Death to the Monkees The 60's are dead. I mean they had no sense of style. I mean gosh have they found themselves yet. I hope so. I mean shit. Maybe they learned to dress also. So much death-Kennedy, Hendrix, Monroe, Kennedy, etc. a war no one could agree on. No wonder these people couldn't find themselves they probably didn't want to! I mean just because A potato will explode in a microwave Doesn't mean we need to be nuked by nostalgia. SCREAM Death to the Monkees say it with a passion. Death to the Monkees say it with a hallmark. And the new Monkees. -Joe Castellanos
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I' I
1988
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River's Bage If you'll lend your ear to me, my friend, I'll tell you a story true. About the time I fell in love, And the pain he put me through. I dreamt of him each waking hour, Not a minute would pass by I wouldn't stop to remember All the thrills of love, then lies. It was by the River's Edge he stood, But not alone you see. He embraced in his arms a figure, But that figure was not me. When I saw him next by the River's Edge, I simply asked him why. He knew not what to say to me As the tears rolled from my eyes.
He said that he was misguided And in his heart felt shame, But the puddle drowned my lonely heart; Things could never be the same. I had given him my treasure, He had crushed it with a lie. I was left no choice but to tell him, Farewell my love, good-bye. I regret I was his sweetheart; He cut my line of life. At the River's Edge I stand now, Reflecting upon that knife. -Denise Dale Painting by Sandra Martin
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For Bernie Summer came sultry and without warning on a two weeks notice. Love gazed at me with a cool waterless reflection; then like the hourglass Time slipped away" too fast, leaving me fantasizing about tomorrow.
-Elizabeth Schmick
1988
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Painting by Ruby Mitchell
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Home Set away in the woods Far from the crowd, skyscrapers and city lights, there's a Jog cabin, sturdily built with a pebble path leading to the door. Once in a while, if you are quiet, a deer will appear to graze in the backyard. Or maybe a rabbit will cross the path. Opening the door, the aroma of roast beef permeates the senses. You find your mother standing in her apron by a pot of green beans. The smell of pipe tobacco helps you find dad. He is by the fire reading the paper with the family mutt by his feet. This is truly my home. -Amanda K. Snapp
1988
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Your Next Birthday I fell in love again todayit's uncanny how often that happens. Well, beauty is a thing to be appreciated. But on your next birthday will the tigers in your eyes still excite me? I must admit to myself infatuation is a bad trip, but who can resist the physical aspects of life? And you did like the rainbow. But on your next birthday will I even care? On your next birthday will I even dare to say hello? Well, I must profess total ignorance, for I am an impulsive being. So let's drop the future and dance ... 'ti! your next birthday. -Joe Castellanos
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Chrysalis
Drawing by Gretchen Strole
1988
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Death of a Halloween Cat Crows litter a leaf-strewn campus, mock my search; impertinent beaks peck trash from beneath a step. "You 're not here either," I whisper in edgy breath. Midnight was death on crows. A day before, he could arch his back among yellow leaves in a maple crook. Halloween cat! I teased him home. He leapt and climbed but wouldn't have flown. glint on the road that dart
halloween traffic emerald eyes and lunge
Before me a silken coat lies ripped and matted; how supple a feline form the frost chilled through. A spot of red on his cheek to match his chevron. "Oh, Midnight," is all I can say. "You're gone." -Dan Gribbin
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Chrysalis
I
Drawing by Janine Martin
1988
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Time Hand in hand the couple strolled the beach enchanted by the midnight sky and the roar of the wind swept waves. They watched the images flicker through the filters on their eyes. Their footprints in the sand gave fleeting evidence that life had passed them by. As the sun rose chasing the stars away all that remained were memories and footprints in the sand. -Eric Smither
Drawing by Tom Cooper Painting Opposite by Heidi Stutts Page 11
Ch,ysalis
Photo by Sandy Meador Page 13
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Real World Corners alone each an individual each an idea every idea every word is a different dialect for each person. We are unique so let us enjoy our diversity. Corners alone in the same room each pushing and pulling in that same room pushing pulling a chaotic balance. We all live in that room in the Real World. -Joe Castellanos
1988
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Nightlife by Joe Osefchen "Do you believe in vampires?" the girl said as the old man pulled the Chrysler back onto the highway. That was it. No "Hello." No "My name is ... "Just the question. She set her black Panama hat on the seat beside her. Her blonde hair was clipped short and spiked. "Can't say as I've set eyes on one lately," Brenin said in his Yankee drawl. She smiled slyly. He couldn't help noticing that one knee was torn out of her faded jeans. "Shouldn't ought to hitchhike, especially not at night," he said. "No telling how many young girls never make it home from hitchhiking." "And you shouldn't pick up hitchhikers." Something silver in her left lobe caught his eye. A tiny earring fashioned in the shape of a skull. "Ayuh," Brenin said, "but it's tolerably cold out and you weren't wearing a coat. Wouldn't be decent to just ride on to town and leave you to freeze." She eyed him suspiciously. The rumpled brown suit encasing his tiny frame. The thinning grey hair. The gold bifocals perched at the edge of his nose. "You some kind of preacher?" The laugh was sudden, hearty. "Preacher? You see any plastic J esuses on the dashboard, or tin
crosses?''
"No," she said. "But it wouldn't bother me even if you had them. That stuff about vampires being afraid of crosses is a bunch of Hollywood fluff."
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He smiled. "I see. Then you're a vampire. That explains your question before. Have to change my answer, then, 1 guess. Can't very well deny that vampires exist if there's one in my own car." "l don't like people makin' fun of me, old man." "Beg pardon," he said, "but you really can't 'spect me to believe you're a vampire, can you?" The car was rolling across a steel trestle bridge. "Slippery when wet," the battered yellow sign said. "Why not? You said lots of girls don't come home after hitching. Did you ever wonder how many drivers never come home because they picked up a hitcher?" "So it's vampires that got 'em, eh?," he chuckled. "Always 'sposed it was junkies and hooligans." "Hooligans? Where you from, old man?" "Body might ask you the same question." "Better not," she said. "You might not like the answer.'' She was a runaway, no doubt about that. But from where? No twang in that voice. New York, most likely. Or maybe Hartford. Had to be a city, though. Only a city dweller would be dumb enough to walk down a deserted country road in March without a coat on. "Guess home might be a long way off for you." "A million miles, old man." "Mother's probably worried, you know." She laughed. "Don't have one."
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l
"And your father?" "Oh, he'll notice all right, for all the wrong reasons. He'll notice because now he'll have to go buy on the street what he's been getting for free at home.'' He looked at her, unable to tell if she was making it up or not. Not, he decided. If she was lying, she'd try to make it more convincing. But her attitude suggested that she didn't care if he believed her or not. He switched to lowbeams as they approached an oncoming car. The other driver didn't dim. "Jerusalem crickets!" Brenin said, blinking. "Folks've forgot how to drive anymore." For an instant, the three-quarter moon peeked out from behind the clouds, highlighting the meager remains of last week's snow. The bare grey limbs of the trees looked like inhuman skeletons, beckoning. The girl sat staring out her window. "'Spose I should be afraid of you," he said, "you bein' a vampire and all." "Maybe," she answered. "But not everybody needs to be afraid. The real vampire legend says that vampires were evil people who died and were sent back to kill the wicked. They have to remain vampires until they can feel true sympathy for someone." "That so?" "The things they put into those movies are pretty stupid. How long do you think a guy who talks like he's got marbles in his mouth and wears a cape would last on the street?" "Not long," Brenin agreed. "Damn straight. He'd get busted before he could say 'Coot Ebening.' Now if there were any real vampires, they'd try to blend into the scenery as much as they could." "Like dressin' up as a runaway and hitchhiking on dark country roads?"
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"Exactly," she said. "But surely it wouldn't be very smart of a vampire to admit to bein' one to a stranger, would it?" "Unless the vampire knew the stranger wouldn't believe her. You don't believe I'm a vampire, do you?" "Course not."
"See?" she giggled. "It worked." "But you said they only kill the wicked. What wicked thing did I do to deserve you?" "Think back," she said. "There must have been something.'' "Guess there might've been," Brenin said. "It's hard for a body to go his whole life without being at least a little wicked." The sign on the road said 'Welcome to Hadley.' The blue neon lights of Sonny's Tavern flashed on and off in rhythm. He turned into the lot and parked. "Figure I can spot you some dinner," he said. "Then we'll see if we can't get you a bus ticket for where you're headed. Vampire or no, I don't want you hitchhiking any more tonight." Brenin heard the click before he saw the shiny blade the girl had pointed at his throat. She pressed the tip into his neck until a small drop of blood fell. "All right," she said. "Reach inside that pocket and pull out the wallet, old man. Us vampires have to live in style, especially on the road." He knew better than to argue with her. His hand moved to his breast pocket. "I'm sick of people like you," she said. "If any more of you try to help me, I'll end up in the ground. You think I don't know this game?" "Ain't no need for that, girl," he said. "Shut up! I don't want to hear any more. 'Let me buy you dinner,' he says. 'Let me get you a nice bus ticket.' And after you got them, you'd expect me to be grateful, wouldn't you? I've met your kind before. Well, we're going to see about that." Her eyes
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glanced meaningfully down at the knife. He held the billfold out, and she reached for it. Just as the pressure on his neck eased slightly, his left hand shot out, wrapping itself around the blade. Blood seeped between his gnarled fingers, but he did not release the knife. Instead, he brought his other arm down on her forearm. The girl cried out in pain. Her hand raked across his face, knocking off his glasses. Again, he slammed his arm down and this time there was a loud crack. The girl tried to jerk her arm away. They both struggled for the knife, his hands cupped over hers. The car was filled with the sound of grunts and gasps as they pushed back and forth on the prize. Brenin managed to turn the point away from himself, just as the girl lost her balance and fell forward. She screamed as the knife sank into her abdomen. The weight of her �ody drove it in to the hilt. He pushed her upright and yanked the knife out,
causing her to moan pitifully. He covered the wound with his hand, but blood oozed out around it. Frantically, he dug inside his jacket and pulled out a hanky. It was promptly wadded up and pressed tight against the wound. "It's goin' to be all right," he said to her. "Everything's goin' to be all right." She shut her eyes tight against the pain. He knew she was dying. She knew it too. The poor girl, he thought. It wasn't her fault. Really, it wasn't. The pain must be unbearable. The pain from his own wound subsided. He knew without looking down that his hand had already healed itself. It always did. It was her pain that counted, he thought. It had to be eased. "Everything'II be all right," he said, placing his mouth against her neck. Her shaking stopped the instant his teeth pierced the skin. She opened her eyes, wonder in them, rather than fear or pain. As she let our her last raspy breath, Brenin fancied that this time, after so long, he could feel true sympathy. 0
Collage by Robbi Tatum Page 17
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Photo by Sandy Meador
Photo by Reggie White
1988
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.... .
�?�-� •/ - . A�,
-: !•, /:,·.
.
. ,
-
Drawing by Janine Martin
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Chrysalis
Ferrum Days People come and go. Couples laugh and play as one. I remain all to myself, as you play with someone else. When I see you I say hello: you smile back and my heart glows. I know it's not the time or place, these Ferrum days will soon erase. I know I am a buddy to you, but my heart is closed, my feelings too. These Ferrum days soon will end, but you know I am your friend. -Oliver Kofoid
1988
The Mirror It beholds so much But yet knows so little. And has perceived my imperfections. As I stand in the presence of it, I see a portrait of a person, A stranger whom I do not comprehend. My inner reflections cannot be seen. Maybe that is for the better. I wish I knew what was within me, The part I cannot be. I glance inside of just an object, Which could be shattered at any moment, Just like the dreams of my childhood. -Denise Dale
Photo by Sandy Meador
There Must Be a Better Way by Brian Schonfeld God held his head in his hands and tried to think of what to do next. He checked his digital alarm clock radio. Two twenty-three a.m. Three days before Earth was due to be deployed. It had all been so easy up till now, like angel's play, until this problem of catastrophic proportions had threatened the whole stinking project: Life. He had convened a board meeting to discuss the problem. It hadn't deployed. "I can't do it alone, guys," the almighty said. "I designed the whole planet, created enough techno logy for twenty-one centuries if need be, and you can't just sit back and watch while I do all the work!" He backed this up with a peal of thunder, then smiled. "There is something to be said for creating things," he continued. "Nobody can top your special effects." The angels were, however, unimpressed. They'd seen it all before and knew it wasn't good business to give in. "So what's your point?" asked Alexander, a known prankster and clown amongst the angels. God looked up and down the table. The angels had been against the idea of creating a planet and populating it. As a matter of fact, they'd only liked one thing that God had come up with-pinstriped suits. With, of course, matching apparel. As God looked around the table he saw five hundred identical pinstriped suits-with paisley ties, black dress socks, and penny loafers-covering five hundred identical
bodies with matching haircuts and whiskerless faces. "They probably all wear the same brand of prestarched boxer shorts," thought God. Then he looked at himself: longish hair, a three-day growth of stubble, Bermuda shorts, sans underwear, canvas boat shoes (no socks), a white tank top, and an unbuttoned short-sleeve oxford shirt. He smiled widely and gave Alexander a cowlick in the middle of his head before answering him. "Do SOMETHING! God thundered. "Look, ya'II, this life thing has me beat, and I've gone through too much trouble to call it off." "What if we don't want to help?" asked Alexander, followed by a chorus of yesses. God sighed slowly and watched Alexander's hair fall out. Rule Number One, in heaven: Don't piss off the boss. The angels stared back in shock and horror. They weren't used to his playing this rough. Saying they would split the workload in half, they took the plants. "Sure, they have free will. But who says I can't influence the decision a bit?" thought God, as he winged his way back to his private office. "Yes sir," he said, as he landed, "omnipotency has its advantages." God looked at the pile of graph paper he was going to use to design life and felt helpless. It was times like these he felt he needed a son. He picked up a flagon of Ambrosia, poured the contents on the
Airbrush by Tom Cooper 1988
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graph paper, and set the pile on fire. As he let the rage in him out,he flung the empty flagon at the far wall and went to sit on his balcony. God spat and returned to his desk and the charred remains of some eight hundred thousand odd sheets of graph paper. God stopped and stared at the smoking rubble on his desk. He sat down and stared some more. In a flash thought, he saw them: similar, yet different; each individual yet of the same material. He willed them to life and had them march to different areas of his desk, in sections ... in sects ...insects ... a name! God was laughing. He had it. Animals! A warmth spread over his body as God realized he had done it. "But wait," he thought."There should be more." As God looked for something to toast himself with, he remembered the broken flagon. He went over to it and sat down on the floor beside it. It was rough and had almost a patterned feel to it, with jagged edges. He gave it Iife. The action was repetitive of the last one. "Repetition ...rep ... rep . .. reptile!" God said. "I love free association." God opened a bottle of Ambrosia and took a long pull. What happened next should never have been found out. But thanks to a nosy secretary with a good ear and a hole in the wall, we know what happened. God, the creator of all we hold dear, proceeded to trash his office. After creating each animal, he drank some more Ambrosia. Okay, a lot more Ambrosia.By the third bottle, the office was totaled and all the small and medium-sized animals were alive and kicking. God then stumbled out on to the balcony and said, "What thort of (hie) planet would it be without (hie) big animals." With those words he leveled the entire block surrounding his office and breathed life into each piece. From there,he got the dinosaurs and the whales, the hippopotamus and the rhinocerous, the elephant and the mammoth, and all the other large animals of history. But there was something missing, a supreme animal, the highest intelligence of the planet. He
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stumbled into his office and looked at the full-length picture of himself as he opened yet another bottle of Ambrosia. "Of course!" God exclaimed. "I'll make him in my own image, like the angels." Then God had a vision of a race of clones in pinstripes and penny loafers, and he winced sharply. He looked at the picture again and snapped his fingers. "Presto, more muscle; abra cadaver,curly hair and a personality," he said. "But something is missing," God decided, as he scratched the empty space between his legs. "Of course," he realized. "Gender." "I hafta think on that one," he told the picture, after a swig from the bottle. He then decided to cork the bottle up. As he set the bottle between his legs, he placed the cork over the neck and pushed. Then he decided he wanted another drink and pulled the cork back out. God stopped, tilted his head to one side, and repeated this motion a total of six times and stopped. "In. Out." he thought. "Six . . . sex. Perfect!" And he willed two of each creation. One with the dangly parts of his latest creation, sex, and one with a hole to receive it. God stood and looked at what he had done, and it was cool. There were animals who wouldn't make it, doomed to extinction, per se, but it just felt, you know, right. Just then Joseph, the angel appointed head of the plant committee, entered and informed God that the plant life was ready and in place on the planet. God reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pair of Wayfarers, put them on, looked up at Joseph, and said, "Beauty." With a snap of his fingers he placed the animals in random locations on the planet.Then he dropped the planet into place, curled up with a final bottle of Ambrosia, and crashed. And lo, after seven hours, he rested. Tomorrow was a new day,with new things D to do. But for now,half-baked was just fine.
Chrysalis
Drawing by Janzne Martin
1988
Page JO
A Single Rose The flower seed was planted, We met. The blossom slowly emerged, We talked. The soft, red petals radiated with color, We smiled. The sun shone brightly upon the flower, We laughed. But the rain came down, We were confused. This single rose resembled what we shared, So unique and beautiful growing as we grew. Then one day the sun stopped shining, The flower began to wither, The blossom fell apart. Then, another seed was planted. Will we meet again? It grew and flourished. Will we ever be the same? It weathered the storm. Can we? -Claudia Clanton
Print by Sandra Martin
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Drawing by Robert Leighty
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Spring Water Soon Melted snow cooling through the waterways, desirable winds chilling my exposed arms, inviting waves thrash across my way, skates hung, dulled blades and marred leather, windsurfer lies patiently waiting in hibernation, warm winds will set it to motion, white shadows for the groundhog could only see. -Kelly Roberts
Photo by Sandy Meador
1988
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The Premature Resurrection by Joe Osefchen Ryland Curtis stared up into the lid of the coffin. His breath, deflected back in his face, was hot and stale. The scent mixed with the smell from his pomaded hair, producing a sticky, almost visible odor. What the hell is going on here? A sliver of light slipped in where the lid wasn't closed quite right. He could just make out the satin lining above his face. The top seemed to be coming down on him, a big shiny blue pillow, closing until it was barely a hair's width from his nose. In another second it would crush him flat. I'm gonna die! He pulled in a couple of weak breaths, trying to calm himself. The lid wasn't moving. It was just claustrophobia. Something was pressing into his neck. Whoever'd dressed him had jerked his tie tight enough to choke him. His hands were folded neatly on his chest, and he tried to reach up and shove the lid. It seemed like such an easy thing to do. It was so close. Just a tiny push would do it. His arms wouldn't budge. His whole body felt numb. Only his eyes seemed capable of movement. And his chest, which rose and fell at irregular intervals. Paralysis, he thought. Maybe some kind of coma. Oberlade had really done it this time. What kind of
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an idiot could make a mistake like this? Irene should have known better than to take him to that quack. Even the free clinic in Culver would have been better. Ryland's breathing filled the close space of the coffin, echoing out of every corner, but he could still hear the sounds from outside. " ... a kind man," the voice said, "a loving husband, a dedicated member of the legal profession and a good friend." Ryland recognized the measured tones of the speaker; the slight, though noticeable, drawl. It was the voice of old Edward Armistad, the town councilman. He was still at the funeral home, then. They hadn't taken him to the crematorium. He was safe. All he had to do was let somebody know that he was still alive. His fingers twitched slightly when he tried to flex them. "We will all miss him greatly." You'll miss me, he thought, resting for another try. You'll miss the free legal advice and the under-the-table money for the zoning reports, that's what you'll miss. It was a good thing Armistad didn't know how much he'd really made on those land deals. He might not be so sorry to see him go. But he had no cause to worry. Edward wouldn't
Ch ry salis
find out how he'd been cheated-if cheating was what you had to call it. He'd made sure of that. The money was safely tucked away in C.D.'s. And it would stay there, hidden from prying eyes, until it was safe to bring it out. He tried to picture what would happen if he managed to pop up just as Armistad was giving the eulogy. That crooked old bastard would probably clutch his chest and hit the floor. He strained to work his arm muscles, to raise his hands just the fraction needed to touch the lid. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. The left hand jerked twice. Damn. This service wouldn't go on forever. He had to do something. "And now," Armistad said, "Ted Merryman would like to say a few words." Thank God.Ryland had never imagined that he'd be glad to hear an insurance salesman talk before. But then he'd never, ever, not in a million nightmares, imagined anything like this, either. He concentrated on the left hand. Demanding. Coaxing. Pleading. It trembled and started to rise. Come on. Come ... on. The hand wavered. No, up! Up It plopped down by his side. Inside the coffin, the thud was deafening. Outside, Merryman went on speaking. " ... and I know that Ryland Curtis will rest peacefully, knowing that he left his wife well provided for." Rest peacefully, my ass, he thought.I'm not dead. The side of the coffin was just inches away from his
1988
fingertips.He tried to swing his aching hand out and hit it. It would not move. "He knows that, despite their grief, his loved ones wi 11 be able to carry on." For Christ's sake! I'm trapped inside a coffin and he's trying to sell them insurance. Damn fool. If he ever got out of this, he was going to cancel every policy he had. Let the Boy Wonder explain to his boss how he managed to lose the premiums on a half-million dollar life plan. "We'll all miss him, Irene." "Thank you," Ryland's wife said between sobs. "You're very kind." He wondered if Merryman had his arm around her already. That would be just his style. Not that she was one to waste any time either. She probably had reservations for two on the next plane to Bermuda. Five hundred thousand dollars would buy one hell of a honeymoon. Well, it was just going to be one big, fat, hairy disappointment when he turned out to be alive.Her and darling Ted would have to keep sneaking around, meeting at the El Patio on those nights when she was supposed to¡be at her photography class. He wouldn't be too hard on her, though. Who knows? He might even grant her that divorce she'd been asking for. The whole town was beginning to talk, and that wasn't good for business. People didn't want a cuckold to represent them in a divorce case. Besides, the cost of having her followed all the time was getting ridiculous. The more he thought about it, the more appealing the idea became. A divorce, but on his terms. She could leave with her freedom, but everything else the house, both cars, the bank book-was staying with him. The pictures he had of her and Ted at last year's Christmas party would see to that. Let good old Ted pay her bills for a while. See how
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he liked it when she started dragging home travel brochures from Portugal, or those two-hundred dollar purses from Trelain's. Maybe he'd give Merryman a hand. After all, he deserved something for stealing Ryland's wife. Maybe he'd give a call to his old buddy Kensy at the IRS and have Ted audited.There were bound to be lots of shady little deals in the whiz kid's past. He sure couldn't afford that fancy sports car on a junior partner's salary.An audit would be just the thing to take Ted's mind off his other troubles. It'd give him something to worry about besides Irene. And if that fizzled, there were other ways Ryland could help. There were plenty of enterprising kids around who'd be happy to slip a nice little vial of crack into Merryman's car for a price. Prison would do a world of good for Ted. It would save him from all those nasty work pressures; give him a chance to pursue new hobbies. Like boxing, when his roommate decided he wanted to be more than just friends. The air inside the coffin was growing stuffy. Were cremation coffins airtight? He breathed in and out, waiting for the dizziness of suffocation. It did not come. Stop panicking. If the coffin was airtight, no light would be coming in. He tried to move his hand again. The fingers clenched, formed a fist. But the arm refused to budge. Just take it as it comes, he thought, take it as it comes. The feeling will come back. Whatever he'd had, it was going away. Come to think of it, what was it he'd had? A heart attack? Stroke? The last thing he remembered was sitting at the breakfast table. There was a funny aftertaste in his mouth-like roasted almonds. But that was ridiculous, since he was only drinking coffee. Then he'd felt the sharp pain in his chest.
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Why the hell had the idiots taken him to Oberlade? They knew what kind of a doctor he was. Hardly a year went by that Ryland didn't have to defend that drunken old fool in a malpractice case. Why, just last month that farmer from Dover had come in with a case of strep throat. The guy had been allergic to penicillin, so what had Oberlade done? Pumped him full of the stuff. The old lush had come damn close to losing his license on that one. Only some of the fastest legal moves this side of Little Rock had saved him. The fiasco, however, was nothing compared to this. How could the idiot make a mistake like this? This wasn't the nineteenth century, for Christ's sake. Didn't they have tests, machines, something to see if a person was still alive? Just wait until he got out of this. He'd sue the pants off that quack. If he got out of this. It was getting hot inside the coffin. A hundred degrees at least. And soon it'd be getting a lot hotter. Why the hell had he ever put cremation in his will? If he could just move the hand a bit ... Pain shot up his arm as his knuckles struck the side. No answer. What's the matter with those morons? He rapped again. Organ music began playing in the background. He could hear people murmuring to one another. Many voices, getting farther away. The coffin jerked suddenly and began to move. The funeral was over. They were wheeling him away! Summoning everything he had, he raised his arm and swung. He felt the sting as his hand connected with something metal on the side of the box. Warm blood trickled over his knuckles. There was a tightening across his chest as if he'd pulled some-
Chrysalis
thing. His hand dropped back down by his side. They had to hear that. The coffin ground to a halt. Confused muttering outside. Arguments. Someone was Faising the lid. Dr. Richard Oberlade's pasty face stared down at him, his double chin hanging over the top of his too-tight collar. His nose was red and covered with broken blue veins. Ryland could have kissed him. Good old Doc, he thought. Those other idiots were going to let him get fried. Oberlade looked down at him with his bloodshot eyes. His hand went to Ryland's wrist. "Told you I heard something," he slurred, looking over at Ted Merryman. "Ain't deaf, you know." Merryman nodded and pulled his hand away from Irene's. Edward Armistad's distinguished face peeked over the edge of the coffin. He cast an urgent glance at Oberlade. "Faint," Oberlade said, spitting as he made the 't' sound. "But there." Ryland tried to speak, to move his hand, but he couldn't do a thing. That last swing had taken it out of him. Even his eyes refused to move anymore. They remained locked straight ahead, forcing him to view the scene through his peripheral vision. "My bag," Oberlade said, and Armistad waved to Merryman. In a few seconds, the salesman returned with the black bag. Irene stepped out of his way, but not far enough. He brushed against her as he passed. "Maybe his eyes just popped open," Merryman said. "I've heard about that happening with corpses." "He's breathing," Oberlade insisted, waving his finger in the younger man's face for emphasis. He swayed from side to side. For a second, it seemed he would fall over. "Ought to know when someone's breathing."
1988
The bag jingled as Doc dug through it, pulling out an assortment of odds and ends and handing them to Merryman. A stethoscope. A flashlight. A blood pressure cup. "Can't find my glasses," he mumbled. He looked up at Armistad, who was staring at Irene. "I don't think I saw you with them today, Rich," the councilman said. "Coulda sworn I put them in here somewhere. Well, it don't matter." He pushed the bag at Armistad. "Find the vial marked ephredine." Armistad took the bag and began digging through it. "Eprhedine. Ephredine. Here it is, Ephredine." He pulled out the tiny bottle, handing it to Oberlade. "And a syringe. Can't do much without a syringe." Armistad went back into the bag and brought one out. Doc took the needle and carefully aimed it at the top of the vial. After two misses, he got it in. The syringe filled itself with the clear liquid. Ryiand felt the needle prick his arm, felt the liquid flow into his veins. There was a sudden tingling. He relaxes. It's taking effect, he thought. Every thing was going to be fine. Oberlade removed the needle and handed it back to Armistad. He looked down at Ryland, expectantly, then glanced at his watch. "Shoulda done something by now," he said. He reached down to feel Ryland's wrist, shaking his head. "Don't understand." Doc belched. "'Scuse me." Ryland felt the tingling spread throughout his body. He stared up into the puzzled face of Oberlade, panic seizing him. Something was wrong here. Breathing was becoming even harder. "What's going on!" he tried to scream up at the faces around him, but his lips were clamped tight.
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Armistad dropped the empty vial into the coffin. It landed on the pillow, just inches from his left eye, its tiny white label facing him. "Curare" it said in black capital letters. Inside his head he continued to scream, not even feeling it when Oberlade let go of his wrist. "Don't understand it," Oberlade said, shaking his head. "I tried." "Of course you did, Doc," the councilman said. "We know you tried." Doc stumbled backwards slightly. Armistad snaked his long arm around Oberlade's shoulder, steadying him.
"Everybody makes mistakes." "Don't make no sense." Armistad flashed his dazzling white smile. ''Just a mistake." Merryman was lowering the coffin lid. In the last instant, Ryland saw Irene through the corner of his eye. What was that she had in her hands? Glasses? Darkness. "I don't know about you, " Armistad said, "but I could use a drink." "I just don't under .... A drink?"
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Photo by Chris Gay dos Page 41
Chrysalis
Photo by Tammy Tucker Page42
The Staff of
Chrysalis sincerely thanks Joan Bowman Alan Weltzien John Hardt Bev Thornton Jane Stogner for their contributions oftime and effort.
Thanks also to The Iron Blade and to Jim Flanagan of Copenhaver Publishers, Inc.