Faraway, Volume 1, Issue 2 by Daniel Sawyer

Volume 1, Issue 2 June, 2007

2 CONTENTS 2 • LITERATURE • Marooned Johnny Alderete day 1..................................................................4 day 5................................................................12 day 94..............................................................23 day 223............................................................23 day 391............................................................39 day 745............................................................39 No More Chocolate Chip, Rocky Road, or Apple Pies Served A La Mode.............................................................5 Josh Mitchell A Rock..............................................................................7 Jason Jorgensen Provision; Mojave South Through Cajon...........................9 Matt A. Johnson

∞ ART ∞

Land’s End......................................................................13 Daniel Sawyer

A Brief Encounter............................................................40 Mark Wyckoff

The Saga of Sir John in Five Parts: Part the First.............17 Michael Pitassi

Untitled 1.......................................................................41 Mark Wyckoff

The Appian Way..............................................................20 Daniel Sawyer

The Landscape of Our Sons.............................................42 Daniel Sawyer

Running Away with Helen..............................................24 Josh Mitchell

Homage to The Road.......................................................43 Scott Sawyer

(title lost)........................................................................25 Josh Mitchell

Zodiac.............................................................................44 Katie Rutherford

Things That We Cannot Undo.........................................26 Daniel Sawyer

ABOUT THE NEW AUTHORS..................................45 WORKS IN PROGRESS...............................................46 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS...........................................46

The Good Gray Poet........................................................31 Johnny Alderete

All contents belong to the individual authors and artists.

The Soldiers’ Missionary..................................................32 Johnny Alderete

Cover / Inside cover: Jeff Hendrickson. Edits: Josh Mitchell, Michael Pitassi, and Daniel Sawyer. Lay out: Dimba.

Sing a New Song.............................................................33 Jared Hernandez

FarawayJournal.com was created by Justin Price, Jeff Hendrickson, and Dimba. Faraway’s MySpace site is maintained by Michael Pitassi and Dimba.

Elephant: SS

Volume 1, Issue 2

Marooned Johnny Alderete

Marooned (day 1) I awoke to an ebbing tide The flickering of warm sunlight As it crept through the swaying palms To where fate has placed me, here unharmed

I search and salvage what I can find A cask of spiced rum and brandy wine The carpenter’s tools, the tattered sail, Ink and parchment to tell my tale

I climb to my feet and on the shore Lies what’s left of the limping whore The soaking wreckage lines the sand The splintered timbers, the fractured mast

It seems that no one has survived The storm that ravaged us last night And delivered our ship to the angry sea And left no one alive but me

And resting on the ocean’s floor Lies the body of the whore Her broken back the gaping hole that’s in her side

Tells me I’ll be here for some time

Daniel Sawyer Daniel Sawyer: drawing. Katie Rutherford: photoshop.

FARAWAY

June 2007

• LITERATURE •

No More Chocolate Chip, Rocky Road, or Apple Pies Served A La Mode Josh Mitchell

“Why can’t we have ice cream, dad?” “We’ve been through this before, son. There just isn’t any ice cream.” Both were true. There hadn’t been ice cream for dessert for several months. Jeffrey Davis had argued with his parents on multiple occasions, but this didn’t stop him from wanting it any less. He pleaded and begged and even cried once. “Why can’t we have ice cream, dad?” “Because there’s a war going on, young man,” said Jeffrey’s father. “But can’t you go buy some?” “No, Jeffrey. Your mother and I have done everything we could.” “But--” “But nothing, Jeffrey,” his father continued forcefully. “What don’t you understand about the word ‘no’?” Jeffrey didn’t dare to answer the question, seeing how upset his father had become. “There are people overseas dying right now so you and I can be here right now enjoying this lovely dinner your mother has made. Your sister is over there right now--” Jeffrey’s father dropped his fork to his plate and looked towards the ceiling as if Jeffrey’s sister was somewhere amongst the stucco and water stains where the rain leaked through the roof. And just as the rain had gathered and seeped through the stucco ceiling Jeffrey watched as his father’s eyes filled with tears until they too dripped to the floor. Jeffrey immediately got up and ran upstairs to his bedroom, tears streaming down his face too. On his way he passed an end table. On it sat a shoebox filled with letters from his sister. One letter for every week she’s been away at war. Jeffrey’s family had just started a second shoebox to hold all the letters when they had suddenly stopped coming. Three weeks had passed since a letter was added to the new box.

• • •

What Jeffrey didn’t know about ice cream was this: about eight months ago there was a bill that everyone in the country was supposed to vote on. It was a very big deal. Everyone filled their local voting centers and they waited in long lines so that they could check a box that said “yes” or a box that said “no”. The people who voted “yes” all agreed that the country should give up certain “unnecessary” luxuries such as ice cream, decorative soaps, and many other “non-essential” things, in order to continue fighting the war overseas. The people who voted “no” all agreed that they would rather keep their “unnecessary luxuries”, call home the soldiers, and stop fighting the war. After thousands of commercials and countless protests, the big day finally came. It was the highest voter turn-out in all of history. People stopped watching TV, took time off work, rescheduled doctor appointments, just to go out and vote. It was a beautiful day for the democratic system. When the votes were finally counted and analyzed, then re-counted, the results were made known. Sixty-three percent of Americans wanted to continue the war and only thirty-seven percent wanted to stop fighting and continue eating ice cream. When Jeffrey’s father told Jeffrey, “Your mother and I have done everything we could,” it was true. They had voted “no”. None of this made Jeffrey miss ice cream any less as he sat there on any random night at

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Volume 1, Issue 2

the dinner table between his mother and father, eating another one of his mother’s “lovely dinners.” He spooned another mouthful only to let it fall haplessly to his plate. He looked across the table to his sister’s place. There was an empty plate next to an empty glass and a set of unused silverware. He thought about all the times he and his sister would rush from the dinner table, after they had finished eating all their vegetables, of course, into the kitchen where their mother was scooping them bowls of ice cream. They would greedily take their bowls and run to the living room floor where they would sit and watch television with their father while enjoying their dessert. “Dad?” Jeffrey asked. “Yes, son?” “When Emily comes home can we have ice cream again?”

FARAWAY

June 2007

• LITERATURE •

A Rock Jason Jorgensen

Often times I find myself being passed by. Without a second look, thousands of feet walk by me, oblivious that I am even there. Indifferent to my existence, to what I know, to where I have been. They cannot fathom the distance I have traveled or the forces that have acted upon me and the resistance that I put up against it, though ultimately failed. Failed in a sense of acceptance, that is, understanding that there are forces greater than I and that my resistance, while necessary and great, was still futile. And what I know. History. History you have seen, history you haven’t seen. History you have heard of, history you haven’t. History you could know nothing about and all the history that came before that. Not only do I know it, I had a front row seat to it, was a part of it, a silent partner of sorts. I held no rank, gave no speech, and I did not run for any office. But rest assured I was the foundation on which history took place. And my journey. I am a Greek tragedy. My journey began in heat worse than hell, blinding pressure that cannot be described. But I overcame. Over millions of years, I cooled and waited. A batholith worthy of the title, “Titan”. I broke, nay, conquered the earth above me. Sheared and split it without remorse until the beginning of my greatness began to show. Slowly, very slowly, I rose. I steadily pierced the sky as the earth crumbled around me. What was hundreds of feet became thousands, which became tens of thousands. It became a sign of greatness to have climbed my peaks, a test of manhood to have scaled my sides. I truly was a God. The clouds caressed me, and closed in all around, making my highest peaks sightless to those below, in turn I became ominous. Tales were told about me, I became the basis for legends and tall tales and myths were used to explain my heights. Then the rain. Then gravity. I was a God. I was the king. I was the Lion. Perhaps it was only fitting that I was taken down by a mouse. Drops of water, a simple bond. Truthfully, I never gave it a second thought. Summer would pass, the rain would come, snow would fall and blanket me, but every spring I shook it off, yet every freeze was slowly tearing me down. The rain that washed over me cut down further everyday, building speed and taking parts of me with it. By the time I knew what was going on, it was too late. The rain came and went, and I went with it. Some water froze and expanded, and I was powerless. I cracked and it was not long before massive piles slid down the sides and I became feebler by the moment. No longer a God I began to shrink back into my own footprints. And then I fell. It was a heavy rain and despite all my might, I could not stay together. My resistance, like previously mentioned, was futile. So I let go. Not with the water, but instead choosing to fall down my own (previously) treacherous

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sides. With every clank the earth became larger, and I smaller. Though I must say that the length of my fall was impressive. Finally I came to rest and for the first time was able to look up at part of what once was great. I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have long as the rain continued and swept me further from my home. Many miles later I came to rest, with a great view of the mountain I once crowned. It remains there; almost mockingly as it still recedes a little each season. And I, I lay here as thousands of feet walk by me, oblivious to the position I once held. But I have planned my resurrection. And sometime, sometime far in the future, I will begin anew; I will break down only to re-emerge once again at the top of world. I will once again be a feat of strength, a test of manhood. So take notice, and just wait.

Falling Rock: SS

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June 2007

• LITERATURE •

PROVISION; MOJAVE SOUTH THROUGH CAJON Matt A. Johnson The constant breeze - plummeting, turned and careened abreast obstinate resolve, cascading down canyon narrows, destined for indistinct acknowledgement upon buffeting the sparse desert brush. Relentless too; though frustrated, hindered by its composition, or perceived lack thereof, it beat restlessly my flesh and clothes as it had the Joshua for centuries. It tore simultaneously into the jet black of my steed, slightly sidelong, striking his left shoulder directly (so that he had been favoring his right for some time), and I felt his shudder, and knew he was suffering unease at that sense that soon it might break skin - as one feels on scratching too long at one spot. I pressed him on though, deadlines to make, and with the understanding that my family waited still in danger, though the immediacy of that situation had left my paramount attention with the passing of the first strong gust, and now rolled along the desert sands with the tumbleweeds whence I came. Focused now on making the pass, the closer I drew to hilltop, the further I felt from them, and wondered about the necessity of such trips and the difference making them really made in the run of things. Is remittance worth the resultant separation? Is penance part and parcel, or prerequisite, imperturbable pause? As if agitating the same, the horse stopped in the bottom of a dry wash. I gave in and allowed the moment, for I too would enjoy this brief respite; and shielded slightly for a moment from the incessant breath of empty, hollow, desperate western sky, I sipped a sooty, biting coffee from a travelweary canteen. Replacing the lid, I felt the anxious tremble neath my saddle of an animal not certain of travels ahead, but aware of my intention to continue and the antithesis of eager to delay any more than necessary the impending events, be they righteous or purposeless. A trusting animal through trying times is quite the boon, and a trustworthy master serves both well. That I had tried most to be since taking on the roll of commander, husband, father. Imperfect at best in all three regards, I was beginning to feel as the wind; throwing every bit of myself against an unyielding force, not entirely certain why, and making little observable progress; but I imagine the wind and I both accomplished more than either ever imagined. A chill struck me as sunlight retreated briefly, and I noticed as we neared the peaks that the nimbostratus trapped in the basin on the other side danced mightily in the gale about the chaparral lining the highest points. The scene had appeared so stagnant viewed from afar, where it might be immortalized by Van Gogh or Gauguin and admired in galleries at New York, Paris, or London as “the real west”. Up amongst the turmoil I was now fully aware of the power inherent in our surroundings and how insignificant the things we sometimes consider most important or noteworthy. (The capacity for cognitive reasoning man is blessed with can be as much a curse, for after centuries of practice he has developed many misguided paths of logic that convolute even the simplest decisions.) Months before I

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had searched these hills for the fairest passing, but my favored route, by now well worn from much use, was already in the horse’s sight. He would go, by instinct and the aforementioned trust, down this trail blindfolded and muzzled were I to ask, especially in this weather, since he knew as I did that the bottom meant inturbulent respite. So we descended, that brilliant orb left on the mesa above the grey wetless waters we struck out to float beneath. The first steps of this descent were always fairly easy and deceive many, but still on guard to the wind, the wet, and the narrow path, our progress was slow. And on cue, the hills steepen. Traction is minimal, and we almost lost footing once or twice, but soon enough the roughest part of the drop is done. I still don’t know if it was the grade, the fact that precarious situations tend to occupy the mind so that time passes more quickly, or the obstruction of all recognizable landmarks by the soft, damp blanket covering the valley, but rather quickly we had dropped through the bottom of the pillowy air-waters and escaped the bite of the circling wind, which now seemed nothing more than the provocateur in the fight between the light of the desert and the shadow of the valley. They do fight ceaselessly, but most times end at a draw when night descends, the border remaining that crossing point I travel oh so often. In the narrow valley now, a wary comfort crept in. This was always my favorite part of the journey. The valley is usually covered like this this time of year, and my natural tendency toward the cold, wet weather – real weather, not this region’s typically complete lack of weather – is sated for a few easy weeks. Honestly, the monotony of the area’s normally perfectly livable, entirely temperate conditions is quite grating. We settled in to a suitable canter for the remainder of the ride down the easier hills framing the wide open beginnings of this canyon. The clouds draped like cobweb curtains strung peak to peak; a fitting canopy to the four-poster bed we sank slowly into as if for a long needed rest. Admiring the rising walls around, I didn’t feel my shoulders drop an inch or two in my guarded relaxation. I marveled at the fins of weather-worn sandstone that explode from the ancient riverbed just south, dead in the center of the pass. They stand as sentinels at the inner gateway through this passage. Where the canyon really begins to narrow and deepen, and the sand is so relatively shallow that clean, clear spring water surfaces in places, nurturing a grove of cottonwood and willow. We continued, treading the wide, easy, mostly sandy-dry wash that meanders the floor of the natural corridor connecting the high, dry desert with the low. Again, my thoughts turned to the nature of our existence on the edge of this frontier. Couldn’t we just leave? There are plenty of places in this vast land in which to settle – why did we have to be here? Moving nearer to my destination was no option, for every inch of useable land had been occupied and fenced and cultivated. To go east, or far north would be possibilities, but we knew too many things and people here, and the rest – the distant hopes and “greener grass” – were the extreme unknown. No, we were where we were, and for good

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• LITERATURE •

reason and with good years ahead. Mostly we did fine, I just suffered a little during the trips – but I was really no worse for the wear. I could dream of better days, more fertile land, less time in the saddle – but I had it easy. We entered the deepest area and I brought the horse’s canter to a quicker gallop. One long s-turn and we would be able to see the exit of the labyrinth. It was growing darker and windier again, and I wondered if it might in fact open up and rain on us when the first drops kissed my cheeks. I just lowered the brim of my weathered hat and focused on the widening valley ahead at the end of the trail. As I pondered my course in life, I saw it – I knew my place and I knew satisfaction awaited me at the end of the journey. In the short run and the long, the walls would fall away, the skies would clear, and the winds would calm. I press the horse on. Keep moving. Step after step. One foot in front of the other. Ignore the height of the hill, or the depth of the canyon, and look two feet ahead. Could I make one more step? Then I could make one thousand. If I could make those I could make the next thousand as well. I had traveled this route many times; I could travel it many more. And the days and trips would only grow easier – in comparison to the length of the trail a few sandy washes and chaparral covered hills are just another step or two. The rewards are worth the risks, and are more than just remittance. Long after I quit traveling this course I would watch those rewards find their own favored route and make similar sacrifices for their own penance; and I would rest, in quiet solitude, in a vast four-poster, forgiving my doubts and doubters as all fades to vague, opaque images resembling the trails I used to traverse as if behind a soft canopy, let loose from its posts, descending slowly until it shut my eyes. For now – I just drive the horse.

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Marooned...continued Who I Was And How I Came To Be In This God Forsaken Place (day 5) I was a privateer Plundering buccaneer I raped, pillaged and thieved In the name of the king This vessel was my home From bow to creaking hold My lady was the sea Her kiss was ocean breeze Raise anchor hoist the sails Our one eyed captain wailed He tapped his wooden peg And we were on our way We made for the south sea Led by mandate and greed Stealthy and swift we go In search of Spanish gold Then violent gales came And swept our ship astray Trapped on a reef we lay Smote by towering waves Our captain cursed and yelled Still standing at the helm Jump ship men save yourselves Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll see you all in hell

Daniel Sawyer

FARAWAY

June 2007

• LITERATURE •

Land’s End Daniel Sawyer

At land’s end where the dirt is level with the tide there is a pier that stretches forever out to sea. The pylons are low, and the water laps at them just under the decrepit planks. The wood is warped and crooked and loose and missing in many places, and the dark ocean waits in the gaps. It is splitting at the grain. Onto this aging wharf I led a tired and ragged band of everyone I had ever loved. All my brothers were there and all the women for whom no expense was spared. We marched out onto the pier and looked from side to side as the land dwindled into a haze behind and the ocean surrounded us at every point. This dock at which no boats were moored went on ahead of us, over the curve of the earth, a thin and feeble line cleaving the world in two. The surface of the sea was like glass, the sky a crystal lense that at any moment might crack. My friends followed, but where we headed, no one knew. I turned back at times to mark our progress against the horizon’s lines and always my retinue was smaller.

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They left without my knowing by ones and twos, till one day, after miles and miles of going, my best friend from childhood worked his way up to my side. I hadn’t seen him in years, but his face was one that I knew better than my own. He took me by the elbow, and coming close, said, “I have to go now. There’s somewhere else I’m supposed to be.” Before I could reply, he turned and went the other way from whence we’d come, walking by himself back to land’s end. My mouth hung open in a sad grimace. Still I went on, and every once in a while, someone would come to me and tell me they were leaving and then they marched off to their deaths or ruins. Friends, my grandparents, cousins I barely knew. And always I remarked to myself: “If only you had stayed and followed me, things would turn out better for everyone. If only you were content with me, your life would be the greater.” But all the same they went and those who stayed shrugged their shoulders. One day someone from the other direction came. A man in a suit and hat, who had been to the edge of the world and back.

“What’d you see there, Jim?” I said in a voice from a movie I watched when I was young.

“Rich pickings? Crystal chandeliers? Opulence?”

He smiled at me knowingly and then turned his palms up, unable to respond. “I couldn’t even begin to tell you,” he said, shaking his head. He walked between my lovers, who now numbered only three.

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• LITERATURE •

Turning to look a final time, he tipped his hat and was gone. “You’ve stayed with me till the end,” I said appreciatively. But all as one, they turned and followed the other man. I was left all alone, out there in the center of the ocean, the pier tracing a longitude from pole to pole. Some clouds rolled in from the east, and it began to rain. But what splashed down wasn’t water. They were single grains of sand, falling like snowflakes out of the sky. They collected in little mounds on the deck and coated the water coarsely. It got in my eyes and coated the inside of my mouth. I walked on in misery by myself, my heart sunk in my stomach. The ocean passed me by. And here odd plants rose from the crystalline water, and their scarecrow arms arched upward and dipped into the water again.

Daniel Sawyer

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Volume 1, Issue 2

Soon I came to a place where the pier ends. It just stops, and you cannot go further. Beyond it is water of the darkest blue. It is opaque like blood. The sky rises above, black and pinpricked by the immortal stars.

Daniel Sawyer

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June 2007

• LITERATURE •

THE SAGA OF SIR JOHN IN FIVE PARTS Michael Pitassi

Part the First Somewhere in the vast Syrian desert, in the desolate lands east of Damascus, far from any sign of human habitation, lay the body of our knight, the hero of our tale, Sir John. To the vultures above he was only a curious lump of glistening metal. He was as motionless as the hard, gravelly ground he lay flat against; though a small piece of his chemise had exposed itself from underneath the side of his breastplate and would flap rapidly as the hot winds would pick up. Though you may think it, he was not dead. DS & In fact, his lips, which were at that moment pressed MP against the rocky earth, had begun to move. This is how he awoke from his unconscious state: as he felt the dirt with his lips he took a sudden breath and inhaled a cloud of dust, which then triggered a violent cough. He lifted his head and opened his eyes. All he saw was brightness. He looked down at the ground in front of his face only to see a beetle scurrying away. He wasn’t quite sure how long he had been lying there. To see Sir John lying face down in the middle of the desert would have been nothing short of an astounding sight. This was obviously a knight who had drifted off course. Where he was heading could have been anyone’s guess, but judging by what was left of his armor, he was almost certainly a crusader. Sir John was still holding tightly to his decoratively gilded sword. His great helm was lying a few feet from his head. His standard, bearing the faded colors of his home, the Kingdom of England, had been dropped about ten feet behind him. His armor was riddled with dents and scuffs. Strapped to his side was a curious looking dagger. It was long and narrow, having the appearance of a misericord. Along the blade were inscribed a series of words in Greek, which Sir John was never able to translate. His shield also was lying next to his body. His horse had succumbed to the long journey through the mountains and deserts and died many weeks before near the city of Aleppo. As Sir John slowly regained his senses he remembered where he was and what he was doing. Come hell or high water he was going to set foot in the holy city of Jerusalem. And should that place be filled to the brim with Saracens, he would shed every ounce of blood in his body to rid the city of at least a few of them. With his left arm, the one not grasping his sword, Sir John reached out in front of him. He clutched the dirt with his hand and pulled his limp body for-

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ward about two inches. If he had to drag himself to Jerusalem, he thought, so be it. Again with his left hand, Sir John pulled himself forward. Then he stopped. He was breathing heavily from this new exertion. His legs felt lifeless, and hunger and thirst were fast deteriorating his body. His eyelids grew heavy and he thought for a moment that he would soon be blacking out again, out here in the middle of the Levantine desert. But a sudden pang of despair jolted him awake, and his eyes, instead of closing shut, cringed in a look of anguish and sorrow. He began to weep, for he knew that he had reached his end. There was no trace of hope anywhere on the horizon. Sir John envisioned his corpse becoming food for beasts. He would never lay eyes on the holy city of Jerusalem; he would never raise his standard above the citadel in victory and cry out in joy; he would never return home to tell his friends of his many great adventures; and, worst of all, he would never enjoy the warm company of those friends again. Sir John had hardly a tear left to emit from his dehydrated body as he struggled with these thoughts. He tried to lift his right arm, but the weight of his sword was too great. So he lifted his left arm, and struck the ground with his fist. He managed to cry out in a thin, hoarse voice—but it was nothing that a soul around could have heard. He returned to his weeping, and he laid his head back down on the hard, desert gravel to await his ignominious end. • • • It was at this time that the glint of Sir John’s armor caught a human eye. From miles away a mysterious figure clad in black and sitting upon a dark steed noticed the strange bright reflection. The dark rider was patrolling the land surrounding Damascus and had decided, in an effort to avoid the monotony of his usual route, to venture farther east than he had ever been. He had crossed over a small range of mountains and had come to a point where he could see a great deal of the desert before him, and this is where he caught sight of that unusual shimmering light. He thought he had sighted an abandoned booty of silver and gold, or a crusader’s treasured weaponry. He at least knew that whatever it was he was seeing far off in the distance was not of the natural desert—and he set out at once to quell his curiosity. This dark figure rode fast and swift down a rocky embankment and across the arid plains. Around his head was wrapped a black turban, and a long scimitar swung from his side. He was adorned in a flowing black robe, underneath which was a red tunic. And though you may think it, he was not a Saracen. His name was Theodoros, and he was a Grecian knight who had been raised in the Kingdom of Arles—the very same kingdom where he had enjoyed a youthful friendship with the same Sir John who was now lying half-dead in the Syrian desert. As Theodoros drew near the source of the reflection he began to see that he was approaching a body. He saw the standard lying alone; he saw the great shield covered in dust and stone; and he saw the armored figure lying face down, motionless. He quickly assessed the situation before dismounting his horse. Based on the symbols and colors of the standard, Theodoros correctly assumed this knight was from the far-off Kingdom of England. The quality of the armor

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• LITERATURE •

told Theodoros that this fallen warrior was not of noble stock—though his sword was quite artfully forged. Then Theodoros caught sight of something that made him quickly gasp. Strapped to the knight’s side was an ornate dagger. Theodoros recognized the Greek inscriptions along the blade at once. He quickly dismounted and ran to the side of the knight. He pulled the blade from out of the strap that held it against the hauberk and studied it. Then he slowly stood up and looked down at the knight whom he now knew was Sir John. Theodoros smiled, then chuckled. He began to speak to the body. “So my friend, this is what’s become of you? I was very much looking forward to our meeting again, though I was hoping it would be under better circumstances.” He glanced at the dagger he had confiscated from the knight. “I believe this belongs to me,” he remarked with a smile. “I thought I would have to kill you to get it back, but it appears you’ve taken care of that yourself.” And with that, Theodoros slid his reclaimed mercygiver into the small sheath strapped to his side and turned to walk back toward his horse. But as it would go, Sir John awoke at that very moment and uttered a muffled cough. Theodoros stopped and gave a look of surprised delight. He walked back over to Sir John and stood over him so that his shadow covered the whole of the knight’s battered body. Sir John lifted his head and immediately sensed someone’s presence. But before he could make another movement, Theodoros lifted his leg and brought his booted foot down hard onto Sir John’s right hand so that the sword he had been clutching was released, and the wounded warrior cried out in agony. Theodoros leaned over and began in a harsh voice, “Well if it isn’t the valiant Sir John on his most desired crusade! I see good fortune has finally abandoned you!” Theodoros dropped to his knees, grabbed the back of Sir John’s black hair, and lifted his head up off the ground. He continued, “You disgraced me in Arles, you forced me into the dark, lawless corners of towns, you ignobly swindled me in Thuringia, and you so haughtily thought you’d seen the last of me!” Theodoros let Sir John’s head fall back to the dirt. He got up and unsheathed his reclaimed mercygiver. And raising the blade high he positioned himself to administer the death stroke.

To be continued…

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Volume 1, Issue 2

The Appian Way Daniel Sawyer

Roman roads, the central strands in the web of empire, stretch out from the center, funneling the wealth of the world away from the provinces, away from where it was reaped and reared, to the gluttonous spider in the center. Rome. All roads lead to Rome. All the world bleeds for Rome. There have been wagon ruts worn into the Appian Way by farmers rolling their wares to market since before Aeneas set foot on Italian shores. Now the stones are worn smooth by the feet of the republic’s armies on the march, trampling all who rise against the city of seven hills. Now the drainage ditches that line the road are filled with blood, as they are filled with water after a heavy rain. His brown cloak drags through the dust that fills the spaces between the great slabs of stone. It passes briefly over a puddle of blood, and though they touch for only a second, the fabric is absorbent, gulping up the wine-dark liquid like a bat, so that soon his calves are damp and sticky. His eyes are low, sweeping the dirt, and in the dark crimson rivulets slowly sinking into the fertile soil, he catches his own fleeting reflection. A breeze rustles the dead leaves and blows the heavy hood off of his head, exposing him to the golden afternoon rays. He stops, overcome suddenly by the weight of the figures lining the road, whose shadows intersect his path. They have flanked him for miles, but knowing what they are, he has chosen not to look. Now, coming to a halt, he sees them from the corner of his eye, backlit by the sun, like grotesque temple statues. His gaze travels up the thick wooden post, driven into the ground like rape. The wood is darkened and swollen by the gore that has dripped down for hours. The first thing his rising eyes see are two pale and rigid feet crossed over each other, with a rusty metal rod driven through them, pinning them to the crucifix. Up the legs his eyes wander, and these are caked with dirt, sweat, and gummy, drying blood. The genitals are shamefully exposed, and the arms that would guard and hide them are stretched and broken out to the sides, nails piercing the palms. The head of this man has fallen forward, so that his face is hidden in a shroud of hair. But the next man in the line is looking to the sky, his eyes still sadly open, wondering what his crime was that deserved this fate. For over a hundred miles they line the road on both sides, a forest of corpses, over six thousand in all. Spartacus’s defeated army, slaves once, then freemen, now dead. Crucified to the last man and put proudly on display along Rome’s most-traveled road as a warning to all who might dare to vouch for their own freedom. The point is not easily forgotten, the bloodshed and anguish hardly fathomable. He, the walking minstrel, knows that these bodies go on outside the scope of his

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• LITERATURE •

journey. Ahead of him and behind are more dead men, whose contorted and pierced bodies are testaments to their agony, where their words now fail. He goes on, with his hood down, looking at each twisted form in turn, that he might understand. What he seeks to know is likewise outside his scope, for his mind cannot comprehend what all this means. What does it mean that this man, whose hair is hardened by sweat and filth and blood, rigor mortis giving him the appearance of immovable marble, once took up arms for a cause, a cause likely forsaken in the final moments for the pain it brought him? What does it mean that he, that black-skinned giant, was once alive? What does it mean that he, whose children continue to go hungry, is now dead? The minstrel wipes his brow, for suddenly he realizes how hot the rays of the sinking sun have made him. There is a pang in his chest for these men, and the sky bleeds in sympathy. He knew not what they fought for, could not fully understand the concept of freedom, for he had never known anything different, never known the feeling of being trapped in a place, and being forced to do what others would have him do. But as a person whose palms would also bleed when impaled by a foot-long nail, he feels pity and empathy for these men, these six thousand that line the Appian Way from Rome to Capua. He wonders what it must be like to be dead, to never know, or feel, or see again. He wonders what it would be like to be nothing, to not exist. And what it would be like to be held down by strong, begrimed hands, to see a hammer rise and know that its falling would bring unbelievable hurt. He clenches his teeth. How must it be to see your compatriots, whom you have fought and lived with, go before you, laid down kicking and screaming, nailed, helplessly, despite the resistance of every ounce of strength reserved within, to two wooden planks, and stood upright before you? How would it be witnessing your own fate dealt out to dozens of others, hours before it happened to you? How would it be to know that you cannot escape? How would it feel to have your entire weight pulling down against the tendons and bones of your hands and feet? How would it feel to hang there in the hot sun, bleeding to death, unable to breathe or speak? How would it feel to be unable or unwilling to grant these men mercy? He comes near to one of those bodies, and he tenderly lays his fingers on the outspread toes that are at shoulder-height, as who should say, “I am sorry, brother.” As he does so, the body moves, it takes a great, wracking breath. He jumps back in horror and looks up at the face, aghast. But it is still. It is dead. His face slowly reverts to its regular form, and he thinks to himself, Why should I have reacted thusly? Why, when this man showed signs of life, did I jump back in fear, and look up at him in disgust? Why, when I feel pity for him and want nothing more than for him to be alive and come down from that cross, did I grow angry that he took a breath? And why, moreover, did

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he take that breath? Was this man dead, or not? Clearly he was, but why then should he move? Blood entered his brain, forced up by the pressure laid on his feet, and for a split second the brain came to life, and the body did that which it had been doing when it died hours before. So had it come to life? And if so, if that was life, that jerky movement brought on by a little blood entering the brain, what did it mean to truly be alive? What was happiness, sadness, joy and love, when just putting blood into a dead man’s brain could make him breathe again? The minstrel looks away and walks on. As he pulls his hood back up over his balding pate, he hears a gurgling sound, and a low whisper. The next man in line is looking at him, a blank, tired expression on his face. His eyes are heavily-lidded, halfshut. He mouths a word. Water. The minstrel looks down the road in both directions, and there is no one coming. His eyes turn back to the dying, crucified man. “Thirsty, brother?” He double-checks the Appian Way, then slings around the goat-skin sack that carries his sweetened water. The man’s head is too high above him to offer the drink in a practical way. So he squeezes the sack and directs a stream at the man’s red, cracked lips. The minstrel looks at him apologetically, for he feels that he’s offered this man a final indignity by rudely spraying his face. But the man’s eyes have closed contentedly, the tongue is working its way over lips, catching each drop as it rolls down his face. The minstrel lowers his gaze. He goes out into the middle of the road, in between two crosses, and sits down on the stones. From a hidden pouch within his robe he withdraws a long, black, wooden flute. Licking his own lips, he sets them to the reed and begins to blow. The melody rises into the air, into the ears of those yet living, and for the dead, it hangs heavy over the countryside. He plays music that he’s never played before, notes without structure or plan, but it is his best. His fingers slowly cover the holes and the pitches change. The man on the cross turns his head the other way. His eyes glaze over, and he looks sadly into the dust, as if the grains that have filled the spaces between the cobblestones almost for ever will reveal something important in this, his penultimate moment. He is dying. His breath escapes him silently. He lets the flute breathe for him. There is nothing in the dust that he does not already know. Blinking one last time, the only final act that he is capable of, he dies. The minstrel plays on. The six thousand corpses lining the Appian Way dance, in their own way, for this is their wake, and there is much to celebrate.

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• LITERATURE •

Marooned...continued The Question of Sustenance part I (day 94) In my sights Is a bird proud and bright It sits there perched so high Squeeze my trigger slow and tight I’ll dine on fowl tonight I’ve become A sharp shooting marksman But my powder’s nearly done Soon useless will be this gun Here on this foul island

The Question of Sustenance part II (day 223) In my sight Is a goat young and spry Through wild through bush he flies But down I come with my knife I’ll dine on flesh tonight I’ve become An agile specimen My trials have made me strong There’s no beast I can’t outrun Here on this damned island Daniel Sawyer

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Running Away with Helen Josh Mitchell

Away from Troy From the beaches of blood The pain of the Argives Hollow words Just as hollow horses Are always more than they appear So run with me once more Across the sea Into the West Where a promise made can be a promise kept Upon silent shores Where no man has ever stepped

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• LITERATURE •

(Title Lost) Josh Mitchell The end of existence comes as we fall asleep. Peaceful bliss will cover us in ash and bury our bodies to the whites of our eyes. We’ll watch the sun explode and bear witness to Apollo’s glory. The remains of the afterbirth that was once

Life

Will lay untouched in the bowels of

Infinity

Waiting patiently for

Katie Hicks

Change

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Volume 1, Issue 2

Things That We Cannot Undo Daniel Sawyer

I I read every book on every shelf, and reading these swelled my throat. Through teary eyes I asked myself, Was there no way across this moat?

II I took a pen and by the armful grabbed those books, and glancing like a guilty man who over his shoulder looks, I laid them down and I scribbled and scratched, until the stories they held within them matched

The story those sad books reveal is one of myriad chances squandered. the ideas of goodness that I believe. They say how all the masses wandered I erased paragraphs and tore out pages. and had nought to show at the vespers peal. And referring to the wisest sages, I granted all those men reprieve. For all these years I’ve perused the shelves, learning how men have killed themselves. I started where God spilled first blood. Like a chastised child I looked away, Telling martyrs they could go home, for the teachers that taught me used to say, I rearranged that entire tome. And when I came upon the Flood, that man was a good and progressive beast. I now knew this was not the case. I took out God and put in a man. Of all the animals man is least, He said to Noah, ‘Build not a boat but instead a bed. and ever wastes his life to debase You are good and too many have bled.’ Hearing this Noah stood and ran the opportunities he’s been given. Well, I said, let’s repair this rift. He embraced his wife and shook his neighbor’s Let’s restore man to his gift. hand. I went down to fix what we’ve riven. There was no ark nor searching dove, nor no more orders from above, So I cleared myself off a table, nor ever fleeing from Pharaoh’s land. and moving quickly from tale to fable, I buttressed up what looked unstable, Eve did not on apples feast and tore down facades where I was able. but learned in school all that she’d need. Cain was not banished to the east, and Abel did not for his brother bleed. I took out all of virgin birth and bleeding in Gesthemane. Jesus didn’t die to prove our worth and there was no immortal enemy.

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the love that was always there, the love now that he’d never dare to take up arms and jeopardize– the love that shone in his child’s eyes.

I turned next to the works of Greeks, those glorious words that Homer speaks. It broke my heart to change his verse, but for history we can not do worse.

There’d be no pursuit around Priam’s walls, no thought of joining Olympian halls, no fighting with Peleus’s wrathful son. Yet all the same, the day is won.

I kept handsome Paris in his home. The Apple of Discord did never grow, and never did fair Helen roam. The Myrmidons weren’t forced to row

As for the myths I’ll do away with Cronos and the Titans great. Zeus will have a loving mate and Helios will gladly bring the day.

across the Aegean’s sparkling flow. There was no siege and no equine ploy– the Trojan Horse was a child’s toy. And Odysseus did never know

Sisyphus will crest his track and Orpheus will not look back. Narcissus will break his stare and Icarus will flee the glare.

the womanly wiles of Calisto. No western wind did ever blow him from the arms of Penelope and in those arms he will always be.

Arachne will hold her tongue and Herakles will not be stung by the betrayal of a plotting wife, nor the gods engaged in constant strife.

Yet if the Greeks to Ilium must, Achilles will stay his killing thrust, and with Hector yet alive will say that the Greeks will go their separate way.

As for Muhammed’s holy book, I gave that only a passing look. The Prophet will drive his caravan and never will write the Koran.

And sailing home they’ll settle down and will a school in Athens found. All those kings will renounce their crown, have democracy and will govern sound.

There will be no crusades or holy wars. No one will settle their father’s scores. No ships will sail the ocean blue to set ashore and hack and hew

Or Hector seeing his son in tears will loose his armor and allay those fears. His weapons will fall unto the ground as he rejoices in the love he’s found–

the forests in the virgin lands and the natives there who lent their hands. There will be no need for reformation, no payments to God for a better station.

• LITERATURE •

He lived out his whole life in peace, and didn’t worry about his father’s house. He had children and took a spouse, and was a shepherd but of fleece.

Helmet by Daniel Sawyer

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No one will be another’s slave, nor live forever within the Cave. All men will enlightened be and all will by rights be free.

I took out all the complications. I stalled all of the forming nations, sources of strife and altercations, and smiled down on my creations.

No World War One or World War Two will cleave dear Europa’s breast and destroy an entire generation’s best. No tyrants will the masses woo. Nazism, fascism, authoritarianism– I threw out these -isms that make us sick, and coined my own and hope they’ll stick: Peaceism, Loveism, Leave-each-other-aloneism.

III I closed the book, the tale complete, breaking the pen I’d used to write, that no one may change what I made right. I tidied up and made things neat. I returned the books to their respective places but the shelves looked vacant with all the spaces, emptier now from the pages I cut out. I was satisfied that I’d won the bout,

I undid our rich history of mass killing, perpetrated often by coalitions of willing. I sunk the Spaniards before they reached the Aztec, Maya or the Inca. when an unfamiliar spine caught my eye, I tore down fences enclosing Belzecs, Sobibor forgotten there, whilst I the others slew. and Treblinka. Leaning down, I did at once the title a-spy: There Are Things That We Cannot Undo. In the history books that I wrote anew, there were no tales that might excite In that very last book on that very last shelf the patriot’s urge to start a fight. I found a global suicide note. Those history books will number few, It said the world would rather kill itself than change and grow and rock the boat. but what they hold will be enduring. They will tell how men rose from the seas I put my hand over my heart and never left from their early mooring. and was prepared again to start They farm, love, do what they please. my tiresome task all anew when suddenly I sadly knew. But never, never, was a hand raised to smite or spite or stop another. I realized that we cannot change. All were respected as each other’s brother. We can adjust and shift and rearrange, These beautiful men just roamed and grazed, but always the fact will remain: we human beings are barely sane. taking what they need and nothing more. They lived in a state of revelry, And though the books I wrote may show anhappy, yea, joyous, just to be, other fate, and peace is master from shore to shore. the fabric of all human beings is the same. There are still the urges that we cannot tame. That which we don’t know, we hate.

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But rather than spend all eternity, pondering what could never be (peace, love, quietude, justice for the multitude),

â&#x20AC;˘ LITERATURE â&#x20AC;˘

We erect buildings to tear them down, we have children who grow to die. We use fake gods to justify the things we do while in a crown.

These traits compose the human being. I resolved to spend some time outside They guide every deed from niche unseen. amongst the grass, sun and flowers high, They are written on pages that cannot be defaced, and under the trees my sorrows hide in a bleeding ink that cannot be erased. in the songs of birds that alighting fly Unable to bear these thoughts longer, this realization making me none the stronger, I decided that I could not do more, embattled there on that contested shore. With a great sad sigh I put that book back in the empty space after the rest, and knowing that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d done my best, I settled down against the stack.

into a sky that is azure, that despite it all is somewhat pure. And from time to time a smile spreads across my face as I gaze alone up into space. There are some good things to this race. And it would be better to make a case, not for the qualities I would replace, but for all of those that I can embrace.

Dan

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aw el S

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IV For although there are things we cannot undo, there are things undone, and we must do these true. So for you yet living who write books still new I can only suggest that you think things through. Every book–I have read them all, from Adam’s first Fall, to Babel tall, to man in the universe infinitesimally small. Yes, there is bad. And there are men that are mad. And those who take what will be had. And entire volumes unimaginably sad. Yet there is much that is worthwhile, much meritorious of a smile, much for the defense at humanity’s trial, much to commend in the very last mile. There is love for one’s brothers and children with good mothers. There are those who reach out to others, whose smiling kindness smothers. And these traits can fill sheaves, pages as numerous as leaves, if only each man does as he supposedly believes, and believing what he does, is thankful for the result he receives. Remember: there is no face up in the sky. Your soul does not to heaven fly, to await your judgement when you die. When looking for means to justify turn only to the books that line the shelves, who are like voices within ourselves. Yours’, echoing, to your deepest delves, searching for the goodness within yourselves. Having read every book on every shelf and knowing what that does connote, I resort only to within myself, and keep my own lonely ship afloat.

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• LITERATURE •

The Good Gray Poet Johnny Alderete

Smoke dances and sways As our glasses do sing The bartender pours drinks as patrons laugh the night away Past the dark and haze Sits my captain in Woolen shirt and flannel coat, his eyes and beard both gray On horse cars he rode All day to and fro To Broadway and Bleecker Street he’s come for friends and beer So in dim light he sits Our good gray poet Lager raised up high as he recites us Tennyson The one-eyed Polish count is there Along with the lovely Ada Clare To sing their praise and tip their hats To the author of leaves and lilacs Our captain sounds the call This gift I give you all So rise up all ye daring rebels, rise justify me Because this great play goes on And you’re allowed a verse So sing all my musicians, orators, poets to come Yes, sing poets to come

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ing

ic h

ae l

Pita s

s i.

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ri g

The Soldiersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Missionary

Johnny Alderete Straight and swift to my wounded I go On, on I go With dressings and sponge row by row Tending to heroic souls Old tired hands make steady Sleep sound brave son As I bandage this poor amputee Now that your duty is done Flies swarm to foul stench of rot That saturates these iron cots Where my fallen brethren lays bare Pale and beyond my care

Son of the Union weep not Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be the limb you have lost And write a letter to your dear With news of what you have endured

On, on I go Tending to heroic souls Sleep sound brave son Now that your duty is done

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• LITERATURE •

Sing a New Song Jared Hernandez

Richard Hawkins stared blankly at the page in front of him. He knew that he had to fill it with words and turn it in by the end of the day, but for the life of him he could not think of what to put down. It had been several months since he had written anything of merit. It had been several weeks since he had written anything at all. His days were spent lounging around his small apartment and watching television. This was especially depressing to him because he hated television. He lived mainly by himself. Occasionally his significant other would visit. He did not feel comfortable calling her his girlfriend, but he was a big part of her life. That is what he chose to believe. Richard worked in the local newspaper. He had been hired directly out of college with prospects that could not be measured. He started as a feature writer. To him, it was just a way to pay the bills while he put the finishing touches on his novel. His first articles were brimming with life, and the citizens of North California could not wait to read his take on the day’s events. After a few weeks though, the inventiveness began to dry up. No one really remembers what was in the paper the day before, at least not for long. Richard began to write less and less until he was fired from his job. He was alone and destitute, with a rather large mortgage looming over his head. The only work he could find was writing obituaries at a very small paper in some Northern California town that no one had ever heard of. He settled into the small apartment and met Elaine, his significant other, and tried to start over. It was hard. People had not been dying lately. That is the problem in living in a town that only has about a thousand citizens in it. Richard woke up early one morning and stepped out his front door. His apartment was so small that he could barely walk through it without manipulating his shoulders in some odd way to make it through the narrow halls. He opened his front door and picked up the paper for which he occasionally wrote. He looked at the news of the town. There was a sale on tractors and farming equipment. A large carnival that had been scheduled to come through town had been cancelled due to complete lack of interest. A local elderly woman had thought she’d lost her dog, but it turned out that she had just gone blind. Richard scanned the articles for any mention of an illness or fatal accident that would lead to him getting a little money. Sadly, he found nothing. He threw the paper away. There was nothing that he had planned that day. He thought that he might try to call Elaine later in the day, but he was never sure if he would be able to get a hold of her or not. She had a very busy life, or so it seemed. He took off his clothes and got in the shower. The shower was built for a man about 5’5 and 100 lbs. Richard was 6’4 and 180 lbs. This made bathing very difficult. He had figured out a perfect way to contort himself and not have to ignore the cleaning of any important areas. Trying desperately to think of something to do was difficult for him. He had already this week gone out to eat, taken his favorite suit, a graduation gift from his parents, to the drycleaners, tried to call Elaine twice, both times getting a voice mail box, shined his shoes, and vacuumed his floor. Ideas were running low. He turned on the coffee pot and then the television. The local news program was on. He had the volume turned to a normal level, but nevertheless the fists began pounding on the walls from the surrounding apartments. The walls of the apartments were very thin. There were times when Richard could swear that he saw the silhouettes of his neighbors as they moved about their apart-

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ments. There were no secrets between neighbors in this building. It didn’t bother Richard. He was not a secretive type of guy. To his left was Retired Sergeant Major Thomas Washington of the United States Marine Corp. He was not the most pleasant of men and often awoke those around him with his repeated onsets of night terrors. To his right was a middle aged married couple, Joe and Sheila Robinson. They ran the local general store/post office/ gas station/ funeral home. Joe had gone to business school at a small college in San Francisco and paid especially careful attention to the lessons about consolidating services. His wife Sheila was still very attractive for her age, which garnered her attention from most of the young males in town, and she was usually willing to reciprocate said attention. The fact that Joe ran the funeral home had made him a valuable asset to Richard. Richard quickly turned the volume on his television down until the pounding fists receded. The local news program was doing an in-depth feature about the mule problem that had been plaguing the town for the last few months. The reporter had gone as far to suggest setting violent mule traps to rid the town of its problems. Richard thought that would cause some disapproving words from Elaine, who was the town’s only vegetarian. He turned off the television and called Elaine. She answered. “Hello?” she said. “Hey” “Who is this?” “It’s Richard.” “Richard Gonzalez?” “No, Richard Hawkins.” After a long pause, “Oh, Richard. What’s up, man?” “Nothing. Nothing at all. It’s just been a while since I had a chance to talk to you and wanted to check in.” “That’s great. Can you hold on for a second?” “Sure.” He could hear several voices in the room and began to wonder where she was. He could not hear any specific conversation, just low rumblings and what sounded like laughter. After about ten minutes the phone was picked up again. “Hello?” “What’s up?” “You’re still there?” “Yes.” “Wow. I would have hung up a long time ago.” “Well, I really want to talk with you and I want to see you. Are you free tonight?” “What is tonight?” “Friday.” “Um . . . I guess. It would have to be pretty late though. I have a few things to do. But I’ll call you.” “You will?” “Sure, why not? I have to go now.” She hung up. “Bye, I can’t wait to see you tonight. God, it’s been so long. I’ve been missing you like crazy. Bye, babe.” He hung up the phone. He picked out his clothes and had a feeling that today was going to be a great day. He had something to do. He looked at himself in the mirror and thought today would be

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• LITERATURE •

the day that he started to turn things around. He smiled wide and brushed the lint off his clothes. His father had always told him that no one would respect a man with fuzz on his shirt. He took that advice to heart. Richard blew the dust of his laptop computer and turned it on. Most of his assignments from the paper were sent to him via e-mail. He checked his e-mail box to find that it was empty. He was not going to let that drag him down. He opened the file that was titled “Sing a New Song.” This was his novel. He had been working on it since his college days and had submitted it to publishers several times. He always got a rejection letter back. At first the letters did not bother him. He would read them carefully, going back and correcting whatever mistakes the people who read them had discovered and try to fix the problems with the narrative they had pointed out. Each time he made drastic changes to his work. On the last submission he had made, the publisher had written back to him that it seemed as if his novel were written by a hundred different writers and that was not what they were looking for at the time. It was not often that he looked at the file. He always had this notion in his head that one day he would open it and the perfect ending would come to him. So far it hadn’t. He stared at the screen for a few minutes. His fingers lingered just above the keyboard, as if he was afraid to touch it. He closed the file and turned off the computer. He needed to get out of the house. Today would be a great day to go into the office he thought. It had been months since he had seen any of the people that he once worked with. He checked his clothes one more time and set out to the office. He had traded his car the previous winter for a small motorcycle which he was told would get better gas mileage. That motorcycle was stolen from his front yard one night after a date with Elaine. After that he bought a second-hand bicycle from an antique shop. It squeaked quite loudly whenever he rode it, but most of the townspeople did not mind. At least they could always tell when he was coming. The newspaper office was not far from his home. It took him only a few minutes to get there. He passed the empty buildings of the town and looked at the lonely clerks standing in the windows. If he had any money to spend, he would’ve gone in, but he was just as poor as everyone else in the town, if not more so. The office was not very busy. The editor, Mr. Brand, was sitting in the receptionist seat. He greeted Richard with the same patience he had always displayed. “What do you want?” he said. “Mr. Brand. What a pleasure to see you again, sir.” He held out his hand in greeting. “Yeah, yeah.” He ignored the hand shoved in his face. Richard slowly withdrew it to his side and then back into his pocket. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I would pop by and see if there was any work for me.” “Work?” “Yes, sir. I’ve had a lot of ideas lately.” “Like what?” “Well, I thought that instead of including a picture of the deceased, I could write a very accurate description of what they looked like. I think people would like that.” “You work for this paper?” “Yes, sir. I write the obituaries.” “No, you don’t. Jenkins does.” “Jenkins?”

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“Yeah, Jenkins writes the whole paper now.” He pointed over his shoulder. In the corner of the office sat a young man typing at an alarming speed. The young man was dressed immaculately and wore very thick glasses. There was a steaming cup of coffee to his right and to his left was a red-haired secretary seeing to his every need. “That’s Jenkins?” said Richard. “That’s Jenkins. Oh, Jenkins,” swooned Mr. Brand. “Where did he come from?” “From college.” “I went to college.” “So what. Jenkins is the best writer this paper has ever seen. He’s done great things for us.” “So I’m just fired? Just like that?” “I didn’t even know that you worked here. What was your name again?” “Richard. Richard Hawkins.” “Okay.” “No one ever told me that I was fired.” “I guess it was just an oversight. But if it makes you feel any better, you’re fired.” “You just made a big mistake, Mr. Brand.” The phone rang. “Thank you for calling The Morning Sun, home of Jenkins, newspaper writer extraordinaire. How may I direct your call?” said Mr. Brand. “You’ll regret this. You will.” “Hold the phone, please? Thank you. You’re still here? Look we’re not looking for anyone. Leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you soon. Thank you for holding, sir. Yes, he is here. Please hold.” Richard stood for a few more minutes before turning and walking out the door. He could not believe how horrible he felt. The one thing that he had going for him in his life had been taken away from him and no one had bothered to call and tell him. He didn’t know who this Jenkins was but he was sure that he hated him. He hated the way he looked, he hated his secretary, he hated how fast he could type, he hated his expensive cologne, he hated his fancy shoes. He needed some sort of break. He thought he would drop by Elaine’s and tell her the story of his horrible day. Elaine lived on the other side of town. Her house was always filled with visitors. The few times that they had been alone together someone had just left or someone would arrive just as he was walking out the door. On their dates, Elaine constantly had her cell phone stuck to her ear, talking as if Richard were not even there. That had always kind of bothered him, but he never said anything to her. His bike squeaked loudly as he rode it across town. He had left it outside for months and rust had set in. He stopped at the town’s only pay phone and tried to call Elaine to let her know that he was on his way, he got no answer. He trudged on through the cold day. He had always loved the days when it was so cold that he could see his breath in the air. This was one of those days. His breath and the thought of Elaine were the only things that gave him any comfort. After a few hours he arrived at Elaine’s home. There was a fancy car sitting in the driveway. He parked his bike on the lawn and checked his look in the tinted windows of the car. His face was blistered and red from the cold and his hair was messy. He tried to straighten it with his fingertips, but soon realized it was not important. Elaine did not care what he looked like. She liked him for who he was. That is what he thought, at least.

FARAWAY

June 2007

www.farawayjournal.com

• LITERATURE •

He knocked on her door. There was no answer. He knocked again, louder this time. He heard rustling and low chatter inside. He saw a figure in a bathrobe descending the stairs. It was Elaine. He would know her anywhere. She peered out the window. She opened the door, but did not undo the chain. “Yes.” “Elaine. I’m so happy to see you.” “Yes.” “Can I come in?” “Not right now.” “Not right now? What are you talking about? I rode all the way across town to see you. See that bike there on the lawn. I rode that here.” “It’s a nice bike.” “That’s not the point. I came over to see you. Let me in.” “Alright. But just for a minute.” She undid the chain and Richard hurried in. There was a fire lit and he warmed his hands next to it. There was also an open bottle of champagne and two glasses. “Where did you get the champagne?” “What?” “This champagne right here. Where did it come from? It’s a really expensive bottle.” “It is. Wow. I thought it was just some cheap stuff from the grocery store.” “Whose glass it this?” “That’s mine.” “What about this other one?” “That’s mine too. I was really thirsty earlier.” “Alright. Enough with the lies.” “Okay.” “Is there someone upstairs?” “Upstairs?” Richard stormed up the stairs. He saw that there was light coming from underneath the bedroom door. He opened the door and saw Jenkins sitting in bed naked. The only thing covering him was the laptop on his lap, on which he was typing with his lightning fast fingers. Richard shut the door and slowly began to walk downstairs. Elaine was sitting on the couch sipping champagne and staring at the fire. “Is there something you’d like to tell me, Elaine?” “Tell you?” “Yes, me.” “Oh, I guess. It’s over, Bobby.” “My name is Richard!” “It’s over, Richard.” Richard stormed out the door. He stared at the car that he now knew was Jenkins. He hated his fancy car. He picked up a large rock from Elaine’s front porch. He could barely lift it above his shoulder. He stepped down from the porch and ran towards the car in an effort to build momentum. He got near the car and threw the rock with all his might at the windshield. The rock bounced off and hit Richard in his foot. He sat on the lawn, rocking back and forth trying to ease his pain. After a few minutes he got up and started the long ride home.

Volume 1, Issue 2

The squeaking of the wheels was the only noise that he heard on the road that night. There were very few streetlights in the town. It was the kind of place where most people went to bed very early. Normally he would be worried about waking them up, but tonight he did not care. He knew what he had to do. He had to get home. He arrived at his place very late. He heard screaming coming from the apartment of the Sergeant Major. He knocked on the door. The Sergeant Major opened the door wearing his army helmet and drenched in sweat. “What do you want, maggot?” “I’d like to borrow your pistol.” “For how long?” “Just a few minutes. I have a rodent problem.” “A soldier is told never to give up his side arm, maggot.” “The general sent me here with orders. He wants you to give me the gun.” “The general said that?” “He sure did.” “Sir, yes, sir.” The Sergeant Major withdrew the gun from his belt and presented it to Richard. He took it and thanked him. Richard moved into his apartment very carefully. He turned on his computer. He stared at the blank page in front of him. He knew what to write. Richard Hawkins died yesterday at the age of 25. He is survived by his would-be girlfriend Elaine. But if you ask her, she would just say that he was one of her options. He held no job. He had no friends and no family. His only outright possession was a third hand bike that he wishes to donate to the local orphanage. He is sure that not even the poorest, most destitute orphan would want his bike though. It is that bad. He also leaves behind an unfinished novel entitled “Sing a New Song”. It is terrible. But that is his legacy. He will not be missed. He checked the gun to make sure that it was loaded. He put it to his head and pulled the trigger. To his surprise, the gun went off. The noise was loud and it hurt his ear. He did not seem to be dead though. He looked around and realized that he was very much alive and deaf. The gun had misfired and exploded in his hand. Several of his fingers had gone with it. He sat in the dark, deaf, bleeding, missing fingers, heartbroken and alone. He began to laugh. He laughed again. He laughed uncontrollably and without regard to anyone around him. He may never stop.

FARAWAY

June 2007

Marooned...continued The Man I’ve Become (day 391)

I’ve withered down to skin and bone My ridged spine and ribs, they show My blistered skin has cracked and peeled My callous feet, as tough as steel This grizzly beard, it creeps and sprawls Across my face like an ivy wall My hair is wild and unkempt A sun bleached, flea infested mess The man that washed up on this shore He alas is nothing more This wild creature that took his place Is all of him that still remains And I am clad from head to toe In the skins of wild goats In this fur suit I have become As savage as the beast I took it from

My Question to God (day 745)

I’ve waited here For salvation and for providence But no ship or, Sweet death has come to bear me away Have I not asked And even begged forgiveness for my sins What penance Will bring an end to this retribution Why have you forsaken me? Am I still unworthy of pardon, is my blackened soul still unclean? Why have you forsaken me?

www.farawayjournal.com

Volume 1, Issue 2

A Brief Encounter

Acrylic on canvas, 2007

Mark Wyckoff

FARAWAY

June 2007

Untitled I

∞ ART ∞

Acrylic on canvas, 2007

Mark Wyckoff

www.farawayjournal.com

Volume 1, Issue 2

The Landscape of Our Sons

Water color, 2007

Daniel Sawyer

FARAWAY

June 2007

Homage to The Road

∞ ART ∞

Acrylic on canvas, 2007

We journey down this dusty road, holding hands and memories about our life before the landscape died, and fires scorched the trees There’s nothing to go home to, evil men ruined our choices we’ll camp here for the night, only ghosts can hear our voices And as the last sun sets, beyond the burned out cars we’ll still laugh and love and joke, our words become the stars

Scott Sawyer

www.farawayjournal.com

Volume 1, Issue 2

Zodiac

Illustrator, 2007

Katie Rutherford

FARAWAY

June 2007

ABOUT THE NEW AUTHORS

Johnny Alderete - Born and raised in smoggy Southern California, Johnny Alderete realized his affinity for all things artistic at an early age. In his early years Johnny sought to express himself artistically through drawing and the like, but as he got into his teens he turned his focus to writing -- songwriting that is. It was in the medium of music that Johnny truly found himself and where he feels most comfortable creating. His favorite authors are: Palahniuk, Vonnegut, and Bukowski. Some of Johnny’s other interests include: the carnal spectacle that is NHL playoff hockey, the finer brews and spirits, and Snapple facts. He is said to have a “problem with authority” as well as a strong distaste for deadlines, Kobe Bryant, and math. Matt A. Johnson - Matt is a desert-dwelling 27 year-old husband and father of three. He works a less than ideal job (watching the people who watch the paper pushers push their paper) for the sake of providing for his young family. On occasion he finds time to jot down a few thoughts, and he hopes they might mean something to others. Other activities he enjoys involve the outdoors. He also enjoys making good music with great musicians, and fortunately he finds himself surrounded with many of those these past years.

Jason Jorgensen - is an Integrated Earth Studies major and Geology minor at Cal Poly Pomona. Jason works at Montclair High School as a math tutor. He has maintained a goatee for an impressive seven years. A Rock is his first earnest attempt at creative writing.

To learn more about the other authors and artists appearing in this and previous issues, visit us online at www.FarawayJournal.com and click on About.

www.farawayjournal.com

Volume 1, Issue 2

WORKS IN PROGRESS • The continuing saga of Sir John, in which the tumultuous history between Theodorus and Sir John is revealed • Mythic Places by Daniel Sawyer • And a whimsical poem by Katie Hicks about a young girl and her bounce house, in the vein of Shel Silverstein • Acknowledgements Faraway is made possible by the monetary support of our friends, families, and complete strangers, who donated generously so that we can continue to print. The following people deserve special mention: Homer Level The Hernandez Family & Hernandez Wrought Iron The Sawyer Family & Jennie Wendt Dante Level Lea Hamm Dostoevsky Level Sandra Carter Kate Chopin Level Corey Wyckoff Stephen King Level Paul Snyder Lei Moreno Leonard Larivere Additionally, we would like to thank some people without whose involvement we would still be at square one. Thanks to the staff at the Ontario-Montclair School District’s print shop, who have kindly helped us print our magazine. Thanks to James Berkshire who has provided invaluable technical support and promotional materials. Thanks to Sandra Carter and the staff at Borders Books & Music in Montclair, California, who allowed us to display and distribute our magazine from there. Thanks to Scott Sawyer for putting the first issue together and to Katie Rutherford for providing additional artwork. Thank you Jeff Hendrickson for helping us get our new webpage, which we are very excited about, and thanks to Justin Price for building the site. And thank you to everyone who came in and picked up this issue or the last one, and in so doing, supported a bunch of young writers and artists. The third issue of Faraway will be published in early August, 2007. Submissions for that issue must arrive by July 23rd, but we will accept submissions–especially from women!–at any time. For more information, visit us on the web at www.FarawayJournal.com, or www.MySpace.com/FarawayJournal. You can also write to us directly at FarawayJournal@gmail.com with your questions or comments.

FARAWAY

June 2007

www.farawayjournal.com

Poo-tee-weet?

Johnny Alderete