Bijoux électriques animés construits par Gustave Trouvé [Wikimedia Commons]
Happy new year! Welcome to 2015 and the 7th issue of Earth Is Huge And We Are All On It. There was a veritable feast of creative prompts fueling this issue: Luck Fate Birds Harbingers & Monsters As per usual, the contributors have taken these ideas and run with them into the blazing sunset and beyond. It’s so enjoyable to put this zine together. New faces and long standing friends always have something terrific to add. But enough gushing preamble from me. One final important note though: There are a couple content warnings in this issue. I’ve marked them in the table of contents with a red CW, and specific notes on the leading page prior to the story.
Atropos
1
Eliza Gauger
Editorial: On Problem Glyphs
2
GHN
The Oxygen Debt
3—6
Neil S. Reddy
Still, Life #1
7
Elizabeth Mills
Three Poems
8
Amy KS
Still, Life #3
9
Elizabeth Mills
Psalms: Collectors
10—12
Weasel
True Name
13
Eliza Gauger
Spiral to the Bottom
14
Jon Hall
The Four Rationalizations of the Apocalypse
CW
15-22
Thorin Sorensen
The Pull
23
Katherine Karas
Birds, Rain and Clouds (Bird’s Nest)
24
Heather Chen
Cover: Snake Collage by Sam Paolini
Contributors
25—26
Support
27
Outro & prompt 28
CW
CW
Problem Glyph: Atropos
By Eliza Gauger
(Support Problem Glyphs on Patreon) 1
Editorial: On Problem Glyphs — What you see on the neighboring page is referred to as a problem glyph. Problem glyphs are symbolic illustrations created by Eliza Gauger, written in response to problems, challenges, concerns, fears, and the like which are sent in by the public. Each is created with a great deal of research and meditation, drawing from many wells of mythos, psychology, aesthetic symbolism, esoteric occultism, &c to provide an image that resonates with the person’s problem. If it accomplishing nothing besides making the asker happy to know someone answered, it is a
worthy endeavor. But beyond that there’s an opportunity for people to tap into a sort of sigil working of the variety we understand best: finding an image that resonates with us and carrying that impression with us so that it influences our ideas and actions subtly. Although each glyph is ostensibly for the asker, none of us are alone in our feelings, and it’s very deeply possible that you will find a glyph among the collection (or perhaps a future one) that gives you that abrupt jarring feeling in your heart; an image that cracks the outer shell of a difficulty and starts you to hatching into something freer, something fresher. The original problem for context: April 16th 2014, 6:35:00 pm several relationships I feel are not providing me any enrichment. I feel the friendships have lasted as long as they were meant to. But I cannot end them, for fear of the other hurting themselves & guilt. Need strength to do what’s best for me. It seems fitting to start a new year with this particular glyph. Beginning a new year or new endeavor necessarily means leaving something behind; it’s part of the essence of experiencing linear time. Yet we do carry things with us: connections with memories and with other people are spun & woven over time and those experiences become part of our life’s tapestry. Atropos is one of three Moirae, aka The Fates. (The Romans referred to her as Morta.) Atropos wields the sheers that cut the thread of life. By studying and thinking on Atropos, we can seek courage to be decisive, to wield sheers of our own. May we find the will, moving forward on our own threads of fate, to sever that which keeps us ensnared in a web of threads harmful to our own. May our cuts be judicious. May our cuts be clean as we can make them, but let us not hesitate to separate from danger is the tools are imperfect.
2
Art on this page:
Porthole by Sam Paolini
By Neil S. Reddy Content warning for emetophobia (forced throwing up)
3
The Oxygen Debt – On Planet Earth No One
Ambulances and arguments. Barking dogs and
Can Hear You Scream.
scratching bugs and the drone of a thousand
“Focus on the sounds around you.” The voice on the Relaxation App urges. A smooth voice, the voice of an alpha male. Confident, self-
T.V’s.
Doorbells
and
ringtones
and
half
laughed greetings; each one rendered impasto against
a
backdrop
of
innocuous
but
ubiquitous household hisses and creaks. The
assured but not overbearing.
sounds “Focus on the sounds above you.” A very
comforting voice. The kind of voice that belongs to a man that wears thick jumpers; and can make them look good.
of
the
tower
block
aging
and
stretching, groaning with the weight of the living. The sounds of too many humans in one place. Sounds never go away. Day after day and then long, long into the night the sound
“Then focus on the sounds to your right.” There’s a hint of a Scottish lilt to it. So a jumper wearing, alpha male from somewhere
of the living rages on and on. “Focus on your breathing. Hear the sound of your breathing.”
in the Highlands then? “I’m trying, believe me I’m trying.” Brett hissed “Let the sounds pass over you.” It’s not from Edinburgh and definitely not Glaswegian but it’s there… East coast for sure. It’s been softened by many years south of the border;
through clenched teeth and then remembered. “No, no, no. Unclench the teeth. You can’t breathe right with clenched teeth. Relax, relax and breathe, breathe.”
but it’s there still hanging on, rolling within the Not an easy thing to do; breathing. Not
soft vowels.
anymore. The air was so thick it almost rattled. “Focus on the sounds coming from your left.” A
fatherly
voice,
gentle
yet
persuasive,
engaging and attractive but not at all sexual.
And when it was in your lungs you could hear it wheezing as it tried to squeeze its way into your red blood cells. The asthma hack; the
“Focus on the sounds that surround you. Let
congested sound of the city, the sound of the
them come and let them go.”
suburbs and beyond, beyond, beyond. Cough,
But that’s the problem. The sounds keep
coming, unpredictable and jarring sounds.
cough spew. The national anthem, all the
national anthems; cough, cough, spew. 4
Suck it in and hold until you can feel it
there was nothing to push away. Nothing
scouring your bronchioles; hold it until your
around his neck, nothing over his face he was
bronchi buck in rebellion and then push, push,
choking; “I’m choking. I must be choking!”
push it out and then;
Brett reached down into his throat, pressing
“Breath in and relax. Stay centred. Let
three trembling fingers into his oesophagus.
thoughts come and let thoughts go. Be still.”
His body reacted as it should and sprayed
Within the walls the cockroaches rasp, whilst under the floorboards the mice scurry and scratch. Beyond the walls to the right the neighbours cough and laugh. Beyond the walls to the left the neighbours cough and snore. Above and below all snore and hack to the sound of their radio. Across the corridor a baby coughs and cries and coughs again.
vomit across the room, once, twice and - it
was then - as the third spasm kicked in; that Brett
realised
he
couldn’t
hear
himself
retching, he couldn’t hear the puke splatter, couldn’t hear the furniture toppling to the floor as he franticly ran out of the door. He pounded silently on his neighbour’s door until his shrivelling lungs began to boil with pain. He needed air. He needed to get outside. Too
Somewhere high above him came the sound of wrestlers being jeered and coughed at, and
high up, too many floors to go down; he knew he’d never make it.
then the buildings air conditioning system rattled into life. And so it was that Brett finally slumped and sighed and snored and coughed and dreamt of crying babies in a wrestling ring
with fire breathing dragons and giant mice.
Brett fell back into his flat and sprawled across the puke soaked floor. Frantic as a beetle he crawled to the caged ledge, that the tower’s
designers had the gall to call a balcony. The room began to lurch and spin about him.
Brett awoke to silence. A solid silence without clink, chink or crease; soundless silence.
Colours shifted and drained to grey as his fingertips reached the sliding glass door.
He was already sweating; hot and aching with
Feebly he pushed it aside with the failing
a twisting, wringing pain in his chest. He felt as
strength of desperate need. Adrenaline, panic
if he was suffocating and so tried to push
and the will to live forced his head out into the
whatever had climbed onto his face away but
hot morning air. 5
Below him the street was filled with the fallen
the shinning eyes – the kind of girl that will
and the falling. The flailing and still looked up
never be impressed by such useless trivia.
to him and the grey sky beyond, and gasped
Sound is dependent on air and atmosphere;
with soundless screams. There was no sound,
without atmosphere there is no sound. An
no sound for Brett to hear.
impressive fact but then as the unimpressed
Perhaps it was something gleaned from a science class or a documentary that jumped into Brett’s head in that last precious moment; it could have been a spark of truth withering
sneering girl was sure to say; “Dah, without atmosphere there’s no life, no nothing stupid.” Brett heard the voice in his head or at least he thought he did.
within hallucinatory asphyxia or an appealing
And then there was nothing and no one to
piece of pub quiz trivia retrieved by the dying
hear the silence, the complete silence of Brett
kindness of consciousness. One of those
and the world passing on, passing on into
things that men forlornly retain in order to
silence.
——
impress other men or that smashing girl with
This page: Kissed by the Light by Jon Hall Following page: Still, Life #1 by Elizabeth Mills 6
By Amy KS i think when people say literally what they mean entirely completely in total of effect and reach and all the wave this in sweet as rain gentle sting , gentle sting of thirst waking, walking, steady and regular laying, breathing, heartbeat sugar, regular rain will come i will smile , you too
living i miss your belly i miss your teeth and your curly lips i miss your smile i miss upsetting you
talk about what you're sitting on talk about what the paint reminds you of talk about what some pathetic dude did talk about what you're wearing never talk about what you're doing ever again
i did not know what lovesick is until you, right? you told me my body stink smells like magic, yah? fuck you you want to want me but you don't can't? "let's shave our heads together" "let's leave ALL OF THE SHIT behind and tattoo oneanother all over the continent" fuck fuck fuck on you i know i'm a big pile of shit you too i know you don't cry like that
Header: Still, Life #2 • Following page: Still, Life #3 by Elizabeth Mills
8
Content warning for drug use/addiction reference
“You have one new message. It is voice: ‘Hi, this is a message for Izzy ―. This is Miranda from Cash Advance and this is an attempt to collect a debt, we will need a return call.” The phone buzzed violently at 4AM for only a few seconds before the message was left. It appeared that the rumors of collectors having lives was rather false as Izzy deleted it from his inbox. No matter, they would call again, maybe shortly, or in a few hours. It was not a matter he looked heavily into, especially so early in the morning. He placed the phone by his television where it stayed for the most part when he was home. Phone calls were not something he had hoped for. Izzy grabbed a half-empty bottle of water and gulped the final drops of it before tossing the cheap plastic into a can of unopened envelopes. Past due notices never stated itself on the envelope as they did on television, that was the trick. You’d still have to open them eventually, but he tossed them and never looked inside them. Izzy laid back onto the bed, the roar of his A/C unit blasting through the silence of the room. It was on most of the night, helped him breathe while sleeping. Suffocation was happening too often lately. His eyes closed, capturing the last image of the off-white ceiling above him, his eye-lids holding it warmly. The last image before the next interruption. The last meditation before realizing nirvana is not available at this time, please call again. Though bland, it was the last minute peace he could carry with him. He turned over to look at his partner, inched closer to have some warmth in the morning. Kissing the sleeper on the cheek, Izzy lay there for a moment before feeling the body next to him shift and turn over, unknowing of the fact that he was there. He breathed in and let out a deep sigh before sitting up and turning on the television. Infomercials were the savior of his sanity, the escape from the real because they were the only thing available. The news didn’t start for another hour, cartoons for another two, and although he could read, the light would have to be turned on. Izzy did not want to disturb the peace because he could not afford the ability to sleep. Television on low volume was his last resort. Header Photo: Alone—Not Lonely by Jon Hall
10
He sat there, looking at the images on the screen, but not really paying attention. Torrential rains echoed violently as he was flustered with the negative amount of money in his bank account. Exhausted, for he had woken up too many mornings to really gather a good few hours of sleep, he closed his eye and leaned back against the partially white, rough-textured wall against his bed thinking to himself how easy it would be to just have been a traveling religious fanatic. Shoving papers in people’s hands, praising Allah or a cross dressing Jesus Christ that allowed the earth to be formed in the matter of a few stroking minutes. Tossing books of ticky-tacky scripture filled with dribble-drabble psalms of Holy Tuesday. Maybe a bomb would be dropped in his name; the others have theirs as well as a spare few parts from their crew team members. They could be poor, no one would say a thing. The Universe was funny that way. Izzy closed his eyes, listened to the smooth, smooth jazz of the television, the clanking of his phone against the pile of change that lay around on a island of books, paper and other sloppy pilings of forgotten stuff. There was never a moment in his life where the loudness had reached the sanctity of the early morning, but it was a realization that came all too soon. Being broke was never really a way of life, it’s an anthem that stays with everyone. The unfortunate scar upon the backs, and though most are broken, Izzy hadn’t reached the empty spots yet. He was full of them, full of bad decisions and empty shells; full of irritable dreams that he still wanted to reach. It was only getting harder to keep them in the darkness. Some nights end up like this morning, sleepless, thinking, solving the problem of achievement against the cold air. The machine was against him, blocking his view from the visions he’d hoped to achieve. That’s what they would all say as they injected bug poison into their veins to cop a fix, compensating because they’re too broke to get the real, pure white powder. They, the underground hipsters plucking fingernails from the cracks of walls because their friends got caught between the cement stages of the new era that begins each year at midnight when the fires burst through the dark—the ones that forgot to celebrate accordingly. They, hanging out in needle-infested back alleys because the rent was due a month ago, but the addiction burns like a caught cigarette in the backs of their throats. Priorities must be straight in order to make the decision easy for them. They are not the enlightened ones; neither are them, the ones who’ve sold everything aside from their mother into slavery, coming close several times, to keep their lives in order, straightened out and parallel with the addiction that severs most from the physical world—the world that requires a paycheck. Manna will not be dropping down for a few more days. They’ll sing again for it one day, if either hasn’t forgotten the sacred.
11
He stopped taking melatonin for he wanted to sleep naturally; to feel the tossing of the bed, the turning of each spring as the body curves and moves over them. He wanted to hear the dogs howl at the moon, invisible, black, hidden in front of the world; to experience the night life while he rested himself for the labor of the morning. He couldn’t hear them this morning. They weren’t asleep, but he couldn’t hear them as he felt his feet walking, hands opening the door to the darkened hallway—no need for light as they’ve memorized everything on the ground before them. He was dressed, and although he wanted nothing more than to keep walking, make it to the state line and have a new life, the autopilot sat him in his car and he was off as the sun slowly rose in the sky. The dew still sitting on his window, disrupted by the windshield blades switching like a metronome, conducting the music of the car. He drove off to his day; the day of “how can I help you,” and “I cannot account for anything that another representative has told you, but it appears your problem lies elsewhere.” He’ll arrive at his destination at his normal time, fifteen minutes before opening the business, walk to the fax machine and send the same message to quench the thirst of his debt, only society can’t collect on it. There were days he never expected a call back from some people, and there were days where he stayed next to his phone, even if it were turned off for non-payment. He’ll sing the same anthem tomorrow, the next day or any other day until there was a reason for him to stop singing it; until the road he imagined had finally appeared on the map. Running around with outdated material isn’t helpful for the soul, but the soul can be an irritable beast—chained beneath the mistakes. She rose in the morning, tinting the sky with a harsh, hellishly orange glow. It blinded him as he drove, but he knew where the road was. The radio tripping, talking, buzzing against the static of early morning shows, and barely waking commutes. How easy it would be to keep driving. And though roads connect and return, bridge and complete, turns are still an easy item to miss. How fickle the universe can be. ——
12
Problem Glyph: True Name
By Eliza Gauger
(Support Problem Glyphs on Patreon) 13
S p i r a l to t h e B ot t o m by Jon Hall
14
The Four Rationalizations
of the Apocalypse
By Thorin Sorensen
Trigger warnings for body horror, misgendering, misogyny, death “We summon thee Urrudoth, king of the 551 caverns of abyssal sinew upon which nothing grows, heir to the fires of oblivion, spawn of the pit of a thousand knives, bearer of the hundred million teeth, gatherer of all things slimy and foul, he who shall blot out the sun with a pestilence of... Brad we all need to chant it at once or it won't work.” One of four red-cloaked figures arrayed in a circle looked up from scratching his knee. “I'm sorry Kent it's just a lot to remember. All the bits about the various putrid fluids. How many fluids does one guy really need to be responsible for anyway?” Kent pulled back the gold-painted ski mask and rubbed his temples. It'd been like this for weeks. First Mike had been sent out to find dried goat testicles and came back with fifty dollars worth of prairie oysters. Then Todd spilled an entire goblet of pitch onto the sacred ceremonial rug and refused to pay for the dry cleaning. Brad had covered that but even with a cheat sheet he couldn't keep up with the chant that would bring Urrudoth into the world to murder their enemies. He was beginning to wonder if he was the only one dedicated to this demon summoning business. “Brad, we've been over this. All of the fluids are important because they describe the properties the demon is bound to. If we skip any of his names we risk losing control. Do you want that?” Art on this page: Devil Bug Print by Sam Paolini
15
Brad went back to absently scratching himself, “I mean.. I don't really want to lose control of a pestilence of frogs.” “Toads.” “What's the difference?” “I think one is a reptile and one is amphibious,” said one of the other masked figures. Probably Mike. It had come out during the bull testicles incident that Mike was more assertive than knowledgeable when it came to animal biology. “First off, you're supposed to be over there,” Kent gestured opposite the speaking figure, towards the old grill that was functioning as a makeshift ritual pyre, “secondly, the difference is if we say frogs instead of toads the demon might not come. It all needs to be exactly right.” There was a loud clanging as Mike re -situated himself. Some of the magical accoutrements, even strapped on tightly with duct tape, were difficult to move without banging or dropping. Weeks had been spent determining how many of the requisite solid brass whistles could be replaced with plastic ones without compromising the essence of the summoning (none unfortunately), and they rattled a bit in the regular process of moving or breathing. Now with a magical focus at his back he would be able to properly channel the energies of the element. As Mike understood it he'd been chosen for fire after successfully handling an incident with a bonfire a few months ago. They'd been warming up around it after a night of drinking and Todd decided on a whim to toss a closed beer can into
the fire. Just before the building pressure in the can could tear the metal apart and launch shrapnel into their drunken bodies Mike thought to toss a bucket at it. In retrospect he was probably trying to cover it rather than knock it out of the fire entirely, but they'd been fairly smashed and the whole thing seemed more heroic before the hangover set in. In reality everyone had been chosen out of convenience. It was Kent that stumbled upon the book that explained the ritual and listed the hundred-andfifty-one titles of Urrudoth that would summon the demon into the world. He'd come to the decision to do it and brought the others in when he felt they were ready to know his plan. “The others” being the only people he knew, to be honest. They had previously made up his bowling team, his table at the office cafeteria, and the team upper management had foisted on him for their annual corporate trust building exercise. This last one had at least saved him the trouble of meeting three people to sit near, bowl with, and summon demons beside, all of which he'd been sorely lacking volunteers for. “Hey, Kent, before we start again, I had a thought.” Todd pushed up his own mask, “If the book this spell came from was written hundreds of years ago, how do you know the translation isn't wrong? Maybe it is frogs and we've been screwing up the whole time.” Months of preparation, and it had finally occurred to him that language changes over time. Kent struggled to keep his face straight. “That'd be a valid point, Todd, if I hadn't been studying the translation for almost two years before even bringing you on.” 16
“Aha, but you can't be entirely sure, can you?” Todd grinned like he'd just talked his way out of a ticket. If Kent couldn't derail this conversation now they'd be at it all night. Then Brad chimed in, “He might be right Kent, maybe we'd better wait a while longer and be sure. We don't want to summon a demon we can't control after all.” Mutiny. Kent rolled up his sleeve and checked his watch. Mutiny at almost an hour to midnight on the final day the ceremony could be performed. Why couldn't this have happened any time but now? Kent spread his hands wide and put on his best smile, “Guys, guys, guys. We've been preparing for this for ages. I know what the translation is, everything is finally in place. If we wait now we'll be waiting for fifty years for another planar convergence.” He pointed at each of them in turn. “Todd, do you really want to wait fifty years to see if you won our bet? Brad, do you really want to be old and gray without having accomplished anything in your life? Mike, c'mon, are you going to pass up a chance to finally do something about... that woman on the internet you're always going on about? Now, when we're so close?” For a moment they contemplated quietly. The flame in the grill crackled, and the granite birdbath opposite it dripped quietly through a crack down its base. Finally there came thoughtful nods. “Now,” Kent replaced his mask over his face, “if there are no more interruptions we need to get started,
before the temporal window closes.” In unison the four of them lifted their ceremonial wands into the air, each of them hand-carved from slivers of a single two-by-four Kent had been assured was real oak. After they stopped rattling from all of their limbs they took up the chant a final time. “We summon thee Urrudoth, king of the 551 caverns of abyssal sinew upon which nothing grows. Heir to the fires of oblivion, spawn of the pit of a thousand knives, bearer of the hundred million teeth, gatherer of all things slimy and foul, he who shall blot out the sun with the pestilence of toads, he who shall render the sky into a gobbet of boiling fat with which to drown the seas, he who-” Mike's mind was already beginning to wander. He kept up the chant unerringly. He'd practiced and practiced in front of a mirror every day since he'd learned it, but he didn't focus on the specifics. He recited it by rote, his thoughts turning as they always did to the object of his hatred: that woman on the internet. She just doesn't understand, Mike thought. Women weren't meant to play video games. The reason they feel uncomfortable with games is because they don't get them, not because of misogyny. That's just how the world works. How the world should work. Now someone coming along, upsetting the apple cart, making wild accusations, it could push people into taking actions. Make drastic decisions. All of her rabble rousing was leading people to do rash things, but they didn't understand that it was really about ethics in video games journalism.
17
Urrudoth would make them understand, when he replaced all reason and logic with a world of baying abyssal hounds and ground the mountains and seas into endless plains stripped barren of anything resembling life. As soon as their chant finished he would rise up and cleave from the world all souls he saw as unworthy in a terrible unmaking. Limbs from trees would reach down to strangle those passing by. Oceans would rear up like walls and crash down over whole continents. Children would be born for centuries to come as only fleshless cawing things with malevolent wills, warped by the psychic trauma on existence. When reality itself becomes unmade everyone would see that the real monster was the woman on the internet that caused it all. “-for whom all of the most craven idolatries are dedicated, he who bound Mygloclocra the putrid beast spawn of Myothrodok, he who holds within his eyes a plethora of stars around which whirl such distant and strange realities as to pull apart the very structure of time, he who-� Todd wasn't really here for this whole demon summoning business. He was just involved as an intellectual exercise, to prove that demons weren't real. There was no way he'd been involved if they were. Anyone that had ever seen a movie knew demons were dangerous business, and he didn't want to be responsible for anyone being hurt. If he thought there was even the slightest chance of an actual demon showing up he would never have been involved. In fact, he'd have been dead set against it. But since a demon wasn't going to show up why shouldn't he try to summon one?
Anyway the rest of the guys seemed nice enough. Sure he'd never stop making fun of them after this demon failed to appear, and he'd be spending the two-hundred dollars Kent bet him on himself, but they were pretty much the closest friends he had. Kent was kind of obsessed but Todd could talk to all of the guys about the wildest ideas, and never worry about how they were going to react. They believed him when he told them if he was joking or serious. If guys like that were really capable of bringing forth some kind of ancient evil, Todd would have known and stopped them. So what if a demon appeared? There was no such thing, first off, but if some dark presence crawled out of the well of night and set about systemically slaughtering the ignorant and the unworthy, what would really be the cause of that? Who could say? Todd certainly couldn't be faulted if it just happened to happen after this chant. He was only saying the words that would bring Urrodoth into the world, he didn't mean them. No one could blame him for something he didn't even intend to do, even if the destruction of the world came to pass as a result. And if Urrodoth did exist, and did come forth to murder the world, Todd's conniving bitch ex-wife would finally be taken care of. Just coincidentally. All the times she had claimed she was afraid for her safety, and if something finally came to rip out her heart with limbs made from the discarded teeth of the dead, he wouldn't even be responsible.
Image: GHN
18
“-broken forever and ever, he who ground down a thousand planets into a fine powder and suffocated ten billion souls on the ashes of their own worlds, he who brought together the sun and the stars and tore them apart again in a fit of pique, he who is fated to flay the oldest of the giants with his own sword, he who drinks of the fires of the earth and is unwarmed, unmoved, and without pain, he who conquered-” Brad was trying to decide if he should disrupt the ritual again. It was complicated, and there were enough words in it that it was easy to slip up, but he didn't think he'd be able to pull it off much longer. He'd realized a few weeks ago that this demon stuff was bad news. Purging the weak and impure from the world sounded reasonable on the surface but he come to suspect it was some kind of sexist thing. Impurity was definitely something he'd heard women talking about lately and he'd always prided himself on being a good feminist. He couldn't harm anyone to stop it though. The demon may have been out to hurt women but Burt and the guys were human beings. Todd was a good friend and told the best jokes, and even if Burt and Mike were a bit obsessive they always got along. If they were really some kind of woman-hating monsters Brad would have noticed it right away. Brad felt strongly that every human being deserved the benefit of a doubt, especially men, who were so maligned that some people thought they didn't even belong in feminist movements. His friends just didn't understand things the way he did. They didn't have as much “intersectionality” to inform their actions. If he'd been a better speaker he could have just explained their mistake, but he was
worried if he brought it up and they couldn't find a way to agree he'd be kicked out of the group. He couldn't lose a bowling team, drinking buddies, and his best friends just for the possibility he could explain why sexism was wrong. As a long shot he'd talked to his sister Janice about it online. She wasn't any kind of expert but she had a degree in interpersonal psychology, and people that went to college usually knew how to talk to people. Janice had been convinced that since the demon summoning window was only a single week every fifty years, and required four people, that if he didn't participate on the final night it would short circuit the whole plan. No matter how many times he explained that skipping out would make him socially reviled she didn't see the glaring flaw in her idea. Then, instead of helping him come up with something realistic she'd gotten pissy and shouted at him for no reason. Couldn't she see that if they didn't do something she’d be the one that suffered? In the end all he could think to do was pretend to screw up and hope that his friends got tired enough of starting over to give up. But with midnight growing closer and the temporal window closing he didn't think he'd be able to stop again without blowing the ritual entirely. If he misspoke at the last possible moment he'd be blamed for sure. His only hope now was for something unexpected to interrupt them. He hadn't told Janice where they were meeting so she couldn't get him in trouble, but maybe one of the other guys had been having second thoughts too. Maybe someone would show up and rescue him from his dilemma. This could all work out fine without him 19
needing to stop talking to his friends.
“-and left him there to slowly rot from his spine outward, he who grappled with Lorfthathenfal upon the mountain peak for which he was named and smote each of them down upon the other, he who has lined the corridors of infinity with the knee bones of one hundred thousand of the most pious souls to walk the realms of mankind, he who straddles the before and the after with legs which burn away at time itself which is nothing beneath him, he whose breath-” Kent was fully into the rhythm of the chant. His voice never wavered, and he didn't feel any doubts. This was further than they'd ever made it before without a screw-up. Today might finally be the day. As they passed the ninetieth title he felt an energy start to build, something he'd only suspected would happen until now. It rose up around them, bolstering their voices, drawing them into the act. They would finally finish, and then his will would be done. Unlike the rest of them Kent was willing to admit he wanted power. He'd been passed over for promotion for ten years, his children didn't respect him, even his home wasn't worth as much as it used to be. But he understood why: the natural order had been broken. People had begun to forget themselves, to forget their place, and as a result he'd been pushed down by a thousand greedy clawing hands trying to take some of what he'd been promised for his own. It had all gone too far and he meant to fix it. With Urrodoth's might he would realign the nations of the world, put things back to the true paradise that things had drifted away from since his youth.
All of them wanted this, in their way, even if they didn't say it in as many words. Each clung to their scraps of power like an odor, and each of them connived, justified, and lied to hold onto what should have been theirs by birthright. Every one of them had become manipulators out of the necessity of maintaining power. That's how he'd known, watching them test at each other's limits, hearing them make their excuses, seeing them want things they would deny everyone else even a glimpse of. As the titles passed the hundred and twentieth the air began to buzz. A smell like burnt popcorn, most likely the scent of searing enamel that foretold Urrodoth's coming, over-powered the 151 incense sticks poking out of plant pots all around the edges of the room. They only grew longer from here, “he who decapitated twelve hundred hydras all of whom grew from a single point of space and time but were of unique sapiences and individually named Gx'lyvothon by twelve hundred separate entities upon the birth of the world” being the shortest of those remaining. By one hundred forty Todd was growing ecstatic, and even Brad had given up the pretense that he would be a hero at the last moment. Smoke had started pooling from the grill and the incense sticks and a shape was coalescing between them. With only a few minutes left before midnight they bellowed the last sentences of their ritual with full certainty that there was no going back. Something had already begun to come through, pulled and the words from their mouths more surely than gravity or inertia. No force could deny that pull, and it brought their chant out and brought the demon in. Into the world. 20
A pillar of smoke spun in the center of their circle from the floor to the ceiling. It was heavy billowing smoke that stank of charred meats and sulfur. Colors moved in it, lights that weren't quite light, red explosions and green glows, as well as colors so rare which had gone unseen for so long they no longer had names. The men's voices after the final word of the summoning were cut out by a roar of wind that did nothing to dissipate the smoke but blew out every fire in the room and smashed their lamps into the wall. For a few minutes everything was an awful din and flashing strobes, then it died away to silent darkness. None of them spoke, stunned as they were by the force of Urrodoth's arrival. There was no light left to see him by, but there was definitely something there. Something slithered noisily across the floor all around them, coils or tails or... perhaps the sound came from the darkness itself, crawling outward to envelope the summoning circle. The walls creaked and the ceiling cracked as something unseen pushed out against them in each direction. And another sound, something no living body should make, like a grating, crunching sound, a fork in a garbage disposal instead of regular breathing. Something was in there with them. Kent composed himself first, “Oh Urrodoth, demon king, we bind you and command-” then lost his voice as a massive unnameable limb gripped him around the arms and chest.
Silence scum! I have come into the world to rip the souls from your bodies and
leave your fragile shells scrambled and strung from a dozen meat hooks! I offer you nothing but such a death! The voice echoed through the men's heads but still set their eardrums throbbing. “No,” choked Kent, “you are bound by the force of your true name.” The voice in their minds let out a deep barking laugh that doubled and doubled until it blocked out all conscious thought. It was as though a thousand massive dogs cried after the
I am bound by nothing. You have spoken only what was once my name. heels of their brain stems.
Ted did his best to scoff through the grip on his torso, “you can't change your true name. You have to be bound-” A crunch cut off his sentence, and a splatter. Then another. And a third. Until finally Brad was alone, terrified, hyperventilating against his mask. “Please, please don't do this. I'm not really with them. I'm with you. I don't command you to do anything, I just wanted to free you. I'm a nice-” A crunch and a splatter. Liquids dripping. Dripping.
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There alone in a garage which had until recently belonged to a man named Mike, Urrodoth, queen of the 551 caverns of abyssal sinew upon which nothing grows, and lady of 150 other equally impressive titles, chuckled to herself in the darkness. Every fifty years, like clockwork, some group of scheming conspirators came together to reach out. While none ever survived, their successors never considered why, if the ritual worked, they had never heard of it happening. Each of them just thought he was more clever, more capable, that he deserved it more. None of them ever thought their precious text had slipped out of relevance.
There's no teaching them. Males. ——
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The Pull
By Katherine Karas
Ink on 100lb paper.
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Birds, Rain and Clouds (Bird’s Nest)
By Heather Chen 24
Contributors Eliza Gauger is a full time artist working in the games, comics, and sci fi arenas. She is the creator of Problem Glyphs, a year-long project to address audience-submitted problems with illustrative sigils or "glyphs". elizagauger.com
Sam Paolini
problemglyphs.org
Illustrator, textile designer, print maker, teacher and community organizer. Intestines and eyes and bullshit in disguise.
Neil S Reddy
sampaoliniart.etsy.com
- contributor to
sampaolini.tumblr.com
Beatdom, Weasel Press, Kindle and many pubs. Recent collection of short stories published and available on paper. He is known to be allergic to books over 400 pages long. Neil at Weasel Press
Elizabeth Mills — is a writer from
Jon Hall Journalism Student, Photographer, Baker
Massachusetts and can
Email: jonathon.hall@gmail.com Twitter: @JHallReports
screaming or writing
be found regularly snippets of fiction on Twitter. She one day
Georgene Nunn Yr humble editor. Junctionnh.com
hopes to look stunning in a dress. Patreon / direhellswan DireHellSwanFiction
Georgenenunn.com
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Weasel is essentially a
Amy KS is a journalist. She is in talks with bugs and the birds who eat them. Facebook
Tumblr
Thorin Sorensen
writer and overall degenerate poet. He received his Bachelor of Arts in Literature at the University of Houston-Clear Lake, and started up a publisher called Weasel Press. The vagabond poet released a full length poetry collection titled Ashes to Burn; picked up by Transcendent Zero Press. He has also self-published a small chapbook titled Y’all Muthafucka’s Need Jesus. His writing has been accepted in many publications, some of which include: Houston’s Harbinger Asylum, San Jacinto College’s Threshold, Permian Basin Beyond 2014, Hunger For Peace, Di-Verse-City from the 2012, 2013, & 2014 Austin International Poetry Festival. Weasel also appeared in a small documentary about art titled Something Out of Nothing (S.O.O.N) directed by Mitchell Dudley. You can find more of Weasel’s work at the website listed. http://systmaticwzl.tumblr.com http://www.weaselpress.com/
A queer, androgyne writer from Wisconsin. I put together novel scraps and speak at poetry
Heather Chen
They/Them/Theirs pronouns.
Artist and illustrator that likes ocean things and also admires anyone who has ever tried to figure out life. Almost 30 years old and almost ready to start living.
Please help support my work
OceanTealSea.Tumblr
slams. My loved ones are scattered and we're putting ourselves together again. Member of the Queerhouse Art Collective. I dream of Lovecraftian horror without racism or ableism.
at www.patreon.com/Falcc
Katherine Karas graduate of miami university, currently located in NH, Montessori teacher, yogi, lover of arts, dogs, and fish tacos.
Suppor t the zine G u m r o a d | Pa y Pa l |WishList 26
Support the Contributors Being an independent artist and/or author is no small feat. Please consider visiting one of the links below to purchase goods or words, or simply donate to the efforts of the contributors. Every dime in their coffers helps propel them forward to be creative in a healthy, self-directed way.
Amy KS — Two ebooks published with more to come. Keep an eye on this space. sept(2014) Kindle ebook; poetry chapbook lavendernovember Kindle ebook; poetry chapbook
Weasel — Author and head of independent publishing organization Weasel Press. http://www.weaselpress.com/ Home to multiple book and magazine projects. http://systmaticwzl.wix.com/hauntedtraveler Horror/sci-fi magazine released twice yearly. Please donate
or purchase copies.
Eliza Gauger — Artist and creator of Problem Glyphs. https://www.patreon.com/problemglyphs Support Problem Glyphs on Patreon https://www.etsy.com/shop/elizagauger Store for art prints, original pieces, and Problem Glyph merch.
(As of publication, store is on break. Bookmark/fav or watch Etsy tag on ProblemGlyphs.org for info.)
Elizabeth Mills — Fiction author in short, long, and microformat, all deeply surreal. https://www.patreon.com/direhellswan Support short fiction creation on Patreon.
Thorin Sorensen — Independent, diversity-focused fiction and poetry author. http://www.patreon.com/Falcc Support short fiction, written poetry, slam poetry, & novel creation.
Sam Paolini — Artist, zine runner, clothing maker, local art hero. https://www.etsy.com/shop/sampaoliniart Wearables, original art, prints, and zines. http://wrongbrain.net/ Home of the Wrong Brain zine, and news about local (NH area) art events.
Neil S. Reddy — Independent author, known to be seen working with Weasel Press. http://www.amazon.com/Neil-Reddy/e/B00BAO93VC/ Kindle ebooks of all Neil’s work.
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Outro and prompts for Issue 8 The multiple creative prompt system seems to be working out well, if these last few issues are any indication. With that in mind, issue 8 will have two: Community Infinity
Community is a nod to my most recent undertaking: attempting to form a community incubator (coworking, art, craft, learning and meeting space) in my present home of Dover, NH. I’m over the moon with excitement about all the possibilities, and I’ll be focusing really hard on that. But my preoccupations aside, community is an excellent theme since it provides opportunities for people to share their ideas on what makes communities thrive, and what makes them fail.
Infinity is a fairly un-subtle joke on the fact that it’s the 8th issue.
∞
Candidly, I’d love to see submissions of double-mirror photos. Selfies, photos of pets, abstractions, manipulations, you name it. Or you could explore the mathematical side of infinity, exploring the Mandelbrot Set, the Golden Ratio’s seeming endlessness. There’s a lot of opportunity for nature-based and abstract-pattern based art and photography. A worthy challenge may be expressing these ideas through languagebased means. I look forward to this issue already!
An important note: Issue 8 will be coming out in March. Given that Issue 7’s launch is Mid-January, February is a slightly shorter month, and I will be extremely busy trying to start a community-centered business while trying to make enough money freelancing to survive… Frankly, yr humble editor needs the extra time. (PayPal donations would be welcome at this time.) Slightly off from the monthly goal, but given the one-person-project nature of the beast, that’s probably just fine. :3 All in all, this year is shaping up to be amazing so far! I hope yours is, too. ~ GHN 01/16/15
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moldy cabbage stew by Katherine Karas
Earth is Huge and We Are All On It is an online zine that intends to publish monthly. Fiction, non-fiction, poetry, comics, stand-alone visual art, and anything that can be put on a page is welcome here. We seek to create space for all sorts of ideas and all sorts of people, and in particular want to create a welcoming environment for those who find themselves existing in the margins of society. Any brief study of historical texts will show that marginalia is where all the really interesting stuff lives. Visit us on tumblr for updates, calls for submissions, progress reports, and more: earth-is-huge-mag.tumblr.com You can also like the zine on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/EarthIsHugeMag Or follow on Twitter: @EarthIsHugeZine Email giania+zine@gmail.com with questions, submissions, fan mail, hate mail, etc.
Earth Is Huge And We Are All On It by http://earth-is-huge-mag.tumblr.com/ is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. All works in this publication are subject to this license except where otherwise specified.