glass artist who hids a “telepathic” ability until he experiences of five different people during a road trip with his best friend/landlord/business partner.

10) A Mans Reminder.. The story of a Monk Order that commits murder to teach god. Large scale elimination once every hundred years. ,, A comment on murder for the reluctant murderer. A comedy? Thou shall not kill , even for a reason.

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Feature Artist

Lea Kelley

Gallery Directory Apochryphqa.........................................................................................2 88 days On Mercury .............................................................................6 Animus Rising 2 ..................................................................................9 Approaching Avalon..............................................................................15 Asleep Apon Arrival .............................................................................17

Eyes of Fallen Kings...................................................................30 A Capricorn the Goat......................................................................32 The City.......................................................................................35 Confucious Conquers Rome.......................................................39 Exodus from Logic.....................................................................41 Entrance to the Carnival.............................................................43 Industrial Impact........................................................................46 In the shadow of Ungrown Trees ..............................................48 Land of Fallen Railings..............................................................51 Last Memory of Earth ................................................................54 Maslows Mesa............................................................................56 Neptune ......................................................................................59 Network of Solitude....................................................................62 Ms.Kelley’s work in color can be see http://Leakelley.com

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Abuse Page .

Must we always think of an audience?

Are our gestures symbols or there ancient symbolism among us?

But I am not here to try and impress you. My life is as complete as it is, but it has room for the sharing that is love’s giving,, and strength complete. Meaning to moments. Though I have gone insane with depression, from the alcohol and the unemployment but your strength brought me back Teaching me of the placements of physical nature and spiritual truths. I am learning from our conversations, even if they have been sparse of late. I think we have two minds which bounce off each other. Seeing the same in a full calm view, a nod has said more to me from you than any one I have met.

I guess it has to do with support, for moments of dis-reasonable actions of possession, while learning something about my anger, and addictions makes me live sober, and complete life goals; my writing Should , My art ,as is the completion of doing. there be I have faced a cross road in the last month. I have walked a freeremnants ing path. And accept what path I walked, and will accept what that of indigenous communication? means , You sleeping in the other room, conversing with dreams, .

Haven’t we been toppling them as we’ve been being toppled A world of ghosts I can not want forever. To touch is to honor. To Broken and shattered and erased? hold is to know security through good planning. I would feel good Even my tongue doesn’t obey the proper program of this Philips about a common future if we were together,, I do not feel there is computer projected anything we could not do. I married you the third day we met. InDistilled skeletal language finite intersection of missed direction have been avoided, and more Frail drying bony have been given a Walk sign, feeling closer.

I never want to be unable to talk to you. Forever to look at my Who’s Languij is it then back and see no one, has given me my doubt. And it’s opposite has I’m speaking given strength.

Do my thought project this lesson It is funny but I feel the energy running through our connection as Are my gestures condemned to this broken decay? some total awe of life. So I sit and type to you what words that run dry in my mouth.

Indigenous of the world Fear of the listener, so this is what I fear, I fear that I have found Thoughts are gestures of language an equal and she is going away. So I must tell you before you leave And I hear your catastrophic hymn how I feel. So at least I will not have to tell of what I might have

.by Shiela George

I use this, my language as gesture And we teach each other.

I love you.

I don’t mean to scare you But I did.

So love comes from a distance. Feeling intricate moments not explained. Telling heart to strengthen and be meditative and pray. To feel loving without you. Others would speak their ignorance.

Others say nothing, and equality is ours.

I need to write this letter but it is taking forever. . There have been to many writing moments concerning you.. To many because I am not feeling relieved. No matter if you would accept or reject me, I am alive and feel intricacies of you around me. I want to share this holy physical existence, and I want to create Family and Corporation. And this could be the all or nothingness I am facing..

There is a women to fit with me.. Just one.. And from there life would be whole. I would expect she would be my equal.. Timeless in age and appreciation. As I consider myself. She would know. And tells others. She is.

In front of me? Communicating crossed the room. ,, There is to be no mourning for the morning For the morning arises. With a day.

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done.

There isn’t much I can not do, if I am truthful with the doing.

This says it better it is from Shaw’s Man and Superman.

“She is an enchantingly beautiful women, in whose presence the world becomes transfigured and the puny limits of individual consciousness are suddenly made infinite by a mystic memory of the whole life of the race to its beginnings in the east, or even back to the paradise from which it feel. She is the reality of romance, the inner good sense of nonsense, the unveiling of my eyes, the freeing of my soul, the abolition of time, place and circumstance, The etherealization of my blood into rapturous rivers of the very water of life itself, the revelation of all the mysteries and the sanctification of all the dogmas.”

I hate roles. I like to go for walks at four in the morning after I am writing,, To inform another kills the inspiration of a problem.. (I think, Or I am just slow) So I like to walk with only minimal attentions, having small conversations with feelings, spirit, and reason’s perspective reflections. I have done that all my life, Long walks in the city, . I smile and walk very slow passed the eating skunk, who should be fed instead of the squirrels.. Wouldn’t it be cool if skunks were more social, after extra aggression training.

Bottles on the street waiting for car tires, a newspaper blows around in a slow rising swirl between buildings. Happiness from a dogs milli- second eyes, Disgust with a three second passing fast conversation. Heart from a couple across the street Greeting. The Angry continue page 42

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1) To Tell the legend 4) waiting heart, 2) admit the encrypted message 5) is not heard.

3) Pretend your not hearing.

Twenty three west

by Martin Do

A dark and rainy night suffocates the air. Pacing thoughts; murky ,and yet, very brave.

Reflecting off dirty blurring glass, a woman’s eyes show watery smeared; sore and red. Her brown hair sticks to her high forehead and cheeks. Deep brown endless eyes reflect back the reflection and are lost to the dark outside.

She looks out the window and cries, heavy life long sobs. Tears and moans which can not be quieted stretches into a purification of tears. The walls resound the echoes of millions. Silently exhausting the one who cries like sometimes seems all should.

But she is “sick”, for years have been like this. Looking at herself through a darkened mirror, wandering though her life. Turning against the pain to cry.

Rain falls in answer when she knows it is not. A man, a love inside her, she can not shake, wants not to see her, as she dies to call. Knowing she is only replacing sorrow with a name but yet all is the aching to belong, to give, to make life. Conscious of the trying; trying to understand.

Joshua Rose, five nothing with a doll’s face and sky stealing soft blue eyes, stares at her heart in the glass night’s reflection. Hearing devotion only as eloquent speeches made lonely against hope as a hand holds air. The rain comes down harder like an exclamatory sentence; God’s studious sound track.

Her life has been tortured and bound by what is old and what is lived. The blanket dries her eyes. Secreting problems to the window, she laughs at her own useless tears. Wanting not to lose emotions even while having them. Tearing survival’s fabric even while being survival on the edge of humanity.

She waits on understanding and lets Romance replace addictions of heart and to the like. Each second a splatter of images, calculating how often her thoughts traveled directly insane to moments; Like the answers from the wind and rain. Divergent to wills interests; lies only to cure it self. ..Emotional paths pass. Characters divided, light and dark, a centered eye and solid fate.. Here and now; moments. Action mark intellectual tomorrows; where between she waits in technologic fates; chaos and self programming.

The window, peeled and painted over and over, with drip lines forming cracks and old bubbles. A lighter blue than evening sky shields. The waters edge holds the panes of dark mirrors. Rain slays the window to a blur and a second isn’t measurable.

The rest of the room burns in a low light, creating calm warmth with deep shadows, innocent and yet forecasting what scares flowers. Simple recesses unseen for a creeping apprehension foretold but every moment awaking through chaos is freedom.

Her face naturally changes when she first meets people, when she see the equality of distance, when a texture, an energy, and a smile is returned or even sometimes proceeded. Her life has been intuitive survival. An out cast from home and kindness, logic moves emotions into art . Self expression surviving through poverty’s purity; a natural seeking and finding. Where materialism fails, diving into the self never fails, but maybe ends….When you stop smiling, or when your smile is turned against you for the possession it offers, tempting and controlling love’s ruin.

Looking straight through the window. Her rain doesn’t stop. Wind and flailing trees mourn even when there is no one to mourn. All are the mothers and fathers of the infinite.

Inside our heads is the love she knows, for the passion to care hasn’t left, but sees how it could , and fights to keep what would be alive without. That is the victim’s feelings… her crying does nothing and she knows it..

Feeling almost foolish about her tears , laboriously ,proving gravity, as they move down her cheek, catching in the crack of her lips Reminding her yet of the sea’s

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limitless adventure a soul feels and grows with the floating salty tides. .

Insanity marks this personal exchange. a known insanity a viewed process for the individual. Inexperienced experience. Unmentioned history, facts avoided, and regained only with will. Meditating to find the pain willingly, its jewels ,a soft interest, to be happy.

Flat pink, the walls are painted the room. with another bed. the room , paid for by donors is a retreat for the next months and some previous. this homeless shelter, a house paid for by the generous offering of those who’ve gone without to have again. Who have run the boundaries of materialism for the love of heart, like her.

The Saints of tomorrow are the pained of today.

Under a large hill, under the abandoned brick walled lordly castle . broken panes, green and jagged, covered in thick vines so old they have turned light brown. An Old State Hospital and its field of weed trees, ten feet tall looking like a small thickly divided Palm infestation, rises up over the house Joshua little room lives in.

A mental institution ,it was, famed for shock treatment rooms and large halls which imprisoned those who haven’t made the grade .who couldn’t learn to cry or cried to much.

Before changing consciousness was a demand and the inhabitants went to the streets for obscurity.

From above, the white clapboard shelter looks homely. Yet inside it’s walls are the left over of civility and sanity . the incurables. but these kind know it.. they wear their life stories on their arms. telling how bad off it is. getting food and shelter out of the New England attitude.

This one a credit card thief who just got out of the can. he don’t fit right because he is sane , right , yea, with a drinking habit like a paramecium to water. Another one on the coach, been here four month, he is waiting on welfare while consuming as much Heroin as possible. he buys piss and tries to sell heroin and anything else he can to everyone. Another , who walks femininely, short-ish with stringy grease black hair, rocks back and forth on the other couch no one knows what happened to her. she never talks normal, stares off rocking. she doesn’t take care of herself at all lives in the same clothing for weeks and leaves the shelter to walk the streets and find another shelter.

But there are more in this house of hope. the staff comes in talking of their lives; the smiles, ( happiness) from one. some are all sadness or preoccupation. Another is cynical with a smile. and the other , the late night guy, he isn’t here , he’s always looking away into a bible, seen to much, and always catches the drunks. two other women are like the eight other guys, just fell between the cracks, and have to get up into civilization alone, family given away to transient employment or misunderstandings or dead.. Insanity is easy to believe when

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living the adventure of change and growth. Joshua has been burdened without cause, except birth . she is apart of her self. pulling away the life she has come to , after, the next… for pretend , she has ran with criminals, to a get away car and ran off without the chase, blue lights flashing against her sweaty skin…. telling time as the edge, and sweaty and nervous, crawled into an abandoned box, holding her legs… remembering .. her father came into the room quietly ,,, time passes without trying… a fist full of hamsters ….. the cops came into the alley

the box then left and the night is at a bar ,, smiling but never saying a word…like so many facts Silence holding a knife to her throat.

Quieted away like all the adventures she has had with men since fifteen.

Old men, mostly, Dinners and parties, fancy but not even near

dresses and attention every where. taking her heart out of her. leaving her to enjoy only the adventure and never her emotions. her emotions come as an insult to her life and she runs from them until now. Here in this small room she feels free to experience herself.

She opens the window to let the water splashes, lash off the earth around her; Quick shocking pin needles to her face.

She dresses and goes to the front porch with easy chairs and cigarette coffee cans. where she becomes like the rest but holds her inner pieces tightly because of the silence. they haven’t been invited around the world by entering a bar. they don’t know the power men have

The old tales are still true. the fortune to be taken by the beauty in the red dress.

It is disheartening the effect of loneliness. How it shares only with the given to her.

lonely . “feeling so lonely. feeling so unholy. “ It is for self to sit seeing love for self. and this maybe the first time she has. For across the world goes a thoughts following work. The stress to appear likeable, Or reaching out in friends living what life came no one with a job the nights telling of romance and transcendence, the arc and cave. a back born aloft. and forgotten.

It is a thought out side in the warm air and the calm field on the other side of the road in front of the house where she sits which attracts her. guys come out on to the porch. and the mask is applied to their advancements. the whole world of women trying to reach out for friendship and truth and getting wants and desires and no heart.

Is she wrong To ask for a cigarette? knowing she needs and can get. Her thoughts broken by the first intrusion.

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The twelve top men (or “the Glass city”) There are many ways to start a story. As a million have been written so a million are told starting out one way or another. I am writing to accent the ways we feel . So a moment before beginning is the best place to put in the words of why I am writing this.

There is a world of under handedness that has created this peaceful world. Descending from the interior, it is an element of existence placed in the back vaults of teaching. We don’t tell people the reason for the laws; the hard pressed necessity is a story that talks of the commonness of ignorance and determined mishandling of ethics and human commonality in our everyday world.

And I propose a ‘why’ it balances. This is a tale of what comes out of such dismemberments from nobility through Man kinds susceptibility to greed and the republican control of any government.

You see there once was twelve scientist, Who, for the most part believed the world would eventually need to go underground. These Twelve scientist wondered along the lines of what would life be when we would be forced to plan a future. So they planned for it by building a deluxe underground fall out shelter. Now such an endeavor was more than just a place to hid. It needed to be a place to create a future from. A place involved in the living. And from that angle it created. With a self sustainable energy source and a continuous monitoring system of psychologist.

Now the fallout shelter had many features written into it’s formula. One; the society of the shelter would have a strict educational system teaching mediation, and yoga, as well as Tai Chi. The teaching of world history changes in the shelter. The past of capitalism and the making of a material society which forgot natural living is Identified. This past only created a land of gathering and enslavement of others. There was not equality among It’s people and In fact the system was ruinous for once you exploited all the people and resources; How much farther could you go. It was a system with an end. The shelter taught agriculture

Oh the capitalist tried to create a flow. With up’s and downs, but it was always just the criminal element that created these false tides. In the end the rich always collected. And the poor who had to work to become less and less able to support the rich, for they were being exploited to the point of having nothing or what ever is called the money after the rising shelter costs. Well the tides stop flowing for the rich who didn’t want to pay all the taxes to support the infrastructure. the infrastructure needed the middle class, which they eliminated. So the quality of life kepts going down. In Fact the capitalist system even retarded the progress of its own world by buying up

make sure the balance of power didn’t change to quick ,,

‘patients” to

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You see the big had a goal for world balance of oil which they used against the people in the middle east. So long did they use this control that finally the system that supported that

usage become old and unable to support its self, all the technology was available to change but the old system demanded to remain in place until such time as the middle east could be control again. This created wars and much blood shed. All so the system of the rich remained in place. Corporate control retard society progress and war ravaged the economy.

The scientist wanted to see a governing body created for the betterment of the people.

So they created the people as best they could and figured with everyone on the same level they could be better inspired to accept an equality of love and peace for all.

But it required responsibility for the upper governmental posistions.

So the leaders were always to be scientist elected though the people devoted to humanity first.

But that was all in the next government’s neo-constitution. The twelve top men thought of everything. Sort of...for really, no one can.

An ad was placed in the Media looking for Voluteers who would be paid to live in the shelter until the time it was needed.. these “Voluteers” families we paid a fee for the loss of the loved ones. Voluteers could never leave and become the workers of the shelter. There were the first test studies..

The fallout shelter is built ,, and the tweleve go deep inside.. and became missing. Now The twelve scientist had also one Realistate expert who sold the underground condos.. and in order that the people would be close to the shelter a Glass city was built above the shelter, this “city” had schooling and recreation, even vationing opprotuntiy, it was ran by the reilistate agent..

The tweleve scientist held all the stocks of the Glass city, and the relistate expert was only paid to manage the properties above the stucture. But He become greedy after the scientist went below.. he created more stocks and eventrually become the second top owner, and would own the whole thing except for the 12 scientist proxies. which he couldnt buy, these were left to the only son of all the 12, Howard Sing. Horward was only a child when his father went into the shelter. he didnt get raised by him, and didnt know his father, but he had a special apartment, him and his guardian shared. You see Howard was to recieve all the stocks of the 12 scientist on his 21st birthday,, at twenty his guardian was killed, somehow,,The day before his birthday our story starts. (more in issue 10)

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pg15

Feature POEit

Bill Harvey

Each Other’s windup toys All information Has some intrinsic command effect Upon the brain.

Even rhythms may be soothing, Or create a wide range of other moods.

Our brains are being washed in information With some command effect over us, From waking to sleep each day (and during sleep).

Ours is the Age of Background Brainwashing.

We don’t even notice that it is there, Or why we buy those produ7cts Or snub those strangers.

How little of our behavior is under our own control: How much was programmed from outside!

pg16

F

ound on a “clean out” of a storage locker. The smells of rot and dilapidated ruins, children’s photographs, all natural material needs scatter to enclose the floor. Piled three feet high, Left for years.

Rats came and left. Card board is not a favorite treat so the chew marks were just for fun or for other rats. Markings every where left over extras. The symbols and symptoms of burdens and biology. I found a black home bound book, nine by eleven, and inch or more thick with pen and ink drawn pages. Hieroglyphics and Words.

The cover inspired me, like a treasure inside a world of “what to keep and what must pass on” . So left for lack of money as passport comes the synchronistic.

Right there I decided I would make Bill Harvey’s book ‘Mind Magic’ a Feature, and a features for the Mental remembrances of nature that is, a poetic side effect.. A Clearly we are the markers of time. Our personal identities are the markers. Soully for the effect to feel. Feel like we never have before. For never is only a thought, a reasoning, and backward to always. Adaptation is Conscious awareness.

“Someday never comes Unless its already here!”

Any set of words that move a soul, that cause a moment to a day, is poetry.

So We found this poet , He wrote a book, we found; copyright 1972.

Then we called..

The enertialcall was received as a friend, and he said “yes”.

To my joy, I received the latest version of Mind Magic, as a CD by post It helped me to remember we are ourselves. Through all this.

Believe me or don’t. (We didn’t goggle him until after).

Welcome people. Met the man who helped invent the Nelson ratings. He is also a Consultant for Movie Statistics,, and the like. It is so perfect I had to.

I read Mind Magic every few day ,, Just to remember personal power,, Thank you Professor Harvey, Love and rockets to all

Mr Harvey can be reached at mindmagicprogram.com or The Human Effectiveness Institute

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Value Sophistication

An individual alone will tend to think: An individual in society will tend to talk.

Talking is an expression of the inborn urge to think, As it manifests itself in a social mode.

Those who think rather than talk.

Tend to be regarded as not cooperating with society; This encourages talking and discourages thinking.

Whereas thinking progresses through falsehood to truth, Discarding the interim products of falsehood, Talking progresses through falsehood to truth, Retaining the interim products of falsehood.

Thus many heads are filled with falsehood, Generated by the process of talking, And these falsehoods are repeated in later talking.

Talking is not usually motivated by the search for truth, But rather by the search for approval; Thus approval is given To those who say something already believed, To those who say something interesting, And to those who say something well, But not necessarily to those who speak truth.

`We expect that empirical studies will later confirm that: 1.

A sensory overload relative to meditation time (to assimilate those inputs) causes a shift in how information is processed: Different (simplified) biocomputer logics.

2.

By perpetuation robot repetition of conditioned programming, these simplified logics reduce free will, powers of observation, sensory sensitivity and in other ways unnecessarily hamper one in achieving lasting satisfaction from life.

3.

The simplified logics are intended by Nature to be used in short bursts for coping with actual emergency threats to survival, I.e., they are an alarm reaction.

4.

The pandemic problem today is the inability to turn off the ever constant alarm reaction.

5.

The difficulty in functioning through this alarm reaction is that learning is suspended.

Experiences which need to be assimilated are repressed.

6.

Meditation is the most efficient method of assimilating human experience.

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pg17

WORD-INTOXICATION All words Hypnotize To some extent.

pg18

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WHERE DID WORDS COME FROM ?

From the depths of our soul.

They were discovered inside us, not invented.

The evidence of similar-root-noises-for –similar concepts across separated peoples, attest to this.

We all discovered something like the noise mama for mother.

Even apes apparently make similar sounds for the same concepts as we.

It is as if we were all discovering The same Master Language, Distorted into various different directions By the effect of different genetic/environmental conditions.

WORDS JUST BEcAME IMPORTANT RECENTLY We came down out of trees 1,500,000 generations ago.

As recently as 250generations ago (1/6000th of the time we’ve been walking) The average human used or heard Only a few words a day.

Today Tens of thousands of words Go through the average human head Each day.

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pg19

No title to change Accept negative emotions as a useful sign Set to work converting Into complete understanding.

Regard the emotion you feel As communication to you From an inner part of yourself That is acutely sensitive but inarticulate.

Neither fear nor dread this useful sign As an agony or punishment, Or as an indication of your own weakness, Incompleteness or fallibility: Negative emotion is as necessary A warning system as physical pain.

However, it would be as inappropriate To submit to negative emotion As it would be to submit to pain: The clear course of action Is to understand And thereby remove negative emotion.

Do not waste energy on negative feelings or morbid thoughts.

Your feelings and thoughts program You and your environment on many levels: If you radiate negatively, Negative events will occur around you and to you; The opposite will occur if you radiate positively.

Transform negative inputs into positive outputs.

Find and exploit the aspects of every thing.

pg20

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You can read this like a reminder.. and if nothing else the Enertialcall reminded you of your innocents to listen. What hears the tide hears all. An amazing conversation is starting, or continuing, an amazing step into self control and personal promise. To where it starts, We point to self. Firstly.

I couldn’t get a lot of the book in, of course, so these pieces we compiled by flipping the book pages and pointing. The representations is the movement of the brains space and the lesson we take and share. We must know before we can act..

Feel the change that comes as nothing more than an agreement.

Thank you Mr. Harvey

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pg21

And then, also, Rats don’t read.

LinusHardwick

Hot metal; walls and roof. A small cage for breaking prisoners in olden day capitol punishment. Mine is sufferance in Living. So as time flies the incredible speed of love? Hope? Fortune? I have been given a place, an office. A storage attic, away from the storage shed. Away from the boxed in memories of the slow moving parasites around. Their abilities to understand, gave me a pause for my life; once again. Or I am a paranoid and I am just finding out. But it is surrounding yourself with those who can not see you. Who are so Victimized. These slow minds anger quickly, and evolve you into the asswhole, into the bully, into their prejudices. . Can’t read in 2010 you would be pissed too.

Walking by the front shed roll down door, “gotta cigarette” mumbles in.. Asking but not to break the silence, but to ease in, Filter in , Sponge off, get , Or take, bend the forms of social nature until someone says stop. Then you are the enemy, the “other side” the “them”. Just because you had enough and stopped the continual Using.

High forehead, for it is not just one, but a whole family, looking from the side of poverty unseen on TV shows, un-portrayed because truth is fouler than any fiction could be and still get though the censor and this one is here.

And in I walk all , “Lets get along”, and “are there any rules?

Organized Sanity is an unwelcomed guest in the land of fantasy and flies. So Plans never work and the people are greediest at the bottom. Storage areas are open and the goods inside are the plums if you are willing to shuttle them away to the next process. Yard Sales, Pawn store: the bottom retail.

I was just getting into food chain system, before I got there everything was cool. The Security guy , Who’s job it is to clean out the old and non paying lockers, Sells what ever he can, for weed mostly, but he moves the insides of the storage to a truck by way of these “Storage Gypsies” Who, of course. Sell it at a Yard Sale they have at their house. Well. I come in with the great Idea of having a sale right there on the grounds. I ran it two or three times. Not bad on money, about two hundred a time, but the second time I had no bigger ticket items. I.E. the ones leaving with the Gypsies. It turns out, the system, was falling to the last degree, and I was cleaning out the last of the trash and grabbing whatever was left. The official clean up man, and the security guy got his from both ends. A perfect system, accept. The gypsies conned me on a couple of deals, and then used my signs when they decided to use the grounds instead of going all the way home. Basically I was doing the work for the Clean up man. Except I was getting dollars and back feeding, but I washed stuff. I gave cash instead of pills and weed.. Instead small timing the profits.. Clean up man gave away everything to the Gypsies, before I got there but they were to slow. Hillbillies you don’t run into to much in Boston. Not to many people pride themselves on knowing only survival and so it seems I shouldn’t fault them. They are working what they have, what is allowed and I was getting in the way. The security guy was playing both sides of the coin. It is funny. I was affecting the gypsies money, making them pay more because I was involved saying I would get more for it. So they hated me. I was faster and more willing

pg22

to tell them to go fuck off. When they low balled, or thought they could get for drugs.. Easy money .. Cheap despite money. I wasn’t despite and wouldn’t settle for weed.

The father of the group was a huge man, with a sunken face that was all forehead, and puffy pockmarked cheeks. Always in overalls, the denim kind ,the worn and over washed. The thinness that hangs off was filled by him. Big man, Big belly, but simple seeming to talk to. A simplicity that only knows what it knows and god fear any one that breaks that irrelevant code, that challenges that. Like someone hitting George, in “of mice and men” , You think you are in depression looking at him, you feel the dust bowl and hear the hobo campish nature.

I strayed off my path, For a moment to converse, I have entered a world only known by Carneys, and backwater drug kings. The downiest down “urban” survivalists. But I couldn’t last. I got mad first, and actions happened.

It is funny, you do not know what you would do if you had to protect yourself. If you wanted revenge, if you want to teach someone a lesson. You feel evil for letting the stupid step on the lawn rake’s front end. You don’t like yourself really. But you do it. ,, Without doing anything, you just didn’t save them.

Are you wrong, how many times thinking you are saving someone when the person doesn’t deserved it. And you just didn’t know, that some people can honestly rip you off with one hand and expect you to look out for them with the other.

Sort of like a corporation, who is to making a profit while adhering to evil corporate moralities, and all we get are apologizes. For Blackened seas and evaporated Ice caps.

The Storage yard Gypsies, one day decided to encroach on my lands. Actually taking my props I made, using them like we are one big family. I didn’t let it happen, and almost started a fight with one of the children, who was about thirty years old with a hand shake like a lumber jack. My heart casting strength against an unknown element. So I called the cops, wanting, the threat to be answered with a threat. Each was equalizing, and I do not have to talk to them any more.

The security guard played the both of us, just for a little more money. His smile so simple, his laugh eminent like he walks with the fantasy of his own survival. But likes to complain constantly to dissway any really accountability. As the time during the events of those weeks. He would smile and collect, but he couldn’t have enough, cause he didn’t like to work physically, and never did. When he first come up to me, he said his name was Prince.

There is a last name attached but I didn’t remember, and it is useless to our story, he used that like he has all his life. The millionaires from the paupers disguise, follow my lead like I am royal I have but just not here.

It is a con used on the streets a lot. A way of creating doubt, and I fell right into it. I put aside the magazine and my writing to listen and create two yard sales. Sitting in the dust and selling the effects from years of rats and mold..

All for a dollar. The books, after two weeks facing rain, still smelled. Left overs from years of running, when the end came the past was a loss easy to part with, leaving the remains in sheds, leaving the bills for god. And you could read the families or the people. The pictures were of one person.

Often old or young after graduating through the term of years the shed was holding. They seemed like the collection you cherish to look at over and over, and there is no other purpose but to remind of more better times. . The

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diplomas, the paper work form schools or awards of sports. Mixed in with the baby pictures. New ones, the next line of those left behind in a cycle of picking your self up , And being raised by the negative, a continual venture,. Up and down . All readable in the leftovers we find in delinquent storage units. But these were even worse then , The average.

Rats yes rats. Furry little critters chased from their lake side homes when the Airport was put in and overfilled for the serial killers of suburbia . Or when property was so expensive it was easier and cost effective to fill in a small lake then build on less ground, so the rats moved.

Like everyone one. The next was a storage space.

Running on the roof, and through the walls . For the structures are only made of plywood and two bye fours, the boards don’t ever reach the floor , So the seventy storage areas all have a inch space at the bottom of the walls, the home of mister and misses rat.

They loved it. You could see them munching on dresses, and old coats shoes, and cardboard .you would find there feses huddled into little nests in boxes of cloths and newspaper. It doesn’t get to cold ever in Washington. So disease never reaching a killing temperature, either way, so many years went by with these same storage areas.

Always that inch gap, always new clothing, it seems people like to lock away cloth. They save them, I never did, I always figure there are more, our age hasn’t come so low as to not have had a past of plenty of Chinese made over production , We got stuff and it is every where, The rich leave it on street corners.

The hippies to. The poor can never get to them, cause you cant carry it on the bus. And yet. If you look , Stuff is every where, Materialism, pushing the economy, and the Rats always had a place to sleep and shit and piss, It is the later that concerns us, the office space, the storage space, the Band space, all terms usable. Stank, smelled, But more. After a couple of hours, the eyes would get dry and the stomach would go woozy, the claimed territory of the Rats was felt every where. I am a snake year, its didn’t work. Not enough room to really feel free.

bobs poem.

Watch the world the way it is . stepping on its own toes knowing .

And what do we watch?

That innocence demands ignorance.

To stay blind. Impossibly But what do you live.

A stern balance of emotions, cloistered around the political economic global psychopathology..

Seven years of way.

Sexes divided into arguments and parts.

Illusions and madness, the tidal push was begun long from words here.

I divided into I have and not.

Memory of money long gone. the good days , illusion-ed into impracticality.

Planned American dreaming.

And as futile as the bones in my hand, I write.

Watching for signs. Hope.

And there is, in pets, and children, who do not understand, I worship them to ease the motives I can see, without the trees.

Illusions given consume romance.

And a representation is enough to wonder with power, a leading to, material, chiming in with non-pensiveness, like all can be the sum irony.

I sit in the block and a half of small town tourist trap.

I sit in a town that has lost hopes of the past .

Meaning it has slipped to truth, and grants added, bonuses to senior citizens, and welfare housing. What use to be Lumber, shore and simple.

Floating, cutting, pasting. Strong work for many years in chemicals, illusions and iron willed drinking. the homeless, then were outsiders, as residents sleep in vans, and campers.

Major store fronts stand open and ready for the next idea.

The reinvention of permanent.

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pg23

A Play

So here we are in love with ourselves, Misery it past and is the infamous fantasy Sort of like hearing intuition Plainly.

Sort of..

By K.A. Ambrose

Characters C1- Man white body suit C2-Women white body suit Tom-played for either sex.

Costume for c1 and c2 is white faces with flesh lips.

Tom on a bed center stage. An easel holding a window stage left. C2 and C1 leaning in arch pose ((c1 and c2 inner arms are extended between them,, they look like they are holding each other up.)

Behind Tom Tom Wandering outside of body gives balance.

A gray light dawn ethereal dreaming Awoke a sense; to include forms despairing, Bathed in rain Disenchanted to days thoughts Awaiting a last gasp I can not see.

Faces knowing life’s end immediate.

Children receiving the punishment of aged history’s forgetfulness. Parents driven to slavery hours or a heart’s crying guilt. Stories come to decisions made in transient conscious escapes.. There is only yourself to save.

What liberty the mind is to roam freely.

C2 Awakening to find out there was no reason To sleep How she could of Stayed awake and listened to the early Morning birds and watched as the last of the night shifted a crossed the sky..

change and grow. But while endless are the verses composed to nature we still live our fears controlled by ourselves!

C1 So easily do you talk.

So easy are the words So ready from your lips But not even you Can listen..

C1 What would endless beauty give when even Beauty in a violent age is short lived.

Tom To what .. Just to ..

To react?

Tom (alternate lines) To what.. Beauty I would see as a grand human nature God unalone, mine. For it is all as right to find . A training is from living.

What conscious I create invokes facts I dream and there is to dream falling in line with ghosts and meditation. Oh what workings the conscious body to pg24

Tom I heard about movements In time Reacting to Humanities intermixture with technology.

Personal evolution leads to decisive actions.

C1 Pearls to pigs

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Tom Speaking out from his dream.

Love! Liberty, freedom.

Characters Freeze

C1 You still staring at my reflection instead of me.

Welcome the invisible Scene Two Tom is sleeping on bed. C1 is holding C2 without touching, any closer and they Would look like they are making love.

C1 For the first lines c1 remains motionless until “and onto more infamous temptations.” Where he almost closes his hug of c2.

Banter our wills Joy and delight And onto more Infamous temptations C2 Slipping under c1 grasp she escapes to the front of the stage for the rest of the act c1 and c2 move around stage an approach and escape.

Digesting Freedom, are you.

Tom Starts in his sleep.. Rolling ,, No snoring..

C2 Past is within touch, inherent sensuality, picking apart emotions vision.

C1 There is so much to see within.

C2 If only you would let cast asunder the lies of romance. if…… maybe….. we could make each others spirits soar . an independence commitment.

C1 What my other would for global peace in eyes and education.

Our twinned waters, calmed knowing love’s first transcendence.

C2 and C1 But What ends The lie To that which Is trained into body.

You. Me. To forgive the molestations of flesh.

C1 It is only to passion to have security.

C1 Yes partly. Romancing while the odds stand to enact more futile futures. Goal tripping opportunism fashion, combined into a nihilistic fascism .. Served cold.

The incredible edible me..

C2 Equaling the forgetting .

C1 Sane daily forgetting

MOTION c1 moves to c2. They start to move together.. His hand sweeping the length of her body .hers comes up from the bottom of his waist. flows up ,, then down. Each are holding the other if the other was a lot thicker than they really are. IE holding Auras. ….

C2 Let us fantasize that we care, C1 You become my dream C2 , Equaling ecstasy to touch.

C1 Changing day C2 To a day with you.

MOTION. c1 and c2 look over the crowd the infinity of the back of the house horizon line,, or choose group of people and deliver lines at them,, but never react to them,, or show any acknowledgement…. These notes are to be used as broad definitions to performance plotting… Nothing in stone..)

C1 Did you want to make adventure out of thought ..

C1 Can you answer my loneliness, Should I ask you to.

C2 What power trust it’s own to live.

C1 Hunger asks little to be fed.

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C2 Working emotions into sculptures Clay and mortar Building. Yes but to love? To know. You would. For I do.

Tom Bubbles and Wine all the time mantras, I soaked to splendor and let you desire me.

I watch like a sensual power is logic this life created..

For me, it has been sodomy to spirit un washable guilt .

Waste, emptiness and deniability..

For I am to me what I give to others.

C1 Defiled innocence.

C2 fuck me fraudulent, pretending, witting first privacies a forever first touch And then Release ‌no love and only denial.. Day dreams and delicacies folded and tossed into the street. Secrets to find later as more of the eternal same. c1 In Quiet watches. Gathering shoes and socks .

C2 Leaving nothing behind

C1 Once you let go All can follow..

C1 Nothing given is nothing lost..

C2 Nothing is Yet, The definition of spiritual materialism.

As energy and emotion ooze.

C2 Sex is the closest teacher of spirit after dreaming.

Singing our fathers to sleep scene 4

All ways released is to much scene 5

C2 Has day made you feel C More angry then violent

There is a bottle and a table next to bed..

MOTION- c1 and c2 stand in arch pose C1 Violence has become again a stand for religion C2 Where you felt me, and escaped

C1 Looking at audience Are we you C2 Answering loyalty With property.

C1 What past a touch suggests, C2 Taken from touch Given in touch C1 Absorbing a caring.

C1 Yes but I compose that to economics.

My size rather than security.

How helpless we seem to mechanics.

C2 ( Moving up stage ) Smiling simply I found an orange ball Bouncing it gave me pleasure, then Hitting a pebble it juggled the ball into choosing path by rampant gravities, Knowing I was to follow.

C2 You hurt me.

pg26

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To enjoy a moment takes Eyes unsaturated by convention.

C1 To kill raised Images only older trainings , Hatred Crying tortured Shame. Faces with destruction, Release.

Is a question of sanity.

C1 A moment is death.

Tom Channel Five did show on that.

C2 Mood swings developed menstruation, blood warning death, The ball hits an angle down into an alley

C1 Media shall lead MOTION c1 and c2 come together again in the pose of the arch .

During the tom monologue

C1 and C2 (Moving back together into the stand with joined hands.)

Do you know how many lies it takes to create an adventure?

Tom I saw a golf cart flying through the air Asking not of gravity Only ways of purchase.

I saw life crushed , Over Heroin and hot nights, pleading to glass eyes To further their imprisonments with a hand shake, Bought for prices , Determined to waste.

Brought on by illusions of mystics and rampant personal evolution, selling enlightenment one death at a time, celebrations told.

I would with eyes affixed away.

Remember heart asking only for follow though A new years mourning Latin fight Crack whore girl friend.

Romance abounds , Not. Broken spread legged bedside manor.

Combing my hair in her eyes red haloed.

C1 noticing c2‌ C1 There are all sides, I once met a man who was an addict, prostituted himself even as others would look into his crystal blue eyes.

C2 He replaced them C1 He replaced them He replaced to much C2 Have you shot heroin, tried LSD Have you disconnected.

C1 Why should you ask?

Of, Course I have done everything in my power to forget through body, soul and warmed subconscious

C1 Coke , Ouch kindness to uselessness, Oh for the reverse would ask.

Champaign for everyone, Everyone.

Tom I have lived sex each definition followed further and further into path .. But it is hard, Feeling forever. There is present sometime lost . Where I will to follow desire, A present of soul Where I hid.

Oh walking impertinent.

To ask And then What tears for an aloof mind Waiting out the length of time; that is ‌..

Never.

C2 MOTION ( Shaking. Getting c1 and tom looking at her.

As c2 changes personalities into the next lines She walks over the bottle makes sure there is something in it.. Flaunting her sex knowingly)

C2

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pg27

C2 I drink enough to kill and will steal your wallet for pills.

I stare down sex to remember family It stops your heart deadly..

This little conversations, Let talk.

To belittle is to survive..

To laugh the cold convictions of vampish passions All interest made to mirth Yours, mine And then to corrosiveness.

I Watch them watch me MOTION c1 comes up and aura dances with c2 behind he supportive When I want …

But while sorting self seen into .

Seen self, Your attentions. Your possession of me. With power being to demanding more Fair exchange for a house cat.

C1 I touch you in traumatic memory, cant you see that, Oh endless depth I stare into But not from you Older stories to make absent One from the act.

C2 Innocence violated, are yet keys. .A Forced conscious change, Subconscious desires equaled find respect.

C2 Oh trauma one.. Imagine , The right of passage you have to enlightenment. c1, c2, and tom Transcendence is understood By victims.

Tom And why I stand to know deaths woven covers. fini .

Force the hand to fail or rise..

As man can by Abnormal powers of belief..

The play was performed in Northampton Mass in 2002, at the Children’s day care Theater.. It was played during a night of one act plays. The players were Jessica Beaton as Tom, Samatha Whitehouse as C2 and Kenneth Ambrose as C1 the Reviewer said it was “introspective”..

“Sort of” was played in fifteen minutes. Somewhere there is a video..

The play is about facing the characterized part of sexuality in consciousness. The abuses and defining attitudes of each gender toward sex and violence changing into “characterizations” which negate personal respect and caused gender bias. This play is about describing a movement toward interactive personal change though a symbolism of introspective itemization.

The stage is stark. A bed ,, The sleeping area; our connection to the dream, a connection to learning, the definition of self nonpolitical, the transcendent being of consciousness yet, we are talking of a split mind because of social commonness . We use or become victim to through our sex. This play divides, mostly like the streets. A male consciousness (violence) and female consciousness ( Sexuality ) As Kinds of consciousness’s in a single person.

In the modern era we have almost transcended the physical binds of sex in the workplace,, and the gender wars are over ,sort of, but the gender consciousness through the humanities has not changed, Animal as we are our exterior makes our experience, this play examines the life through the Male and Female conscious while the main body Tom dreams of Freeing self. It is a trauma played out to separate and reunite. To understand the flow of memories for further change and to encompass a learning of ego’s understanding in the path of self actualization.

K.A.Ambrose first play.

So many trees Into the field Belong. pg28

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aPage of shorts

The Jester I dance the fluid movements taught to me by rivers which wash over rocks in a silken

By Nicola Thompson the mat. My arms run together attached to foot

and knee by etherial strings, and I allow my head to follow rhythmically. Laughter and applauding, the ladies and nobles, cows and swine, guzzling, gobbling, consuming the gravies which dribble down their wealthy chins and chunks of half chewed foods spew carelessly from their aristocratic mouths, the only precious thing to be flung from such orifices, Bells tinkle and jingle to aid my dance, the black, well trained dog at my foot barks and jumps in time with my act and I know it is soon that a mixture – the dichotomy of whores – will be thrown at me, to me, me and my dog. Coin and rotten fruit. Add to the entertainment, the unscheduled scheduled audience participation. Look at the fool dance while we abuse him with our foods gone stale. See how desperately he dances for our inherited coin. A tool can only be a fool.

As the first splattering of a tomato fall short I am not there.

While my skill at dance continues to entertain, my mind is whisked away to plans of the later evening, that this will be the last dance, that with Of time is known time these rotting fruits and tarnished coins, I will escape. My things packed of time is known time,

by Paul Gore and harnessed to stick resting heavily on my shoulder I shall set out and self decided.. will ? see the world beyond aristocratic exploitation. I will no longer jump the Is self. hoops to earn my feed. No longer will welts need covering from coin and enter the smoke muse ladened forcast and forgotten. stone thrown too fiercely. A bard I shall be – a wordsmith by trade, ala word from love and tails, speck to the maze of being. lowing the vibrations of my voice to carry my pooch and I to lands where alert is the coward boy. a being of peasantry may live a being may please, in the comfort of the I hear the instance of success, and determination alive to being at whispering blades of grass on the lumpy hills. home with the fallen and ruined. I hear the teletype of hands, more

My hands juggle, toss, catch the painted rocks, my dog bounces than I write, on hind legs with colorful collar, my feet weaving around and over him, for there in the manipulation I know not. but behind the glossy gaze of my eyes is the feeling of packed the packed Ambigiousness to process. earth trail beneath my feet. Somewhere beyond the laughter and jibes of music calls me to stop being without .. to accept and walk in the crowd I hear the birds singing their warnings, their calls for love, their supulance. I know by knowing. we walk characters to our selves, joy of life. While the sun beats down on me against the chilled air in the never the heart enough. living open courtyard, I allow speckled rays through the laughing leaves of the and alive the nature quest …. another day alive…. canopy play across my face and chuckle inwardly at the thought that I craze and whole. might allow or disallow any of the dancing glimmers of sunbeams.

To transent and no…

At the joy of my daydream, I leap, a twirl to miss the spray Do another issue is telling harmonies.. of veg, and my dog yelps, feeling my joy. I hear the coins clink, and a the word , specks many the thoughts to reason. cabbage hits my foot and explodes, carpeting the cobble stones underfoot while pulled from a mommnet missed if let go. with brown and pale green. Peasants and rich alike, insulting, pummeling tellling nature to roam the jester, putting me in my place, the lowliest of the low. Lower than the when whole is without decision.. poor that birth their live and wailing babies behind a wall in an ally and Ambigious.. but to say it means it excists. leave it for dead as they can’t afford the needing mouth to feed. Lower Integrity than the men that kill and steal from their own to spend on women of the is…for young, night and drink. Yet they call for me. Call for the fool who dances and old and alike sings for stones and coin, one of which has just hit my dog who yelps telling of substance briefly in pain, goading more laughter. merit and mighty fight.

I begin to sing. A song haunting and full of metaphorical jabs alone a self celled mirror. perhaps only the scholars might interpret as curses and insults upon the and what would I write with a key board why would the cries,,, crowd. I sing of the places I shall travel, the heaven I shall take blissI an in northhamption I hear. ful flights through while the mockers burn in their own created Hell, a exposure, a cowards. drunken singing. bravely. surrounded by the stench of their arrogance and the thousand bitter stings knowing , the blantant is never to care…\ of their sweltering self-loathing. Cows and swine, neither of which as the cops don’t come and stop him.. and sometimes it is good. fowl as the audience mocking and jibing, cursing and cackling. Through we call home what we need from self. history alone for the transient man. some times is only the holdings my lyrical poetry of verbal revenge, I threw in comprehensible harmless jokes, mini limericks to tide the audience over. of man away from himself. not taking for granted..himself.

The canal is still, its tall sides enduring the gentle lapping that yesterday , the drunk came on , quickly after the women was is resulted from the gentle breeze which stirs the water for moments few thought of. a women a another women. three years since I felt the and far between. While the sweat on my brow may contradict, the sun in wantings and the smile. the heavens bears little warmth in the March skies, and surely the water, and yet. though peaceful and unaware of commotion above, bears the sharp dagMy love stands to want to see himself. the golden love for others gers of the frigid cold. as a blinding symbol to self. Love and loves replacement. I can sell

It is here that I stumble. work to the sun. a topic….

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I am Glad I know Listening

By Howard Trudoe Watch the world the way it is . stepping on its own toes knowing .

And what do we watch?

That innocence demands ignorance.

To stay blind. Impossibly But what do you live.

A stern balance of emotions, cloistered around the political economic global psychopathology..

Seven years of way.

Sexes divided into arguments and parts.

Illusions and madness, the tidal push was begun long from words here.

I divided into I have and not.

Memory of money long gone. the good days , illusion-ed into impracticality.

Planned American dreaming.

And as futile as the bones in my hand, I write.

Watching for signs. Hope.

And there is, in pets, and children, who do not understand, I worship them to ease the motives I can see, without the trees.

Illusions given consume romance.

And a representation is enough to wonder with power, a leading to, material, chiming in with nonpensiveness, like all can be the sum irony.

I sit in the block and a half of small town tourist trap.

I sit in a town that has lost hopes of the past .

Meaning it has slipped to truth, and grants added, bonuses to senior citizens, and welfare housing. What use to be Lumber, shore and simple.

Floating, cutting, pasting. Strong Worked in chemicals, illusions and iron willed drinking. the homeless, then were outsiders, as residents sleep in vans, and campers.

Major store fronts stand open and ready for the next idea.

The reinvention of permanent.

And we sit, Old addictions burning heads, as chemically pure we become in laced v necks. I stare at my computer thinking it could be stolen, with ease. I think cause I watch , the anger youth passing. A moment untrained to be civility and jobs.

We are all victims.

But what worries we wander. Each to their own, Avoidance a glare from media’s need to see. Should I happen along calmly, adjusting visions for which nature has asked.

I just want to feel at peace. Ability to eat. Tendencies to have a shower. The loneliness of survival. Isolated inexperience.

I sit on the streets and watch what I am to see. Of me sitting. My careful sights of women, my weighing up of men. And it is just me, as I am getting into trouble ,again, with people who do not understand.

Or have I only transient connection for which I tend to be more alert, and less passive. I ,also, of late, have felt evil. And in that I have fear, in reactions. One more point of self observance. It is a little thing, that I just wasn’t nice. I failed to be nice. For which is the point for which we become evil.

I love to watch women, it is a crime? No, but with all the other worries it seems out of place. I could not fall in love. My heart filled with instability and survival. My greed to call somewhere how clouds the definition of purity , unless you say a life has to start somewhere.

Even attention is cheap and shallow. For I can only speak from the point I am at. Or feel at, even if it is only an illusion, The recognition is enough.

And it is later. At night the town fills more.

And later the hour, the more the laughter, the crying, the squeals. It is

pure youth. Sexual and alive to each other. For a moment claiming some attention of “lived” Illusions, the mystic is a souls eyes dance with fire gods. All our “conscious” is denied into sour short comings. The unnatural life we will have a headache for. Dragging us through years.

A slavery to Waterbeings. it is like the same people add chemicals. I watch them go. now , wondering why I am watching? Spelling these mornings to myself.

Investing my thoughts.

And listen.

I am going to a sweat shop in Topicka Kansas, to work at a sweat shop making scare crows.

Ten middle fingers.

Listening. , watching myself watch.

Listening , a band member who has seen his days, tells of the old members and where they have gone. , one off to the needle.

Sobriety, the friends meeting the needle. . I listen typing, endlessly flow human and well known, the effects of diet on gas, it doesn’t take long the world spinning, my gut hurts.

Listening to L. She mentions money. She mentions what I have been thinking about for years. What money, what living. The endlessness of money and idea. The telling of hope. The telling of time. All interests converge.

And we walks out into the street at eleven at night , I guess she expects me to care about one child out side the window. It is quiet tonight. No bands in the bar down the street So she could hear them. Mother and daughter, her day, touching on mothers issues, on abandonment , on the lessons life has given her, the private interests as of the sorting of a continual growth. Thinking past the listening.

Some times we forget that action is growth, the sore looted creation, personal and all giving. We look at the world after, its still the same, and there is the creations of humanity. Lacking, sorted worry, over the influences of memories. A walking subconscious experience.

I am glad I know L---

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Pages

by Dan Linn

I knew this guy who was addicted to his failure. Get this, he had an eye surgically removed so that he could replace it

with a video camera and transmitter and then video blog himself singing to his failure, taking it to dinner, and getting in drunken screaming arguments with it. He continued to show up to work just to be close to it. Like a stubborn toddler testing his parents patience, he kept doing that thing he knew would make them say “no”, again “no”, and “no”, and “no”, and “no”, and “no”, and still again, “no” until some sudden corporate corporal punishment re-enforced his pain. Comrades picked up his discarded opportunities and passed him in the parking lane taking “cuts” in line in front of him over and over and over. He threatened to perform ritual seppuku over every new email insult, begged for summary execution, and constantly revised the terms of his surrender for anyone who would listen. He burned an effigy of his ambition and then nail-gunned it to a cross on a cork board at his desk. He wrote martyrdom romances like the stories of the saints he used as a child for auto-erotic fantasies. He loved his failure so much that he built a wind up doll of office supplies and a pencil sharpener and took it to bed. He wrote long rambling love letters to it in a dead language. He couldn’t make even one woman, one mother, one nun, happy, so he philandered with exotic failures thinking that one might make bring him to a new level of passionate despair. Then, sobbing his regrets, he slunk back, professing reform that no one really wanted. He took his failure to the seedy part of town, falling prey to all manner of disturbing perversion, seeking more and more spectacular heights of failure. He stood naked, feet bleeding, in the massive city dump of his evidence, shouting out his URL for friends to view his failure starring in MPEGs on his webpage. A group of righteous citizens got an injunction against him in protest over his parading his failure around when their’s were so much more achingly poignant. He wrote an opera about his impotence, a ballet about his disabilities, and a War and Peace about his tragic history. He took all possibilities to court and argued for their hopelessness in front of cynical judges who, by law, had to agree to award him a stalemate prison term. From a cell of his own construction, he carved his failure’s many initials in his skin. Now there’s reality TV, someone, like me, could believe.

Neophytes pray ritual cries For demi-goddess, Asprira-ii “Yes”, in wet spring of her eyes.

“No”, in cold aspect reply.

“Soon”, under her bridge of sighs.

She leans on a pump ever dry The crack in a lip belies Their fast is to thirst by the by.

They kneel in the ashes and flies suspended by pleasures gone by In restraint, the desires crystallize.

In a journey, unfinished, each writhe.

I hold in my hand the carved fetish.

Inarticulate breath whispers, “why”?

Young Danny stands on the bottom slat of a fence leaning over to watch Rebecca’s seventeen year old form inside her sixteenth summer’s favorite outfit. Glistening with effort as she pushes the handle of the ancient pump over an old well. as soon as the water begins to gush, he leans back and falls. She turns, and smiles a smile that will follow him through all his days. I try to cool the flush in my cheeks.

He was thirteen and a child’s abashed reaction to girls took a turn toward hunger that day he watched her prime that ancient pump. As the summer wore on she didn’t return to the well, but it drew him back often. He leaned his cheek against the pump handle and imagined a thousand different maiden hands smoothing and oiling the wood. His desires had found a nexus all his own, like guitar to his face, humming.

It was in an antique store, wrongly placed with door stops and random farm tools. Just like the one he admired at the flowering of desire long ago. In college, his drinking buddies took as wild blather how “this particular model with the polished wooden handle” was cool. They were in awe of the metal handle etched with the acid touch of sweat formed by an artisan into what was at once a decorative walking stick and stunningly facile self defensive weapon.

It was a silly little Valentine’s card, but he could not take his eyes from it. Round face cartoon boy hand on pump handle with full flush blazing and the girl with eyes lifted sideways and skyward, cup to her mouth, heart shaped box held under left shoulder and showing every inch of cartoon legs up to an impossibly short pink dotted pinafore. Cute puppy looking on and the caption, “Well! Wouldn’t we make a nice cup’ple” He’d have had it with him even on a three hour cruise.

The goddess Aspira-ii calls her followers at the flowering of their desires to the hard pursuit of un-fulfillment. Fine wine saved un-drunk, delicacies served and left cold, pleasures pursued to the brink and no

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farther, the symbolic action of pumping prior to release fascinated the boy. When tragic illness pulled, his beloved brother was no longer there to share his secrets, he found comfort in that which he could possess and not use. Its almost like being in love.

Pages

by Dan Linn

He didn’t notice her right away, but there was something about the way she laughed in fountain’s spray, pumping arms so the water aimed away then toward her face. Curly hair and round apple features complimented her Betty Boop shape. A film rose in his eyes. Tilting his head he saw her in light distorted by fuzzy water spray. His haughty disdain for modern beauty is justified. He’ll use his pump handle cane to tip his fedora casually her way.

She panted, knees buckling, his steady arm around her waist. “I could crumple you.” he hissed in one ear as the knob of his pump handle walking stick hung cocked and aimed at the opposite temple. Lunging at him playfully, she was defenseless so quickly, her exhalation had over-deflated her lungs. At her place, she begged, “Let me touch it.” Tracing every line and fold of her skin with it, clothes parted at its passing. “Aspira-ii!” he sighed, “Maybe next time. I have to go.”

He ran, comforted by his legs pumping, it should not have been so, too close to letting go, she is his college professor, and it hadn’t been so before, but when she revealed she had found references to the goddess of pleasure deferred, he knew. When she spoke of this minor deity, he was struck by such intense excitement that he was in danger of losing the aloof image he had so carefully fostered. We can all lose it at any moment. His run should calm him.

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Per Aspira-ii scripture he needed a priest or priestess of the sacrifice training level, but how? In an act of desperation he decided to take out an ad. When “what’s the worst that can happen?” turns out to be wrong, he spends the next six months under an avalanche of bizarre responses to the statement, “Looking for someone who follows a goddess of denial.” His broadcast net caught military, activist, and religious recruiters equally. “How will I know you, by what sign?”

“As-pir-a-ii, As-pir-a-ii, As-pir-a-ii.” he began to chant. His frustration grew as more attempts to find the followers of the goddess failed. He tapped, “tic, tic, tic, tac”. Then started leaving the last tap out as if the “ii” were silent. His goddess chant became an absent-minded rhythm, but what did it mean? It wasn’t until then that the mystery of a watch found at an estate sale with no second “tock” had context. So what was the origin of the ditty “Three Blind Mice?”

No time to waste waiting for his first move, she had no intention of waiting for him to round the bases.

Girlfriends dared her and she hadn’t yet found the straight man she couldn’t hook by the nose and trail like a balloon on a string. She was intrigued by his out of time dress and the fabled walking stick. For his place, he had discovered manuscripts of the monastic rules of the cult of Aspira-ii. She had to tell her peeps a story from a novel she hoped they hadn’t read.

More from the book of Aspira-ii:

He had to find people that still followed the discipline of Aspira-ii. How is it that he could find a cult who’s secrets have no advantage in telling? Who advertises what they will not do? How could he avoid the obvious? Clerics cannot be expected to have put their noses close enough to the flower to actually be affected by its scent. Unless that is what they call “their wanton years.” For how could anyone who has not partaken say they know sacrifice?

The rose still blooms.

The classified ad he bought to draw out Aspira-ii’s cult members brought everyone but. Responses fell into roughly four categories, appeals for his soul, his money, his charity, and the weirdos. The latter got more than a cursory look. One titled “my virginity for your salvation”, compelled him to call. “Yes, I will give my maidenhood to bring you to the lord,” she said on the phone. Without a hint of sarcasm he asked, “So, how many times, whore for Christ, have you done this?”

The professor was getting impatient with him, but he didn’t have what he wanted. He invited her to dinner to get her exclusive attention and was oblivious to why she had accepted. She was breaking all the rules, but she had a right to a little joy in her drab academic life. Since that day in her class when she had let slip that brief reference to a minor goddess and cult following, he’d barely slept. He whispered her name, Aspira-ii and shivered.

From the book of Aspira-ii “In the acolyte’s journey he comes to know pleasure.

For all is revealed in the search for her treasure.

So, the acolyte studies in arts and in dance. and the supplicant learns of the heat of romance.

All manner of flesh will have blood at the surface.

Coming to know how then the best way to serve us.

To stroke without touching to enhance our desire.

Leaves a power in fingers that is goddess fire.”

Strokes further shine his pump handle as he reads.

“First is yearning the distant goddess Second is learning of all ways to impress Third is give all to the goddess eternal Fourth to writhe in goddess denial Fifth is the priesthood in her holy order.

Sixth, is give all to bring others to her.”

Give up all the wild drama of life and love around him to follow a myth? Is it so different than the constant barrage of emotional upheaval other’s must endure? He knew the answer. He had always known.

Money changes everything. His aunt had been his benefactor when bad luck and isolation broke his parents spirits. She died and the amount of money she left him surprised everyone. “My Pretty Little Blue Boy”, she called him. She was always singing “Three Blind Mice,” to “make your ears perk up”. He is more comfortable now, but what to do? Estate sale items had piled up.

What business does an “Classic Literature and Antiquities” degree dictate? An Oddities Shop, of course.

He heard the drunken click-click-thup-wait gait of one who is no victim.

Washing over him, the alley noises lowered in pitch, colors shifted, and he watched a single bead of sweat fall from the her chin like a planet swirling in space. She was in his alligator quick grasp and dared not move. The hummingbird flutter of her heart slowed. Her assassin’s blade spun like a top on the pavement. He heard her whisper “a-sp-a <breath> Is the prophesy true?”

He stiffened, “Happy to see me?”

His unmovable force had never met her irresistible object. The event’s horizon made air crackle and teenagers for blocks faint in the pheromone bloom.

She had never failed in seduction and he had never succumbed. They locked eyes in disbelief. The image of goddess Aspira-ii on his Curio Shop smiled as fire and flood choked the alley. The stand-off was broken by a careening cab. “Yin”, was gone, leaving a familiar vacuum, and he allowed himself a moment ... to pant.

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She transformed from assassin to irresistible object so fast it took his breath away. Before he knew it, her tongue was giving him a paralyzing heart massage and her ass had risen to caress him as expertly as a trans-gender hooker who had never been revealed. She overpowered by pheromone and blade. He threw her away and their eyes locked in a struggle neither had ever lost. A careening cab broke their defiance. It was gone, so was she and he allowed himself to pant.

Pages

by Dan Linn

The Goddess’s Curio Shop got busier over night. Since the incident in the alley, teens came following hormones and scent like zombie bloodhounds. Boys looked in, out, then in, as if finding a Chuck E Cheese’s behind a porn front. Girls just floated, sighed, and blushed sunburn at eye-contact. As for the others, one of the beauties of curio shoppers is their similarity to what they seek. He feigns dis-interest. Does a high security apartment behind the dusty store protect him?

The genuine curios in his shop were nothing compared to the oddballs that started trickling in every morningand late into the evening. He wouldn’t let his eyes widen when a barely perceptible tick, or a repeated tune, revealed the goddess sign on them. Others fairly shook, danced, or convulsed with her possession. When one Bono came rattling and humming though the door, there was no doubt he had gotten someone’s attention. The occasional awed look wasn’t always friendly, but why?

all blanks in, the nutshells.

Denial, unbroken no essence, forgotten, Committed, and chosen of goddess, begotten Fulfilling, prophesy, lost in an, tiquity, he comes in, purity, Aspira’s, progeny.

Jeff whispered, “My joy knows, no bound’ry, perfection, pristine toy.

You come to, relieve me.

Predicted, The Blue Boy.” Dan Adam, The Blue Boy, saw that unique way the followers of the goddess expressed their devotion. No matter how subtle, he saw it. That wasn’t all, he could do them all, movements, noises, and more, some practiced by generations. They came skeptical and confident, and left ashen but exhilarated. She gasped as he shifted his weight heels and toes and saw handfuls of air shake in front of him in her trademark jiggle, “It took years. You Are the one. Aspira-ai” she sighed.

“My loft is uninhabitable,” the cabby said. “I said, if he was so sociopathic, prove it. Admittedly, he is a creative 16 year old hustler for me to try to rehab, achingly beautiful, just like you, Blue Boy.” His aunt referred to him with the same affectionate title. This ageless, pudgy, elf, had him on edge with his ditty, “Pervs abuse, aye, saints refuse, aye, hedons use, aye, we see you, ha.” Then he saw the goddess sign in hypnotic vibrating eyes. “I knew her, you know.”

Cult members vying for attention started to wear. Jeff shooed them with a look withering even the redwoods of the follower forest. In the alley, Dan sat for a rare moment of relaxation, and the concealing cloud the RastAssasin struck like a Humboldt grassfire. Dan transfixed him with a stoner stare, and Jeff tripped him with his skidding skateboard. He hung a moment like a levitated magician’s assistant and dropped hard on his back in a puff of hemp dust and dreadlocks. “You will have a body guard.”

“That ‘what’ bloom?” Jeff, the cabbie, talked of dealing large lots of pot, that he never smokes, riding skateboards everywhere, playing a post modern Victor Borge in comedy clubs, and giving up a piano prodigy career because he “couldn’t bear the joy.” Danny stared at dancing eyes, chanting a thousand times a second. He said, “The Bloom is an extraordinary event, the goddess willed it” “You’ve no idea, have you? Bored strippers came on their g-strings, boy!”, he giggled.

At the Huntington Library, near closing, It wasn’t him in the strictest sense, but in every way, he saw himself. The secret is here, but what?

What had Gainsborough painted over? In the warm light mass was the unmistakable pheromone bloom. It was she, who can drive any man to spill and thus to reveal the weakness of their devotion. He had seen the most blatant of licentious goddess rituals. At the crucial moment she would whisper, “you will not, you cannot, Blue Boy.”

“If you would follow her, I need to look deep, ok?” Jeff turned dancing eyes his way and Danny felt them Strauss the inside of his spine, Swan Lake his pelvis, and Fosse his taint only to race in reverse waterfall panic, the way they came. Their eyes pas de deux’d, Jeff dropped like a 9 yr old at an August bris, and came to, feathers hysterically ruffled. Eyes black with awe, Jeff gained enough composure to will his eyes back to rhythm, altered. “Blue Boy, you are …extra virgin.”

Since Dan Adam was a pubescent teen, the image of the goddess Aspiraii, in the smile of a young neighbor, came to him in dreams. Academics led to her story. His eclectic taste and his Aunt’s money helped him open his curio shop, Danny’s Pump Handles. His search for her followers brought him a crazy array of characters all sporting the signature goddess sign that he is chosen by the goddess to lead. I play Endeavour Cove art 8pm. And he’s the world’s only perfect virgin! He escaped to find how rare he is.

Business was picking up at his shop, bohemian window dressings and hand painted shingles flowered from nearby abandoned storefronts. Goddess signs varied from fluttering bellies, complex steps, and a voguing model, to sounds, blinks, and devotions so subtle one simply had to know to where to look. Jeff giggled, “When you mirror them, they will know.”

William Shatner sweeps in and smiles, “Hello there … Dan Adam … it is nice … finally … to meet you.”

All arrows, in quivers, All pure gold, in the mines, All sand in, the hourglass, All seeds on, the grapevines.

All acorns, unfallen all waters, in deep wells, all pollen, still swollen,

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He bought her hooker anger, and she trembled, anticipating Father/john punishment for young life’s clumsy stumbles. Instead, goddess sign tempered her and goddess fire unblocked her. Braced for expected invasion, unexpected composure graced her. She looked into his eyes and saw the goddess smile. Narcotic resignation fled from warm healing. From this night on, she wouldn’t cry dry tears of tortured self-abomination. He knew the goddess gift she missed, was a mother’s long lost loving kiss.

Aspira, ahhh!

Sorrow smothered him in a death shroud. He felt the rumble to his core, the world skidded, his reality rose, hung, and fell, bending him convulsively. He considered most media fraudulent when not merely fiction, but watched the news of the devastation, and felt the goddess sign in thousands die, or worse, become painful rather than joyous, violently shaking a spider’s web of connection with fellow followers. Dan Adam

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would go to Haiti, to be with her suffering people, and he would bring them goddess tears.

Though weak, her goddess sign was strong. When its spark blossomed full in him, her skin shined bright translucent light. He leaned close, mingling goddess tears with hers, and inhaled her expiring pain. Thus, and then, again, and again, he harvested tribute and death from a people ancient in her worship. “In Haiti, anointed, is a temple, newly ruined.” “Shush, your priestly service is fulfilled.” The noble old man pressed on him a coin. Her tears in his eyes, his last. “Here, her key, there waits, mystery” He wandered goddess lead through the Haitian storm of death. A descent into hell, he collected pain like cobwebs in his hair and harvested death in a distorted landscape. Abruptly, he came upon a ruined fitness gym with the goddess as decoration. The sign said “Deese dela Riviere de Larmes”. The temple’s keycoin in his pocket leapt to his fingers. In an impulsive gesture he slipped it into the fresco goddess’s hand. In the same instant, the earth fell from under his feet in the after-shock’s sucking grasp.

What seemed an after shock was a trap door that snapped closed behind, sealing to black. His hands found stairs. He stood, stepped thrice, and heard a rumble, descended three stairs and stumbled. Every fourth stair was longer. He smiles, and employs the goddess gait, learned from the dying priest who gave him the temple key, to execute a long loopy descent until he sensed a larger chamber. “Who’s got a light?”, he joked to no one. Another step, a flagstone clicked and a ball of fire erupted in his face.

When he had adjusted to the torch light, it illuminated a tiny alcove of timeless design. Inscriptions in a rosetta of languages, modern and ancient, rune to tag, are all lovingly carved, painted, and posted, pray, “The goddess smile will lure you in, a life is well spent to see her again.”

All these years, it had been that smile he saw in the moment Aspira-ii possessed his neighbor’s face. The torch sputtered and his eyes stung as he made his way to the flagstone at the next Station of the Goddess.

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Deep inside her temple, stories start anew answers to her mystery and rhyme, He, in culmination, of what gone before for now, and for forever, he lives in goddess time.

by Dan Linn

Ingenious mouse trap, the rat ate the contents of the upper globe of the jar and preceded to the lower, and the jar tipped and locked upright, leaving no escape. Dan Adam idly fed it from another of the many grain filled containers left as offerings in Aspira-ii’s temple.

The pleasure his new pet had at being fed was clear to Dan because as the chemicals flowed into receptors. the goddess sight made them colored paths of sparkles in the rodent’s brain. One revelation was the flow in anticipation.

Dan’s pet rat salivated in hearing Dan’s steps toward its prison. At first the tiny brain only reacted to the direct stimulation of food and drink brought to him, but soon the clatter if food pulled from another jar, or water from the spring filling its cup could cause the brain’s pleasure chemicals to course. Dan studied the mouse with goddess sight and confirmed that it is not having that causes pleasure, but knowing it is coming. The lesson of fulfillment is not always the arrival, but often the journey.

The more Dan studied the writings found in the the goddess’s temple, the more he knew that he had been wrong in his perspective of the goddess’s rites. She was not the goddess of self-denial, but the spiritual sponsor of eternal anticipation. What could be, in all of its possibilities, vistas of fulfillment. For it is in wanting, that the heart’s blood pumps, it is in visualizing, that the intellect sees success, it is in anticipation that the chemicals of pleasure excite the neurons in our brains.

Having lived on left offerings while learning all he could from the temple’s library and his experiments, he knew there was a limit to how long he could stay. Although he still didn’t see a way out, fresh air must be coming from somewhere. He wasn’t sure he was ready to leave his solitude when he heard the dog’s bark. His rescuers were surprised to find him a little put out to be found, until he turned his goddess sight on men for the first time. What the men heard him say would change them profoundly.

The torch blazed to life in the next alcove and Dan Adam gasped. An abyss opened and he felt like he was falling into the light of those jeweled eyes. He couldn’t say how long it was until he felt floor under him again. The multi-language inscriptions all whispered in ghostly unison, “The goddess stare upon your shoulder, behind, above, she’s looking over.”

He had always felt these eyes upon him. Here in Aspira-ii’s temple, he was close. The laser reflection sputtered out and he spun as if by her own hand.

Strapped, lock clicked umbilical amplifier.

Address fingerboard hello riff caress.

Left hand clumps sign language incantation, secret gang handshake, muscles memory bunch, right hand clutch, pick pinched and poised.

Callous impressions of strings trigger, intoxicating cocktails of chemical pleasure burned unconscious in repetition countless.

Predictable, ‘til some random principle pool ball caroms possible alternates cascading showers pitches increasing until bucking chaos reined by head to end.

On the final flagstone, he transported, a secret alcove, waiting just for him.

No translations, never before visited.

A place full gone from normal ken.

With her gift, he was unlocked, in eternity, by his own demand, her cult he’d lead, their fate unblocked, new goddess power in command

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A casting off of the unclean with a moment. Oh but forced you say , the feelings to tortured to include anything

effort.

Tonight of love I felt

By K.A.Ambrose

Tonight of love I felt Open me up please I give, chest bare Strong, fortune, Solo touch Of deformities The ring at the door.

The long parting hands, for a moment shared is eternity, And regret, If allowed to be under scored.

Your hand in mine was enough a legacy of inspiriation. conduct Your energy ,a moment under a full moon, My innocence restored.

I wait as long as I wasn’t scared.

beyond more sleep and a warm bath. Yes. What. The ending and beingings were.

When did the tale evolve into forever night. It was hard for me to get a job before the “revovlution”. But now, I have stopped trying on a daily benefit. It is a waste of good energy I could be playing chess with.

And so goes the innocence, as time has changed its self so much, one day it is I work to much, then the next it is I have not worked in three years.

Pennys from what I didn’t know was the good times. Stayed there. I got a little sick. At the end of it.

You don’t remember,, who are you,, you who write this , you don’t remember the book . called “Driven” you wanted to write , Wanted to take a daily evolution of an abstracted feeling conversation from one man, his battle with himself to acknowledge his own insanity, as a transcendence.

the crooked ways march, observance and Awareness. These elements coming together and

The day has come and gone. As in it is night. It is another hour with the computer as a reasoning ground for which to bear the tides I feel.

Today I was offered a place to stay , with attached, clauses, or remodeling. And living for one hundred dollars a month. Does that include

There where

utilities.

There is electric and everything.

The attic ceiling must be removed , all, that is behind it will fall on the people doing it. Hazmat suits, and goggles. The process of cleaning would take a day with gloves, doing the whole job, from taking all down, to

apart, creating life cause, be cause and of cause, or without cause, but with eventuality of situational evolution. The by ways subconscious though the feeling’s reason. “Juxiposition as complacent puffs” And when I can not think of what to say , I say “Oh cold, the barren touch , what feelings left of this orphaned ecomonics and class, this outside of insiders. .. turn me into the dirt of the worthy of the superior.” or so seems my venting for a moment, as I watched the goings on at college elite villas. , I watch and wondered when I would be able to rise above myself to go to them . Dumb founded as I was to why they were better than me. Why

cleaning it

. to cleaning up the rafters for board. Insulup tation. Provided?

And the friend is a new friend, I listen when he is active. His jumpings off I do not recognize , and I think he has a hard time having friends. like me, But it is hard for me to like people who turn inward and forgetfull of the people around them, it is also a kind of possession. As focus is mostly anyway, We must learn to forgive what we see as repetition in our minds.

Today was icky, ringworms at the cats. Rats at the “free apartment” what you think of , the chemicals. The fleas. And insice of the burden of taking care of oneself it to avoid problems. Or do I know when to balance my paranoia, It is hopeless, and yet there is the vidions from right now the illusions of progress, with suttle reminders of “not that far ahead”.. , it was an icky day, and to write now seem almost a last ditch

pg40

fact can comment a mans superiority, and that learning as a rule is behind ,, when it comes to innovation. As a writer I the simple repetitions of

can only feel the art move through me and know there is a goodness, I can remember daily, and for grade points I laugh knowing that reading is fun and mental.

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continue from page 8

one point. Thinking how to explain what is the poetry of life.. Just in case you would ever want to know..

But I isolated more then.

I would like to apologize for my negativity, I hope that is not promoting a despite running away from your heart. .

I move on a vulnerable path

Veering to and fro, crossing unforgiving fortresses, or the ocean’s edge Gripping jagged trespassers orifice I am the ocean Am I yet still the trespasser Can I forgive?

My self, myself?

Yes, well, it certainly is a crazy world we’re living in.

Here in todos los continents.

One large ball of traveling mass we’re all stuck on.

Survival is the issue Yea, so what you have a shiny, priceless Sweatshop fortress’s death barricaded suite High on that ocean hill Even the ocean moves intuitively You know what I am saying?

now for a little while is also helping.

I also want to know that I don’t hold anything against you. I know a lot more than you might give me credit for but I know about women of abuse and how they only fall in love with people who represent some subliminal horror from there lives, We love who we think we can help. It maybe be wrong, and the fact is I don’t want to just move on. I am not like that, I didn’t just want you, I like you. I am still inspire by the love we shared, and the I am writing now not to get you back. Though I would love to life I know we could create. It is funny. But I have always paid love someone as you, someone who’s spirit I can feel, someone close attention to intuitions and with you it was no different. You who’s goals were the same as mine. Or at least they were when we are great and I need a great person to help me, to love me, to join were together long ago, even though you seem to have moved on.. in this fight called civilization. (as you put it) but you haven’t moved on. You are still standing You changed my thoughts concerning possession. You inspired there looking at me waiting for my response I hope this will do. me with music and words.. To let you go without any fight would You are still living the unattached sexual attachment you claim be wrong. Tomorrow I will have to print this. I think you are a as spirituality. When it is nothing of the sort for spirit you must beam of light, from your smile to your love, but I can not longer realize all connections are as a lesson from god. You can learn be afraid. To tell you what is written here, because at least I said it nothing without depth. before you move away.. You told me to stay and get sober here. I But I miss you, so badly as I sit here in early days of another am asking you to stay also. So we can work out the truth we lived. period of sobriety. I am coming to understand that it isn’t me, I am sure you will get a good job here. And after school we could solely, that was wrong, You let run the gambit of uncaring . You do another project. Something we write together. forgot to care.

So in ending this letter. Let me tell you the world is a hard place, I fell in love with you because you were in love with me. But by the upbringing and abuse.

I loved you for the right reasons, our hours spent together, our But Love. You have problems also. Together we might be able to incredible accomplishments, our music.. over and over I have said create a good life, I need you to advise me. I loved working with this in this letter. How much I loved us, but it didn’t involve our you and feel together we could make a unity. I had to write this ages. It didn’t involve a lust (only as lust is in equal with love). I , I wanted you to know I am not so changed that I would forget tried to have a good relationship and for us it came easy. We didn’t you. I love you and that is until finally turned down. Then I will fight. We worked together and supported each other, as what ages love you without you and forget after awhile. But I don’t want to. have past. I could see two hard working people for the future of To much beauty is involved with us to not make these statements. love’s innocence a unity. A romance to lead to our equal fame and So I leave it with you. I would have written many more times but fortune. I have always respected strength and in you I found evI did want you to think I was haunting your life. I have stayed erything I wanted, that is the only reason I cried as much as I do. away, on the edges, watching and now I know you better, and my I wish I would have told you this before,, but I am happy I am opinion has not changed. I knew a lot of the story the first week. telling you now.. Steve helped a little as I saw him on his way I didn’t need this time to see it lived through.. I know you are home, I was sitting on a bench, thinking of you. He reminded me lonely and don’t really know how to change that. But we make that it is never one personal fault, for which these last weeks have our environment and I would to love the rest of the way. plagued me, with my own insufficiences. Getting stoned to avoid the feelings. Worked sort of... and this letter I have been writing pg42

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The Harvest

By Rachael Zarvis 1.

It was a chill October night; the sky was heavy with blue black clouds and just a handful of stars tossed out into the open space could be seen glowing from underneath the fog. The air was cold, crisp. The moon was hidden all but for a silver sliver of its self, which nonetheless shone like a chip of crystal peaking out of black sand.

As the town bell tolled midnight, Sarah, who had been waiting at her picture window with her bedroom lights off, patiently waiting for Chipper to come home, stood up from her seat and stretched her frail white arms above her head, the delicate curve of her back arching underneath the soft white of her cotton night shirt. She removed the pen that had been holding her long hair up in a twisted bun on the top of her head, allowing her chocolate brown locks to tumble down in messy waves over the slope of her shoulders. Using only as her guide the glimmer of star and soft moonlight which peaked through the night clouds and cast a soft yellow glow through her window, she tiptoed over to bed. The King-sized mattress she and Chipper shared was only but a few steps away, yet she still managed to trip over their cat Jacob in the process, a svelte feline who was all black except for his left front paw, which was dipped in white, and who had been curled up, unknowingly to Sarah, by his mistress’ bare feet. Her feathers slightly ruffled, she crawled underneath the white flannel comforter which was messily strewn over the bed, having never been made from the night before. As she tried to empty out her thoughts and succumb to slumber, Jacob jumped onto bed, curling up next to her to help fill the space Chipper’s absence left behind. Sooner than expected, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chip was out, as usual, still drinking at his favorite tavern, which was in fact the only tavern in a 50 mile radius of Hillsdale, New York, Sylvester’s. Harvest season was in full effect, and he had just received a very large shipment, a little over 3 Kilos, of some of the finest outdoor green this side of the Mason Dixon line. His plan was to divvy that out to his other small town suppliers in the next two days, as he never liked to keep that much quantity product on him at one time. But for now, it was Friday night and he was celebrating, without a care in the world. He had his girlfriend safe at home waiting for him, about 100,000 grand in the bank, and he was a happy man. Nothing could get him down.

2.

“Last Call!” the bartender, an excessively tan bleach blonde lass of about 34, shouted out from behind the bar, her cigarette smoker’s voice straining as she struggled to be heard over the slew of drunkards who still loitered her pub. As she began to wipe down the bar back, Chip watched as her tiny breasts squeezed together and pushed up to their absolute fullest potential peaked out of her tight blue jean dress, the tightness of which sadly flattening out even further her already drooping pg44

derriere. He took a final swig of his Budweiser and slammed the empty bottle down on the counter. He stubbed out the butt of his Marlboro red into the white porcelain ashtray on the bar counter, which sat in between a bowl of beer nuts on one side and a napkin holder on the other, and slowly stood up, clearing his throat in the process.

“Oh, hey now, leaving me so soon? Why not one last drink before you go?”

As the bartender spoke, her thin red lips curved upward into a sly suggestive smile. She then leaned over onto the counter, her exaggerated cleavage squished together even more and spilling out of her blue jean dress, took one hand and reached over to Chip’s shoulder, pulling him close enough to her so her cheek rested next to his.

“You know, the kids are at their father’s for the night. You could come over…,” the bartender whispered into Chip’s ear, gently caressing the nape of his neck with the tips of her fingers. Chip laughed, but leaned away, reaching his left arm back to remove the bar maid’s hand.

“Not tonight Roxanne. I got something good at home waiting for me, you know? Best I start acting like it instead of messing around with trouble like you!” As to not come across too harshly, Chip reached over and pinched Roxanne’s chin affectionately.

“Oh, come on! I’m not that bad now, am I?” Roxanne blushed as the handful of other locals sitting at the bar burst out laughing.

“You’re not exactly Mother Teresa, let’s put it that way! But that’s why we love ya Rox!” chimed a freckle faced red head who looked much younger than his 28 years, wearing his hair mid length down his face in a Beatles style mop top. His voice even cracked as he spoke, as if puberty was finally catching up with him. It didn’t even look like he shaved.

“But we certainly wouldn’t complain if you came to work one day dressed as a catholic school girl now, would we fellas!” snarled one of the locals, a heavy set Italian with a large Roman Nose and thick salt and pepper mustache, the sparse remains of his brown hair combed over to cover his receding hair line, his beer gut swollen and hanging over his belt buckle. The small crowd of locals again broke into hoots and hollers, the mustached Italian reaching over and high-fiving the man sitting next to him, who shared with the Italian a similar salt and pepper mustache, but was to his credit much thinner, and wearing a Red Sox baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, with tufts of light brown hair sticking out from underneath the cap.

“Woo hoo!! Now that’s what I’m talking about!!” the Italian took one final swig of his Budweiser and slammed the empty bottle down in front of him. He was quiet for a moment, collecting himself. Then he turned over to Chip, who pretty much knew what was coming.

“But looks like we got our boy Chip over here so pussywhipped even our own Foxy Roxy can’t get his fly unzipped!

What’s the matter, Chip, you only sniffin’ virgin panties now?

You’re dating the prettiest girl out on the school yard, but our Foxy Roxy here isn’t good enough to give you a ride?” The Italian slurred this last barrage of prodding jabs, wobbling slightly in his bar stool. Roxanne, who had been wiping down the tables of the bar room, couldn’t help herself, and in a bought of self deprecation shouted out over the banter “Hillsdale’s finest, right boys?”

This again caused the room to erupt in laughter.

“You’re no spring chicken, Rox! “ the red head howled, tak-

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ing a large swig of his budweiser, which up until this point he had only been sipping.

As the laughter died down, Chip, who had felt a fondness for Roxanne ever since she gave him his first kiss in grade school, felt he had to do something to make her feel better.

“Now now boys, you know I’ll always love the smell of Roxy’s panties!” As he said this, he sauntered over to where Roxanne was wiping down one the bar tables, and with a big fat smirk plastered on his face, took his right hand, reached over, and smacked her ass.

“Now THAT’S what I’m talking about!” Chip squealed as the room once more broke out into an uproar.

“Well fellas, it’s been a pleasure as always, but I think it really is time I head on home to the old lady.”

“Ok there Chip, it was nice knowing ya!” The Italian shouted out over the dying banter, and then, much softer, so soft it was almost under his breath, ”Luckiest son of a bitch I know, his old lady’s still a fuckin’ teenager!”

“She’s got him whipped, that’s for sure. Next time we see Chip it’ll be with two kids behind a white picket fence!” laughed the red-head as he slowly pulled out another camel from his pack, then much quicker stuck the cigarette between his pale lips, and lit up.

With that, Chipper gave Roxanne a hard parting kiss on the lips, grabbed his Brown Sandstone Carhartt jacket which was hanging on the coat rack next to the bar bathroom, opened the big oak back door, and stepped out into the cold, a chill gust of wind welcoming him into the night.

3.

It was only about a 15 minute walk from Sylvester’s to the house he shared with Sarah, which is why Chip more often than not would leave his silver Dodge pick up parked at home whenever he would go out for the night. The two shared a small saltbox colonial, complete with a shed roof and deep reddish brown shingles, which sat as the only house on Walnut Drive, a quiet side street with a dead end just outside of the main town. At night the lights which reflected off of the huge stone clock tower in the center of town shone a soft glow over the neighboring county, which Chip subsequently used to guide him home those evenings he would go out drinking.

As he walked home, listening only to the sound of his rubber soles rubbing against the concrete and the cold night air as it whistled clean and clear through the trees, he would plan in his head what he was going to do for the next day: who he would meet, what deals he would make, and most importantly how he would go about suckering money out of his more amateur or novice customers.

Chip was almost always thinking ahead, making plans, preparing for his future. He liked his life to follow a structure, assured that if he carefully laid out a road to success, and then followed that road step by step, he could secure for himself a profitable tomorrow. It didn’t matter that he dropped out of high school at age 16 and never bothered to get his G.E.D; it didn’t matter that he had two estranged children, each from previous relationships with different women. It didn’t even matter that all of his past and present financial investments had to do with risky or speculative endeavors. It all made sense to Chip, and it would all work according to plan as long as he was the man in charge, making all the final decisions. Besides, this way of life was the only way he knew, and he had no intention of changing himself for anything or anyone.

When Chipper met Sarah a year prior, at first he expected her to look the other way, and not even give him the time of day. Here was

a young woman who was sweet, smart and beautiful, and who could have had any man in Upstate New York fawning over her if she wanted. But there was something else about Sarah, something else not so innocent but that subsequently intrigued Chipper and drew him in. Something…pained. It was as if, at only 16 years of age, Sarah had experienced far more than even she could understand, but it had regardless made an imprint on who she was and how she came to see the world. She was very much an old soul. Still, she did not like to share with Chipper any aspects of her life past, present or future which she considered to be unfortunate, unappealing or, even worse, pitiful. To be pitied was to Sarah the worst kind of insult, as she saw it for what it really was: ridicule disguised in a costume of benevolence.

Even after a year of being together, the only important details Chip could muster out of her in his attempt to get to know the less sugar-coated aspects of her persona, were that her mother had died when she was 11, and that her father was a good man, a steeple jack and tree surgeon by trade, but that he liked to drink, often to excess. Whenever Chip asked her to talk about her father, Sarah, as a matter of course, would slip into tales of the two going for walks in the forest when she was a child, and of him taking the shrubbery which grows off of the dead trees and carving Daddy loves Sarah into the tree ears. It was either out of respect for her father that she would not talk ill of him, or out of fear of bringing back old memories to the surface, and what that would do to her sense of self and sense of reality. Perhaps it was a little bit of both. Regardless, after about 6 months of Chip not being able to get anything out of Sarah in regards to her childhood that did not seem like it was lifted straight out of a children’s storybook, he simply stopped trying.

It was not that he didn’t love Sarah, he did, with all his heart; but if that was how she wanted to live her life, if that is what she needed to do to be happy, to sugar-coat her past and only see what she wanted to see, well, then who was he to stop her. Chip certainly understood why Sarah would feel the need to keep her past disclosed, from him, even from herself. He had his own demons to keep at bay, anyway. And that was putting it lightly.

4.

As Chipper neared the railroad tracks which bordered the outskirts of town and ran directly parallel to his home on Walnut Drive, he decided to take the shortcut he often took to go home, and surprise Sarah from the back entrance of the house. If she was already sleeping, he would make sure to take care in shutting the back door gently behind him, and then tiptoe through the kitchen and into their bedroom, crawling under the covers and into bed with his lovely Lolita just beginning to stir by his side. He would curl his arms around her body and hold her close, and then with his fingertips take the wisps of hair which were covering her face and gently tuck them behind her ear, leaning over to whisper softly “Good night honey. Mmhhmm, you smell so sweet.” She most often would only be half awake by the time Chipper was in bed by her side, but she would still manage to smile and snuggle even closer to him, sighing in relief as she curved her body perfectly into his.

If she was still awake, waiting as usual at their bedroom window for him to come home, Chipper would similarly tiptoe

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through the back of the house and inch his way into their bedroom, wherein he would scream “Boo!” and pounce on her with all the gusto and giddiness of a schoolboy playing hide and seek.

He loved to play these little tricks on her, more than anything else because even to this day she still would never expect the surprise, and would either shriek in terror or practically jump out of her skin! It were moments such as these that enticed and excited Chip, wherein Sarah’s innocence was sparked and exposed, her softness and fragility as well kindling urges to harbor and protect, urges within him that he had never felt towards a woman before.

The combination of all these feelings, of course along with the powerful physical attraction he felt at first sight to her seductively feminine attributes, together added up to Chip dedicating himself in a way he never, ever imagined. Thus on Halloween, which was Sarah’s favorite holiday, he was planning to propose.

5.

Chip could feel his loins ablaze, even in the midnight cold, as he neared the bend right before the tracks merged into a century old bridge which hovered over a 20 ft. precipitous drop down to the rushing Churchill River below. Jutting off from the left side of that curve was a narrow dirt path sloping downward, winding around lumbering oaks and sparse, skinny pines, which lead from the railroad tracks down and into his backyard. Usually at this point in his walk home, Chip would have to pull out his cigarette lighter to help guide him the rest of the way home. Yet as Chip slogged his way around the bend, stepped off the tracks and onto the dirt path leading back to his house, a dim yellow haze shone upward from the bottom of the hill, stretching through the woods to color the night in blue-grey mist. Still slightly liquored up from his celebratory night of rollicking and reveling, at first Chip did not notice the distinct change in scenery. As he followed the dropoff down to the base of the hill and into his backyard, however, it could not be missed: with lights beaming out from his living room picture window, which sat at dead center in the back of his house and took up about half the length of the wall, from behind drawn curtains he could make out the blurred shapes of two or three shadowy figures moving hastily in the background. All the lights in the rest of the rooms of the house were off, except for one: the bedroom.

Quickly Chip’s mind raced through the possibilities: was she cheating on him? If so, with whom? Would Sarah even dare do such a thing?! No, no, he would have suspected, he surely would have seen it coming. Then who were behind the curtains? Where was Sarah?? He immediately scanned the periphery of the house, and that is when he saw it: immediately behind his grey Dodge Pick Up, which was parked in its usual spot on their dirt driveway, were two blue undercover police cars. Their sirens were off and their lights were not on, but there they were, blocking his truck in.

Now if there was one thing that would sober any drunk up and out of his glazed over revelry, it was this. Police showing up unexpectedly at his own home, and with his girl there no less, her man no where in sight to protect her! But Chip didn’t have time to think about that….no, at this point, Sarah was on her own. She was a big girl, she could handle herself. What was more on his mind was the ½ a kilo he still had locked up in his house! Thankfully the rest of his product was with his second-hand man in

command, Jeb Morton, a reliable fella he had known for decades who lived just a ten minute drive from his house. Shit, could they have gotten Jeb as well?! Luckily, unless of course there was someone close to both of them who was going behind their backs and snitching, it was unlikely that they had Jeb under wraps.

Morton never liked to make his presence known to his suppliers.

He rarely if ever used the phone to make deals, and almost never handed off product through his own hands, preferring instead to keep a low profile.

If Jeb indeed had not been caught, then maybe, just maybe, Chip could survive this mess. Of course, he would have to leave town, and leave his beloved Sarah and his new house behind as well. He would head out west, and then once he was there he’d contact Sarah and convince her to come join him. As for the remaining kilos…well, if it was true that Jeb was in the clear with all of this, then Chip would just keep those kilos with him until he arrived in Montana. Once he was there and settled, he would set up having them shipped over (Chip had used the United States Postal Service to ship his product several times in the past, and at this point felt he had had the whole system down to an art.) Then he would simply, begin again. He had friends in Montana who he trusted enough to take him in and set him up with the few necessities needed to start a whole new life. But he would have to move quickly; there was no time for hesitation.

As Chip’s thoughts raced at breakneck speed, he all the while remained still as stone at the bottom of the hill, his eyes locked on the silent shadowy movements behind the curtains. Then so quickly he almost jumped out of his skin, in one swift instant, a shrill high-pitched howl pierced through the silence from the direction of his bedroom, with a deep bellowing “Fuck!,” immediately followed by a loud thud and the sound of breaking glass. Suddenly, all of the lights in the house went dim.

Those few flashing moments were like electric sparked eternities slowly unfolding for Chip. Visions of his future, memories of his past and the uncertainty of his present all melted into one, only to shatter into slivers of jagged endings, like shards of stained glass book marking time. And then like a dark star spinning circles blurring into white, within a galaxy of wild fires and charred soul, a shadowy silence began to swirl all around him in a whirlwind of unexpected loss.

Throughout the whole of that infinite moment, Chip still could not hear Sarah’s voice. Yet her calm was palpable, the softness of her presence a gentle breeze across the dark open spaces of night.

In the glistening whisper of the wind as it harmonizes with the moonlight, Chip could feel a quiet yet boundless faith growing within him. He knew it was time. He took one final look at the fading outline of his future, one last glimpse into the grey shadows behind drawn curtains of what once was and never again will be, then with a turn of his heels and no looking back, he was gone.

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John talked to a wall

Face cracked torn healed patriotic.. Violence is the first control to society.

Left wandering the streets.

The guitar is new with it into the transcendence, I Staunch allies of all, worry not on wrong or right, but pleasing or personal.

Befriended by few, Powerful , Or mused. I have learned to please myself.

I say hello .

As a hope of moving forward, standing as the fight

By Jacob Oser The unseen, uncared about left to rot in was just over there, I defended, the flowers of myself. gods civility. Cross the streets as deserted And did nothing. children of all, as nothing claims the sufNothing as screaming , Someone call the police, ferance. Store bought morality caught and claimed with store nothing as far as, coming closer seeing the two little girls walkbought educations in affecting presidencies. Heard as screams ing toward the fight to step in, and knowing if they did I would from old ladies “no more thinking, no more thinking” little stop it. My long hair. My wall of a face. My turns of wrist. My girls panting with high short jeans, illusions to a body yet to feet searching noses and half rounds, I did nothing , With my mature but which is the promise to love, to hope , As distant empathic hands shaking to succeed where only all else seems remembrances of escorts jarred in truth , Passion sucked up unjust. , Spit out life for art left to the worlds of aged men “the way Slowing I go crazier and crazier , Like it is the only answer to it is” parting hopelessness with more of the same excesses the potent of civility. Humanity left to destroy its self for that is reaching for a purity wrapped in discarded condoms. But we art. can not complain for like a flood which comes with being huWhat would you say, seeing self discovered , As it just is, man, it is little when regarded for the crisis is only something unfinished, untended. And offers within a typewriter. reported from more obvious devastations which the brakes in the computer, tenses where ever are blamed on God. they will. And what inside am I running Illusions to the nature of man without seeing round, don’t want to communicate of the imand in fact denying, the nature of man by sinister possibility of even founding a conversation. conscriptions of bad food and faulty logic, which The words as chaos is chaos, A program proclaims the new over the old , Intelligence over which replaces all senses, wisdom , When we always come back to what is And after all this time, all these weighed hours, , Death as first and all else follows suit. an eye wakes one day, and difference is available.

Heart hoping to be at one depends on self again I/we can not write fast enough to ketch up with as the escape. Even when it is a world away of reading or thoughts. I/we can not say what is only thought and sight, a ways of others. To talk . To the movement in innocence. Watch “Basquet”. communicate, climbing back in from outer parts watch a movie about an artist. Read what the demands a speculation of typing and surreal is living to the destroyed and demented, so understanding, words forming themselves , Like the damaged to understand what is , The discomputer can mis think like the rest of us, but it is our gruntled. The disfigured to know art from selves. … illusion a fight occurs while the subject is It is disturbing, to feel an effect of a thought. One long run a song and the portrait of two on a hot night as an unobserved, the paranoia from the young child disturbing singing to the streets, A little drunken singer, the heart. The lack of trying to feel self for the path perposed who’s lesbian approaches are ill fostered to escaped to fantasy with less force and mirth. the preppy friend, a refused from the “claimed” And this secrene sucks. and of self to understand why you have process. Two standing turn to one, who’s voice not. Why it was never the intellect behind and around them, the repetitive to the song, and hear nothing , Tipped nothideas seemeded into concrete cause it must , as shouted of all ing, out of tune. Someone else to own, and it was then is so .. placed in others hands. a fight, a fight on the corner thrown on one, high arced A madness taken daily, a hunger for the sence of hunger, fists ineffectual, pulling shirts , Lifting the bony frame When to just feel, like to communicate with self is hunger that wouldn’t stop, though out weighed, out numbered. and waiting out the rain.

The crowd of two runs to go into the fray and for a second I smell. And I spilt coffee in the seat and rise like a we think of own need of beastialism until I hear my guitar bed wetter, and who to see,a guilty personality, , Alone, sitting, and out on the front a car, on top of the scatAgain waiting out, personal controls, looking , I see tered words for which we leave for others to create, as distant the child for the first time, to really understand where watchplanes to infect others. Head back and wonder who to fight ing become the cause and course, others esteem others planning, for. It is a system against one, or the system of one, did the self was a burden of wants and denials, that to want became the offender deserve the abuse or was the fostering of evil a plan problem, so we need little. to attack, as confusion surround vertices. As in many part, But in that to become a fated thing , for with some realization of for I am so kind, with fist proclaimed from excesses against the , could of been, a misplaced suffer, paranoia, it is fostered all me, from anger sober and violent such to love the conditions over. But it is not for the heart, to listen to close, a mental thing to employ it. But cruelty waiting for purpose, could find no rains first. point. So inflicted are we all. the conditions are retarded to And yet, to see the dividion of thought amounts to feeling more right and wrong. The conditions are controlled to revenge and released in regards to personal opinion and disciplines, to happi-

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ness accept as a quailty of awareness based on others concerns.

I guess I have to go to school to pay rent, What punishment, They should play people to type in cafes, as a show of focus. Yes that isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t new for me, to avoid a point because I can not make it. I got and have gotten, into repetitions of it , for dening happiness as a plan to keep me safe, Safty the innocent mind does not forget or care to be forgiven for , it s youth a perminate ground, a one personal, view of where, I would hope I would with hole heart the reign of metaphysics. The movement of energies and natrueal philosophy, such that even my writings are a process of From here to there Pathway stories, in a minum of reminders.

We have no need to guess at the future but within ourselves feel it.

Plants and viens Not vanity Photoplasm to rhetoric.

Examineing , such that alone we can answer what brainwashing we have been.

It was, What could happen next, the living of person, A story of the never women to look at me inside was /is a form of feeling , the escapes in sex. Being with body, the fullness of love , but to me it is a dream.

Something I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even care for anymore. , like I would to dream inside the night with the fantasy of angles gone wrong, a burning sensation. Slowly reminding, while wanting to know.

Escape to the happiness for what else can you, the waves of a second, a view, a thought, calmly I wandered back to child hood one day , and discovered, paranoia, then sitting with friends, I felt it. But I can not tell them.

A hidden things of tenses and paranoia, for which I get ocaionsally , mybe it is just the weed for I have become to want to feel free agin to many people I wowe, I can not keep going at this pace, so slow and yet words, bounceing around and I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t keep up . the hours and ay and days and hours, the puniuation, the proclimations. And possible is only what is.

Energy is conversation. And I am trippen.

Queit, listening.. he is strange even to me, and I consider myself quit strange, no he forgets moods,while you watch. You can hear in the timber of a voice, the ironic possibility, of struggles, And what did I do , or not, for the hours before, filled with what would come , like a repeat of all the others. As a repeat it was just as worse. .

The first realizations is other, Dealing just with violent abuse, sees, and it also exposes a simple truth that transends, just body but happiness or the tapping into ourselves, I feel that each parting of the ways is a study of the way.

A path documented, and I am yet, as I want to say this going insane, slowly, but it is not real. I am just for now gracing myself, with hunger, a sore thoat , that wants out.

And there is only ten more pages to lay out. I do so with a backward glance as in I have found people for the rest of the magazine.. pg50

I have found me in a million words littering computers and books, journals and sides of novels with words such as only the truly addicted could write in an effort to be important? I question.. In an effort to help you see , what words can find cohersion around. The foul useage or the real usage which is fouled. .. exchngeing terms inside the percepticve meanings more that the words written, and I can only hope to be taken for the wholeness I search myself out for..

I am mad I know.. crazy against the hours and hopes of of an art form we are not mature enough to understand in the abstract.. for the futher and further we say we are able to communicate the further and further we to agreement.. and perspectives is lent.. we can change the meanings and argue over them until know one is heard but the lawyers and abstractionist.. so let us skip the meaninglessness with emotional content, and meanings ,symbolically littering Inside the words, Inside some knod of agreement and everyone is understood and pleased.. if I talk in Groovers voice from Seaseme St. you would listen with a smile . if I talked of the artocraccy of the twenty first century I would be rebuffed.. if I did it with Groovers voice I would be paid.. the loudest comedy is the one lived in secrets.. funny that.. and I am again on with the races where I am only allowed to stumble on this way for three pages.

Writing as fast as I can racing the week end where I want done with the next issue. next will have less of me, for I want to only work on a book, where I have read I will write.

And yet there is this matter of the last ten pasges after giving up on the publishing cause I had only other peoples equipment, and the dawn is rising for me to watch, and rememeber even through the eyes of the youngest child of an abused household. The one that make no descions, and quiet ambition as being that for others . even coming to a once, shyness was about the use of curring, when I had read only katcher in the rye, and youth was my aggression, we are all forgotten as children. I have been years seing I could understand the self importance in my heart , and not my ego. For in ego it is told by intelligence, and diminished in the same regard. For as to look is only timelessness and honest emotion to reality.

Such that to see is crippling, and we should all stay to our smallness, in order to not get confused. Or is that just what I am to believe, in my narrow approach to keep sanity against what morality says in nobility.. lol.. each waited,, waited to be weighted.

And to speak of kindness. The soul light of an endlessness, is say the words are enough to give another, , the eloquent we looked for in the individual , all pride and pretty dresses. Cool walking styles, and unabashed egotism , caring not for the endless promotions of a peace to diswayed the mind from a street reaction. A base base line being , the revenege of perception,, for someone somewhere forwarded illusions to answer personal recognition. An over lord to blame it on. It being consciousness, what I feel has no baring on how right you are. And exterior control is the

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illusion and materialism aways fails in the end as a motive to life, so individuality is only as important as it is an opening for all. To remember an agreement.

Of the days of wars inside ourselves are almost over. Sanity is becoming a discussion but with it comes law and morals. And purpose, and wars. And the meanings starting over. ,, or not.

For the not is a being more than a controlling. A common side is so easy to see light in the card, as is said.

I Pause and weigh the words into a smaller font.

On page.. nice Just as I was about to go I thought of the other fact of a now that I feel , when Bellingham awakes as boston wakes more, and all the lasned of a million planteds look and forget or hope and feel.. wherar I am only a artists, and not some fated innocent.

But there is a way through the push of punishment , our guult saskes by the obligated reaction.. my activisms have never been blantant, my soul wanting no perminances to stick glue to me,, it is not me, I am a voice, who musies to expel some outer voice I channel. and poetry without rhythem ,, a bland-et of verse , disesembled, . like a personal stroy, to the plotlines, definshencies.

Namesly I speaks for the trees.

Once this was a place toget out writing I have already done.

And the choices of this issue were less planned , then even before. Pulling from the angles.. and placements.

Which had no place,, for I have been wriing long journals. And out of step in the smaller pieces to me,, so I hesistted to proint anything, but I have always backed off doing, for living, Living is doing buy way slower, The magazine become the partistpations of other. Who with a oint venture we had equipment, and everything fell apart, because of a husband and wife.

Preaking up. And me,, finding a living inside of alcohol and carpentery, bad women and miles an fmiles of crying. I gave up and gave in, I lived my insanity and still do to this day, but I was less careing for myself. It s only been the last few years that I have been feeling my self respect turn agasin to self fulfillment. I have been watching the sand fall back into the ocean, All I wanted to do after September eleventh, was forget. Bush was in office. Likes flowed to get war, taxes stopped to let the rich accumulate the last drops , paying themselves to pay themselves.

Arostorcacy , again pushing the humanities to understand the man with a million dollars who begrudgs, the safty of his postion. pg52

We fear not when we can afford the force.

But there should be no need. We shouldn’t have to ask for the a raise in taxes The American tax was the lowest for the world before Bush (two) era tax Cuts. Such that all this is for not to even discuss.. Read the shadow conspiracy,, which won a Pulitzer,, or don’t . for the only meaning of anything is in a moment you can already feel. And in that there is family , hope and honesty,, Bt I am still not able to remember what to say sometimes. It is not that water and eightfive, or ninty five. Or seventy five. Or what ever part of our make up is water. It is not that energy flows through such and electrical impulses are our commonness ,, or atlessast a completeness Iwe can understand without it effecting our meaning of challenge when we consider technical advances ments in Being.

So intelligent the past has used the smallness to advance the largerness, like the meaning of panic marketing and green effectiveness.. or so I am reporting though listening I am not impressed.

I love the morings. It was once the time I got off work and everyday was so new in color only if you let yourselvf see it. Like you had to pause, and intentionally look, My self ish ness has always been to allow myself to see things the way I wanted to see them, not to let the distractions of family , or the cultures. I could or couldnet join. I definitedly don’t believe in letthing educational years, years of college , get in ones way I don’t believe you should martyr your soul for the guilt of a debt unable to be paid.

The lead ups to training. A brainwashing and illrelvance, for a sytem of the educate leads. , I would rather learn on my own through my feelings.

It is sad, but my ego likes it. Easier to think what and when I want. Easier than sitting in a class for which if you did the reading you werrenot really allowed to persuit father than the teacher,. Bored dom makes for wanting to spice up the thought with extra, and the one on one is not a class room.. the structure are nessacary , but to feel. Was my main concern, the point of path and generated motives. sSeem always involved with how you think, such that I developed a happynes with words . but I liked them for the chaos and the voice, I feel more channeled by thn intent on. The plot so wasted on me.. the repettion of extras, for explaination of moments. How round about. And to be wrong

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is only to be musunderstod we all have a right witin us.

It is still taking me years. To let that free, the being within the being, all to move a bening closer to being.

For hope and love seem so far off sometimes. Agsint the manuscript of harriburtons, and diogonies. In my head I can hear my love. Sleeping, she is away from me , and I know not where to go sometimes. Wanting my guitar, wanDering my haky sak, wanting still to go further and further into the meanings of shocras, and definitions of psychological happiness’s, I am me to see something last week, I mentioned it above. I was the youngest in an abusive house .. that meant , thought I only thought of this last week, I curtailed my choices for that of others.

Have gone many different steps to feel choice and division to create an acceptance of path. I had a love that become accepted as an experiment to a part of my thought driven consciousness. ( I try and introduce topics and “”feel”” them when I can eventually to integrate these itemizations into bearing and manor. ) I commit my self to fatherly love for three teenagers, for a year. It was a knowing, I knew nothing of,, but yet a direct relation to time and self. Of Responsibility and hope, which was created faster for love’s external to our selves. Nessacary and demanded, without question. I am happy I got to feel it as I have never had children so never felt that love for others. Like that. But it gave me a view of lto understand love for self. Which is the point I am always trying to see through.

The love is the energy, the energy is the peace, the peace is the agreement . It as a here and gone, now , but a place I lived for a moment, I watched E---,C---,J--- when there faces lite up. . and I was never happier. But it opened back to a self created place that is always with us. And yet with each step of our lives fades in and out, but to capture the response gave me many days more.

Like today, now, I feel that joy when writing. A structure to the madness even if only to comment.

While ladders were my meaning. Self seen metaphysics. ..

It is nearing to my moment, as age does it it’s climb, we take what we can , we must live till we end. focus is still the key, long away the simplicity, but against lack of bread and homelessness, against jealous people, and other tortured people. With system, and aggravated assaults on meanings, purpose of society affecting culture’s self control and creation.

For the cream is to rise, they say, but tides are taken by the clowns. And so inside out movements are only ourselves. A conditional mandate to , reading me, I think , words are meaningless. The conspiracies are created to control. Such that only self enlightenment makes any sense. Wars will be the past when all feel an idea , a sense, You know I feel there is a sixth sense, describable as intuition and other words, I used metaphysics earlier. Words, allusions of the symbols created from them, but even as they are created they can be corrosive. Torn and bought up. Cancerized by opinion or actual misgivings. And then there is the freshness that is over

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every second to change and create, It seems we only really remember peace is when the calm is forced on us. My brothers in the unemployment lines. And day labor camps , at the welfare office, on the food lines. As the mission kitchen, waiting in line with brows cast where they will.

The older men , some looking with eyes fast pointed one way, remembering when they had no need to come here.. Men who would rather tear down and rebuild the building for their food and lodging. Who cant earn there lives, such stare focused on one point, trying not to let the greater among of frustration take control. Holding back what is inherent of children of past wars. To gravitate to. the educated are the supervisors.

Who get paid, to watch.

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Driven by Pillup Gelks

of his brother cab drivers like they match the police. Slow , Down turned , Seen to much eyes. Sensitive for the exposure. For death is real in every movement. The tunnel gives the view , The highway at eighty. White knuckles gripping the steering wheel. One turn into the wall. One swerving across the fast four lane highway. Killing himself Streets turned away at angles unand others. But just himself he would want to leave, he has no memorable. He just knew. Watching them pass. The cruelty toward others. A man’s heart is the telling of strength to his orange lights spinning off the coal black of the road. The continupain. He can not run into the arms of another women fast enough. Men ously numbing white dots down the center. An imaginary AFX are trained for war to give themselves to cause. He is wound up over race car, that he wasn’t even holding the controls of. Jon Orwich the love that left him. could imagine anything. The hours poured by. His life, he felt, His rides sometimes are women who he imagines, getting close to , was hidden. Hidden by the front glass and the door. Contained Imagines they might notice the five foot ten man in the front seat with for customers. Contained in a secret place. Kept away to control the long brown hair. Who might notice the small soft stuffed animal and hold only in lonely isolation and art. which continually rides night after night knowing the road with him.

Each night, the traffic only, made a special place in his heart proceedBut they don’t mostly. ing like some abstract human consciousness. It could be just one big Until one day about a year after Jon starts driving. A women enters demolition derby. Any second the idea of a car and its inhabitants could who he doesn’t automatically want . She is slightly over weight but wash away in the telling of bent hoods and jammed gears replacing this pretty. Her light makeup rounding out an ivory complexion. She gets semblance of a peaceful society. He was often amazed at the fluid motion in at Potter square just off Mass Ave. After coming out of a club. It . You take your turn now after the light goes green. You let him pass even is two in the morning. “Please take me to JJ Foleys” another bar in though he gunned the engine just after the light switched. Red to green, Boston. Which, when they get there, is closed. She asked to sit in the peace from war or vice versa love from hated or hatred from love. Every- front seat getting back into the cab. She say to go to Jamaica Plain on one going on an important missions . Traffic continues with only slight the other side of Boston. She asks if she can “see” the stuffed animal infractions of the many opportunities it offers if only one was to lose the which comes automatically into her hands. Light tan and silly looking semblance of control. the moose gets petted it like it was a cat As she talks about the bar A distance dream is the driving. Jon mechanically watches his taxi she was in. The men who tried to pick her up and the friends that left turn after turn. Light after light. The drive to the airport, again and again early. Jon listened as he always does. While looking at her legs. Then and back through Boston town to the Cambridge side out to Dorchester she started to ask questions about him. Where was he from , Did he in through Jamaica Plains, back through Roxbury, down a Martin Luther go to school. Mostly the rides don’t ask anything but when they do King Boulevard. The beautiful sky line reflecting off the Charles.

Jon replies kindly and with truth. He could lie making up glamorous Miles apart but moments together these two sides have different rules goals and astute observations about what they would want to hear. To and different county seat. Cambridge, Mass presented Jon his home and play the street angle the greed infested shallowness. Life has been to fares. Two hundred and twenty five dollars for the right of the radio and short for him already ,to wasted on facts he can’t remember. By the the open streets. Twelve on Twelve off. Four in the afternoon to four in time they got to the party she asked him if he wanted to go in. It was the morning, was his to run …..mysteriously. Picking up the left over of two thirty and most of the good money driving was over. So he said the bars ,Toting around all the educational professionals and students he OK having made two hundred dollars for the night. They stayed at the could fit into his Yellow Chevy Impala. They never wanted to know him , party for about an two hours. There was a Ska band dressed in rasta And never could handle the thoughts he gave them when they did ask. So clothing, all colorful and Dreadlocked. The walls were covered in bound by the sophist which they are to worship and him so plainly lost to sexually posed red and orange figures in oil paintings. He drank punch his job. Tired and confused by the same seminary he loves. “It which contained some kind of hallucinogens . He later found all just works out” he thinks. About the traffic. Other drivout was called Ecstasy. They danced together, he was ers complain. Get angry. There is peace in letting things slightly happy. The girl knew almost everyone, just be and forgetting you have any control when the all batting eyes at each other. Her telling them truth might often just be, you don’t. he was a cab driver. Flaunting it like the ring on Each ride pays but some try to get over. His the merry go round. A body, he saddened, a use, change neatly folded in his pocket. Some rides are he saddened ,a shinny ring. The prize . He is beaution the way to being longer roads of a same soliful and used. She is a tale in the ever flow of life. Those tude, the ones to the airport. The last semblance of you have, will be used. Aware we should be you me. Alive common Americanism is his taxi. So there is function against the mind which wants to be alive and peaceful. That and purpose. If only a remembrance in moments while wants and deserves love but is fooled into the love which knows claiming the ticket at the airport. Most don’t remember the not use. We each are alone in the world casting the ruin which is ride. They get in drunk or distracted and the transporter is turned our lives into the love which must learn to be alive against all odds. on. The street passes by. The ride is convenience and costly but As she presented him as the “taxi driver” he felt nothing … Nothing. closes the gap of time; most love. Quick to here; Thank you and She smiled, sweetly touching him. He knew he was a uses. But it had don’t touch me; endlessly people passing leaving nothing. Jon been a long time since he touch any one though. A loneliness he had checks the back seat just as they are about to leave. Collecting tried to imagine as a monk hood within technologically conclusions. money and checking the back seat, drive on, wait and drive more.

He thought about his true love. The one who mixed all his imaginaThe hours pass with a cigarette to any orifice which will take one. tions into one. He twined and never thought he would replace. Others Drinking white smoke with coffee black. remained gratifications. Such is the way we write our obituaries. GivDriving leaves to much time for thoughts. Escape into more ing our lives in innocence. traffic and shinning lights. The numbness helps to forget. She and then she said she would drive with him to get the cab back. she was seven years younger than him and together they made a did . the night echoes his remorse, beautiful couple surviving together for two years but finally his for the guilt felt depression and crying took its toll, making thoughts ache in his the absence taken to the heart . heart when he did think. He was the criminal matching the eyes

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love left like a mourning patient. he drove alone back to the garage as she followed in her own car. he thought of the moving ways of turning roads. to real turnings , flashes and blurs leading his vision , the road moving his car with accuracy. Patiently he is separate from the movements, the steering wheel. the road, lights, traffic, it is a Zen and very peaceful at times. this in a drug. he is devine , feeling every moment streaching time its self. Entertainingly the spirit revolves. he opens his shirt the hairs of this chest lay like on a women the pectoral muscles so pronounced. thin soft Black hair, his ex-movers body showing. the air creating a dream. music coming in from other cars and thoughts, her Anna , his true love on his mind. a romantic fool , who dreams of love given as fulfilling. holding it like the jewels of life , nothing more nothing less, who shared with him and not with her self. holding back . he fell away, and there was explanation , after two years. she never asked him to marry her then she left. of that is what he thought for himself. all lessons seem to come over time. Red can be turned to black if seen through the blinding glass of time, really they fought a lot and one final day she hit him and he burst against the wall bringing plaster and flesh to a meeting .

Reds flashing from break lights. Chaos , Rap , Godsmak coming through the air and strength to withstand. He fills his cab with jazz playing on the Saturday night radio from a Boston college station mixing the world of black against orange. Light poles pass by, stop signs and yield. park and don’t, the endless visions, lines from electric and telephone cables thin black against a falling day sun but at night they are spider webs; mysterious and demanding.

Greetings From the brown attendants at the gas station, while the women pulls in behind, are short and casual. They look and smile.

These are only people jon really interacts with; station attendants and coffee pourers. the twenty hour store guy. to keep their own romantic plots stirring. never exchanging names. it is the seconds of time remembered , and pieced together, never explained. Adding each day , to “what do you know of him” But they think they know. the street wise knugges, which he backs off with eyes, saying “don’t say it.” she buys cigerettes, accepting the smiles as she receives them as attendance’s are over courteous. she buys two packs, my kind and hers, fullfilling some transient understandings, whole and seen. the video age removing doubt. he hates it , it is the smallness of life to endure, trying to remove the sanctity.

He thinks of his own morality. and opens the car door, searching for her eyes, she automatically see them. He says “ Did you get me some” as she holds them up.

Driving wears down the soul. Entering a truth every one faces, but controlling emptiness is a balanced knowledge known to the few.

Exchange and tenderness is the only heart. away into the thoughts and masses, a heart is human fraility and saving grace. She comes close while he is putting on the gas cap and kisses him Quickly for the audience. . The sad , over worked Arabic eye finally look away.

Her eyes in that second seem deep with the knowledge of an instant unity. Changing for the moment , out side of life. “I am to you now without me. Caring not for myself in the infinite . to relax in pleasure, you are to me. Escaping into your body where escape is allowed . yet costs. Diseases are less scary then the pleasure there is infinite instants, in Aids or reproduction; because each is a conspiracy to death and unity. two people know the attraction instantly, usually. they feel the movement. to swear beyond being civil . passion envelopes the beast and the

spirit. But it is the instant which joins two lonely polarities. two who are needy fulfil what life often can not. telling through their eyes whole stories. and the ills once inflicted are discarded into ecstasy.

Whole movements of mankind , endless and infinite in culture and history. Giving self without time , a spirit finds connection, a movement physically living the dream , touching to replace the touch. and what beings we are. For we kill with our desire, we kill the beautiful.

We use them for their innocence until it is them who kill with their beauty. which one are you . Comes like a whisper. the beautiful or the abuser. Jon is now the beautiful. for she is the abuser. him the body, her using him for the shadow cast to her friends at the party. Now as they leave the gas station. Him knowing her wants. he is amazed at the luck but ashamed of how he will get it. he will not say words to posses her. he will only have sex and make the best of it. for she is not his type. and she is asking him for it. fooling her living life with romance. she really doesn’t feel. but a moment can out wiegh the whole. the lot is filled with all the rest of the yellow cars. it is very dark with only one light in the dirt parking lot. the cars look calm for the first time during the long night they have toured the city. Moving through the streets, never stopping , open for all to come though and never see. now are standing as museum pieces waiting to start again.

Jon gets the moose from the dash board and thinks of his life. this is different day, the women only an event. as he pulls up to her house. She is home, she just want to be there, all else is outside. he was already forgotten, the moment over he walks away, a kiss , a knowing, a knod, . Jon likes the moring. the world is no longer seeped in constant reminder of sudden death, , it is birds, and joggers. morning is when judges and Lawyers go about.. where cops before the shift walk for enjoyment, and the ones getting off walk for solitude of the night before. She wanted him for a while..

He should drive and he says so. she lets him. “lets go to my place”. and they do . she is quieter now. the night telling her weariness as she gives him directions. she is waiting for him to say something . but he says nothing. her hand moves to his thigh and she comes closer in the car. wanting him to kiss her he thinks. he moves his hand to her bare leg and slowly moves tendarly up her thigh stopping before her sex, feeling the heat and she spreads her legs wider. the heat is tempting but he only wants to tease her. and moves higher. the light turns red and they kiss all tongue, his hand moving over her lightly and graces accrossed her breasts. she moans and touches him softly easing her hand into his pants. he starts leaving his body and the car behind honks.

Shocking him back to operating a car on the road in the city. with life all around. her hand on his flesh , opening his pants the rest of the way going down the street , he can hardly see the road while she continues without even looking at him she bends down and places her lips to him . then taking him in her mouth she lifts her mouth up and down , and transending with him. his hand in her moaning warmth. hot almost burning. they are on the highway crossing town on starrow drive a trucker is on the other side of the car. he can not see the driver but the truck remains aside for longer moments than the speed would be normally on the empty highway. he gives the car some break and truck pulls ahead. she doesn’t notice . but starts working the flesh with her hand coming up for a sloppy kiss. It is to heavy the tongue to deep and to face to face without sight of the road he swervs a little. and must push her away. She’ll not even remember tomorrow. he thinks. and they sit separate for the rest of the drive. It is a distance he will feel tomorrow.

When the sun rises. the world is clean agian, the day slow turns from night to light. so that the earths shadow is seen to leave off the sky, departing with a line never crossed.

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THE DEVIL AND SIR FRANCIS DRAKE

by Adam Bolivar The Moon’s my constant Mistresse

& the lowelie owle my morrowe;

The flaming Drake and the Nightcrowe make

Mee musick to my sorrow.

—Tom O’Bedlam

tree, and strange fruit can fall. I had always felt an ineffable connection with my grandmother, such as I felt for no other family member. We were of the same ilk, she and I—bookish, gentle and shy.

My mother telephoned to inform me of my grandmother’s closeness to death, and I immediately took the first train from Boston to I. Richmond to be at her side. The cancer was very far advanced, and my grandmother was in the throes of shedding her mortal coil. She could

Genealogy has always been a passion of mine. Little could I not speak, and passed in and out of semi-consciousness. I think she was have imagined how close it would lead me to the very brink of madness. aware of my presence and there was a haunted look to her earthy brown My grandmother had always maintained that we were descended from eyes. She did not want to go; leaving us behind would not be easy for Sir Francis Drake, the legendary Elizabethan privateer. I have heard her. others make similar claims, that their families were related to royalty, or My mother, my great-aunt and I did our best to make her this or that famous person, but these assertions were never substantiated comfortable. It was on the morning of All Hallow’s Eve when she left. with factual proof, only rumour and family legend. Still, I imagine if We were summoned to the hospital at the dawn of a clear, cloudless anyone were to shake his family tree hard enough, a few notable apples morning, though there was little warmth in the sun that day. I was not would inevitably fall from the upper branches. Consider: every person a witness to the moment of her passing, though I heard Azraël’s wings has two parents, four grandparents, eight great-grandparents, and sixteen beating in the distance. I felt her still warm hand, but it was not a human great-great-grandparents. Determined genealogists who comb the hand. Her body was a husk now, and my grandmother was no longer ever-propagating branches of their ancestries can doubtlessly connect inhabited it. My great-aunt was cognisant of this fact, apparently, and themselves obliquely with almost any historical figures they fancy. It has without any ceremony, yanked the diamond wedding ring from her been said that every person is at least the fiftieth cousin of every other sister’s finger and gave it to my mother. human being on earth. But at this level, relation becomes dissolute to

“I reckon this belongs to you now,” she said. the point of absurdity. There must be a standard by which inheritance is

At the time I had thought this action to be somewhat callous, determined, a means to establish lineage. but my great-aunt explained it to me. “You have to take off the wedding

Obviously, a direct descendant would be favoured over an ring right away after someone dies. If you don’t, the finger will swell up, indirect one. One is more apt to bequeath one’s fortune to one’s own and it becomes much more difficult.” She was over eighty years old, and child than to a nephew or a cousin. However, this standard can become had a considerable storehouse of experience with death to draw from. impractical over time, for what if one begets more than a single child?

I filed this little piece of wisdom away in the vault of my memory for The fortune must be divided amongst them, and then amongst all of their future use. children, until at last the legacy is spread so thinly that it amounts to

Now there was only the funeral to attend to, and a strange nothing. And what if there is a title, some singular honour that can only business it was indeed. Fortunately, my grandmother’s priest was able to belong to one person at one time? Which of one’s children will inherit it? guide us through the unpleasant necessities which accompany preparing A rule, however arbitrary, must be adopted in order to determine who will and laying to rest a loved one’s earthly remains. My grandmother had be pronounced heir. chosen cremation as her means of returning to the elements. There was

The two factors that present themselves as standards for a subdued service in her beloved Episcopal Church, accompanied by the inheritance are precedence of birth and sex. There are some traditions, sombre attire and lack of weeping which is the custom amongst Anglosuch as the Iroquois and the Pictish, which reckon bloodlines matrilineally, Saxons. No wailing and beating on the breast for us. Only the occasional and others that reckon them patrilineally. Each method is as arbitrary as a tear out of the corner of the eye, which was quickly disposed of with a coin toss, yet each is equally useful. The English tradition is patrilineal— clean white handkerchief. Then the priest carried the box that contained that is to say, one’s heir is one’s oldest and nearest male descendant. the ashes of what was once my grandmother, and carried it out to the

Of course it thrilled me to no end to believe that I was a memorial garden where my grandfather had also been laid to rest. There descendant of Sir Francis Drake, and I devoured any account of his life I was a hole already dug there, and the priest gently placed the box in the could lay my hands on. I eagerly read of Drake’s exploits—his treasurehole. She sprinkled a handful of earth on top of the box and recited the raids in the Caribbean, his heroic circumnavigation of the globe, and of time-hallowed words: “Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.” course his triumphant clash with the Spanish Armada in 1588. The man

She was gone. It was over. My grandmother was no more. had supernatural reserves of luck and cunning, and with astonishing ease I could not help but stare into the hole that had swallowed up my he rose from his humble origins as a vicar’s son in Devon to become vice- grandmother, wishing I could snatch her back into life again. But in the admiral of the Royal Navy and one of the richest men in England. end, I had to turn away.

The first proof of my relation to Sir Francis Drake came at my

At this church it was the custom after a service for the grandmother’s funeral, for death is always an event that shakes a family congregants to assemble in a small annex next to the church for tea, and

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this funeral was no exception to that rule. This gathering was more subdued than others I had been to, though it was interesting to see so many relatives assembled in one place. It was like a family tree brought to life. My greataunt was speaking in hushed tones to a distant cousin of mine, whom I had heard tell of but never met, and neither did I meet him that day. At one point in their conversation though, he glanced at me with a knowing expression, and then turned to resume speaking to my great-aunt.

That night my mother and I slept in the empty house where my grandparents had lived, and finding that I could not fall to sleep, I stole out of my room to take a last survey of the house. My grandparents’ house was not a large one by any means. There was a master bedroom, in which my mother lay slumbering. There was a guest bedroom, in which moments ago I had lain restlessly beneath crisp white sheets. Now I was hunting, a lone wolf in the dark.

My instinct told me to go through the door to the attic, for any family secrets would be hidden in the attic. I was immediately greeted by a familiar musty smell, which brought back memories of childhood. The stairs creaked reassuringly beneath my feet. It was an organic feeling, as if the very wood beneath my feet were responding. I climbed the stairs and into my grandmother’s attic.

It was dark but for the light of the moon, which shone in through the bare, uncurtained window, and cast a silver glow into the darkened chamber. It would be an ideal location to perform necromantic rituals. Why should such an idea enter into my mind?

It was only the beginning of such thoughts, as I would discover over the course of the next month.

The moon was shining in through the eastern window, and a shimmering finger of silver light (was it Lilith’s finger?) pointed at an old wooden wardrobe which sat in the middle of the attic and towered over the rocking horses and other forgotten relics of youth. The wardrobe. I was drawn ineffably to the wardrobe, as though some invisible force were pulling me forward. My hand reached out of its own accord and my fingers closed on the cold silver knob cast in the shape of an acorn. It was the acorn of a mighty oak, whose roots reached down deeply into the soft warm earth of time.

Inside the wardrobe were mementos of my grandparents’ life together: a white wedding gown wrapped in pink tissue paper and a suit of men’s formal wear. It was undoubtedly the attire my grandparents had worn on their wedding day. Sequestered out of sight in the back of the wardrobe was a cedar chest. I dragged the chest to the front, and opening it I found a stack of letters neatly tied together with a red ribbon. The letters were postmarked 1897...1898...1899...

Eagerly undoing the ribbon, I opened up one of the letters and strained my eyes to read the crabbed handwriting by moonlight.

Powhatan Sanatorium

December 21st, 1899

My dear sister,

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Would that I had never opened the cover of that accursed book! I shall always rue the day that I read those pages. Oh, I pray that you are never witness to the horrors I have seen. If you have an iota of sanity left, you will burn it until it is thoroughly reduced to ashes. If only I had the courage to do so myself. But I have learned the secrets that should never be known to Man, and now I am in their thrall. They will come for me soon, the strange winged things that flutter through my nightmares. Our only hope is with you now, sister.

Burn the book! Leave no trace. Let our family’s terrible legacy die, as it should have centuries ago.

—J. D.

Beneath the letters at the bottom of the trunk was a large bundle of black wool, which had the pronounced musty smell of something that had been kept in an attic for a very long time. All my instincts told me to leave it undisturbed where I had found it, close the wardrobe, and go back to my bed. But alas, the Weird had not chosen such a tranquil path for me to follow. Perhaps it was the moon, the will of Lilith, or invisible puppet strings that impelled my helpless limbs. Slowly I unwound the swath of black wool, which had swaddled its contents for nearly a century.

It was a book—I knew that it would be—a large black book, like a Bible. The cover of the book was embossed with a coat of arms that I knew from my researches had belonged to Sir Francis Drake: two silver stars on a field of black, divided by a silver fess, waver. Queen Elizabeth had granted him these arms after his famed circumnavigation of the globe—the first Englishman to do so. Previously, Sir Francis Drake had attempted to use the traditional arms of the ancient Drakes of Ashe, but the head of that family, Sir Bertrand Drake, rebuffed Sir Francis’s claim for he could not prove his relation to them.

He was, after all, of common birth, whatever his achievement in life.

But was Sir Francis Drake’s claim genuine after all? Was his family...our family...a branch of a far older line of Drake...the Dragon...whose roots stretched back to the days of the early Saxons... and further...to the very forest primeval where elves glowered and flashed their silver swords in a moonlit bower? Dare I open the book?

Of course I must. I had come this far. What kind of Drake would I be to shrink from this discovery and run cowering back to my bed? I opened the cover of the book and a folded document came fluttering down to the floor like an autumn leaf. Eagerly, greedily, I snatched up the paper and unfolded it. It was a pedigree, carefully drafted with an artistic flourish, which traced my family line from Sir Francis Drake’s brother Thomas to my great-great-grandfather, John Drake. With jubilant glee I revelled in the confirmation of my descent from Sir Francis Drake—an elusive fancy that I had nurtured from earliest childhood. But as I examined the chart more closely, I ascertained that there was another line, issuing from the oldest son of my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, James Drake. This

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line was of a higher precedence than my own, and threatened my claim to being the heir to the Drakes. This chart had been drawn a century before, and there was every possibility that this other line was now extinct. But how could I know for sure?

Crestfallen, I closed the book, and carefully wrapped it up again in the swath of black wool in which I had found it. At least the book was mine. I am not a Drake by name, but I am one by blood. The book had belonged to my great-great-grandfather, and I was its rightful owner. The moon had retreated beneath the clouds now, and it was in darkness that I had to stumble across the creaking attic floor. Carefully climbing down the narrow stairs, I clutched my inheritance to my breast and retreated to a cold sleep disturbed by fitful dreams.

The dispersal of my grandmother’s estate happened efficiently, for there are hidden, toothy mechanisms in place to dismember a person’s life as soon as it ends. For my part, I received a check for five thousand dollars, and another five thousand was allotted to the Episcopal Church. The house and whatever else remained of the estate were ceded to my mother. She has no siblings, and neither do I. The Salvation Army sent a truck to collect the closets full of clothes my grandparents had accumulated, and then our business was concluded. The shuttered house was locked for the last time until it could be sold, and I hastened to take the first train back to Boston, my strange inheritance stowed beneath the clothes in my suitcase.

Once back at my small apartment in Cambridge, I settled into my old routine and did not look at the book again, still bundled in musty black wool inside my unopened suitcase, which I had shoved to the back of a closet upon my return from Richmond. The peak of the colourful fall foliage had passed, and the streets became filled with piles of dead leaves as November wore on. I worked as a glassblower’s assistant then, and after trudging through miles of chilly wind wrapped in a coat and scarf, it was a relief to stoop before the hot furnace, heating bars of coloured glass so that they drooped on the end of a puntil like melting honey, until the day came to an end, and I made my weary way back to my apartment in the darkness of premature night. It was not until many weeks later that I received the letter.

It was a night like any other early December night in New England—cold, star-speckled, and with a light sprinkling of snow of the ground. I came home from my job with sore limbs and an empty belly.

The letter presented itself to me the moment I opened the mailbox. The pale blue envelope stood apart from the usual dreary concoction of bills and circular advertisements. Ignoring everything else, I snatched this prize from the box at once, and beheld it with wonder. My name and address were writ large on the front in black ink with a curving, archaic hand.

There was no return address, and the postmark was smudged, though I could make out the letters N.C., no doubt the state from which this missive originated. From whom could it be? I knew no one

in North Carolina, though the place struck a chord with me, for I had run across this locality more than once in my genealogical research. I galloped up the stairs to my apartment, and bolting the door behind me, I zealously tore open the envelope.

My dear cousin,

First, let me express my heartfelt condolences at the death of your grandmother. I do not take the passing of any family member lightly. There are precious few of us left. I feel it is time for me to introduce myself. My name is Albritton Drake. We share an ancestor in common, and I think we may have other things in common as well. I would be honoured if you would consent to be a guest at my house. There is much we should discuss.

Take the first train to Fiddle Creak, North Carolina tomorrow and I will have my driver meet you at the station. Bring the book.

Yrs most sincerely,

Albritton

I read and reread the short missive over and over, entranced by the sloping calligraphy, the texture of the cream-coloured paper, the way the pitch black ink was absorbed by the fibres of the dry, thirsty parchment. It was a letter from a living, breathing Drake!

My disappointment at learning that I was not Sir Francis’s heir was mitigated by this invitation to meet a bona fide Drake in the flesh.

But my mind was filled with questions. How did my cousin know where I lived? Why had I never heard about him before? And most mysterious, how did he know about the book which I had found in my grandmother’s attic? The book. It still lay in my unopened suitcase at the back of the closet. It was waiting for me, calling me. I knew that it was time for me to open it again, that I could dally no longer. There was an urgent quality to my cousin’s letter.

I drew back my curtains to look at the moon rising over the glittering skyline of Boston, plainly visible across the Charles River. It was nearly full, as it had been the night when I had found the book in my grandmother’s attic.

My cat Phaedra nuzzled my legs and meowed expectantly.

Reflexively I stooped down to scratch her chin and stroke her long grey fur.

I set the letter down on my writing desk and crossed over into the kitchen to fetch a box of cat food down from the pantry and pour a portion into Phaedra’s bowl. Yes, first things first, I thought. I did not know how long my visit would last, and I had to provide for Phaedra’s welfare while I was away. Leaving the cat to savour her long-awaited supper, I took the spare key off of its peg and left my apartment. I strode down the hall to number 17.

Hesitating, I rapped three times in quick succession, followed by two more knocks—our secret code so that she would know it was I. I heard her familiar voice, made husky from smoking too many cigarettes.

“Just a minute.”

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I waited, and a few moments later the door opened and there was Samantha, wearing her usual paint-spattered smock. Samantha was a graduate student at the Museum School, and over her shoulder I saw one of her pieces, an unfinished portrait of me seated on a wooden throne. A giant’s hand reached down into the perspective of the painting. The hand was poised to pick me up, throne and all, like a chess piece.

“Hi Hens,” she said, calling me by her own personal diminutive of my name. “You want to come in? I was just making tea.” There was an awkward pause—a familiar pause, redolent with frustrated passion.

“Sorry, I can’t,” I found myself saying, though some part of me yearned not to, the part that clung to life and love and hope. With a tremendous effort, I quashed that part of myself and shoved it back into the innermost recesses of my heart. “I have to pack for a trip. A cousin of mine has invited me to visit him at his house in North Carolina. I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

It was an absurd thing to say. Why couldn’t I come in for tea?

Would I need to pack all night? But I said it nonetheless. An ironic smile played across Samantha’s lips. She held out her palm to accept the key she knew I was about to place there.

“I suppose you want me to look after Phaedra while you’re gone?” she said.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” I answered, not meeting her gaze. I took the spare key out of my pocket and dropped it into her outstretched palm.

Her hand closed around it.

“You know I love that kitty.”

“Thank you,” I said softly, almost in a whisper. “Well, I guess I’d better go.” There was a pause.

“Okay,” she said. I turned to head back to my apartment. There was another pause, and this one seemed to stretch on for an eternity, though it could only have been a few seconds. I thought Samantha was going to say something, and the part of me locked in my innermost heart desperately hoped that she would. But she did not.

“Have a good time,” was all that she said, and the door closed with a click. I shambled back to my apartment where Phaedra was waiting, curled up in a chair and purring contentedly now that her hunger was sated.

It was time to open the book.

I bolted the door and turned off the lamps. Drawing back the curtains to allow the moonlight to stream into the room, I found a book of matches in my desk drawer and lit a half burned-down candle set in a dusty brass candlestick. I cannot say what drove me towards such ritual, only that once again I began to feel uncanny primordial urges, just as I had felt in my grandmother’s attic. Lilith had begun her dance.

Opening the closet door, I dragged out the suitcase. I undid the latches and opened the suitcase’s lid. The musty smell of a million attics engulfed the apartment and Phaedra rose from her slumber. The cat stretched her back and eyed my movements curiously. In the moonlight, her eyes shone an eerie emerald green.

The bundle of black wool lay at the bottom of the suitcase and I placed the bundle upon my writing desk. Phaedra arched her back and flattened her ears. Something about the bundle of wool tensed the cat, but she trusted me, and did not hiss or run away. Though not properly full, the moon exerted a considerable influence over the night. Lilith was dancing faster now. I unwound the black wool until the book was revealed, black

and leathern, and I placed it lovingly upon my writing desk. The book.

It was time.

Lifting the heavy binding of the book, I removed the genealogical chart that was tucked inside and unfolded it once again. I traced my finger down the lines of descent from Sir Francis’s brother Thomas—down the generations, across the Atlantic into the wilds of Virginia, and then North Carolina. Albritton Drake. He was the true heir. There were no dates associated with his name, but judging by his place on the chart in relation to the other names, he should have been a contemporary of those who lived and died in the eighteenth century. Surely not, I thought. The original Albritton Drake must have had heirs who were also named Albritton. It was a common enough practice in old families. There were certainly a number of Sir Francis Drakes, which was the name the English descendants favoured. I would have to ask my cousin more about his particular line of the family when I met him.

I carefully refolded the chart, obeying the creases that had been imprinted onto the paper generations before, and set it aside.

Steeling the last remnants of my nerve, I peeled aside the flyleaf and beheld the frontispiece, which portrayed the profile of a wyvern—the ancient arms of the Drakes. The wyvern was depicted in loving detail, each individual talon on its feet sharply delineated, each scale on its knotted, barb-ended tail etched with miniscule perfection. No, the wyvern’s inky pupil did not just dilate. Its eye was not watching me with sardonic interest, threatening to swallow my very soul into its infinite abyss.

I forced my eyes away from the wyvern and moved them down the page to read the pompous black-letter printing, stamped by a press that long ago must have become worm-rotted timbre in some Jacobean knacker’s yard.

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