Share Art & Literary, 2014

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Disclaimer...

Share Art and Literary Magazine of Kennesaw State University is published annually in print format. The publication is funded through student activity fees and is free of charge to all members of the KSU campus community.

All literature, artwork, and digital work are self-expressions of those who created them and are not intended to represent the ideas or views of the Share staff or its advisers. They do not reflect the views of KSU faculty, staff, administration, student body, KSU student publications board, or the Board of Regents of the University System of Georgia.

Artwork contained herein or on the website is not intended to specifically illustrate any literary work or vice versa, but may have been placed according to content. This includes editing artwork to better serve the magazine’s needs in terms of size or composition with textural elements. We welcome artists to contact us if they find this policy unacceptable.

Though all artists and contributors may retain the rights to their work, Share reserves the right to print and reprint all submissions.

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letter from the editor!

For the past five years, Share Art & Literary Magazine has been an experience I will never be able to replace. I’ve worked with so many great people and was able to experience what every job at the magazine entails. My time at Share has been something special since I started here my freshman year, and I know this will be a somber farewell for me when I walk down that aisle to receive my diploma.

Working for Share has allowed me to grow as a person. I’ve been moved by art, poetry, and literature alike, with every piece offering a new feeling. Reviewing each piece made me a well-rounded person. They all allowed me to see through the creator’s eyes and show the pain or happiness they were experiencing. This magazine has allowed me to have a more open mind about people and how they feel. This is probably the biggest lesson I’ve learned throughout my college career.

To Patti, Chris, and Vanessa—thank you for allowing me to have this experience and to grow within the organization. If it wasn’t for any of you, I probably wouldn’t be the leader I was over these past two years. My experience working under you has provided me with the different types of leadership and because of this, I’ve developed my own leadership style to useover the past two years.

To everyone on my staff—I loved getting the chance to work with you all. I know each and every one of you has something great to offer this world. I encourage you to find what it is and pursue it to no end.

To Ed, Amie, and the rest of Student Media—thank you for continuing to support Share and help the magazine move forward with expanding our presence on campus. I appreciate all of your help, and I know the magazine will continue to grow and have a bigger part in Student Media.

To my family and friends—I love you all. Your continued support over the past five years has provided me with the drive to continue working for the magazine.

And since I am graduating, I have to thank the editor in chief that is following in my footsteps.

Like the many people before you, I know you will continue to make this magazine amazing.

However, the person I owe the most to is you, the reader and/or contributor. Without your interest in Share Magazine, we would have nothing to print for the students. You are what drives this magazine to publish every year and you are want drives the staff at Share Magazine to choose the best work that KSU has to offer. So, thank you for continuing to pick up this magazine. Thank you for continuing to contribute. And thank you for giving me the best experience a college student can ask for.

Leah Bishop Share Art & Literary Magazine, Editor in Chief

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letter from the director!

Video games.

Yes, thank you for picking up this magazine. Thank you for contributing to the best conglomeration of diverse artistic expressions from Kennesaw State University’s student body, bar none. But, let's talk about the reason you’re really here. The thing on the cover that grabbed your attention, the well-orchestrated trap of aesthetics that exploited your nostalgia and placed this book in your hands -- video games.

It's not just Call of Duty; memories abound. Somewhere in a compartment of my brain labeled "Those Good Days You'll Really Never Get Again" exist hazy recollections of myself leaving my copy of Earthworm Jim 2 for the SNES on pause all day while away at school, just so I could later pick up where I left off on that awful level where you swim around like a parasite in a big, cartoon intestine. That level really sucked. Even more distantly recalled nocturne memories of evenings spent trying to circumnavigate Kirby Super Star's ‘Great Cave Offensive’ chapter, all the while feigning a night's sleep so as to not arouse my father's wrath. Later in life I'd find myself addicted to Jedi Knight III: Jedi Academy, and a veritable killing machine in World of Warcraft. To this day, I main Rose in Street Fighter 4 (and I'm pretty good at it, too!) and I get a real big kick out of digging through the artifacts of Sega's Dreamcast days (they were the best days). But ultimately, it's the games of my childhood that impressed themselves upon me the most, as well as upon the subconscious of my entire generation.

That's why, when the time came around for us to select a theme for the 2013-2014 issue of Share Magazine, choosing a retro video game concept as the framework was so... darned irresistible. This is a collaborative magazine. We don't do big, biting editorials, we don't aim to shock, and we don't draw lines in the sand and make arbitrary distinctions. This magazine is about what we all have in common. So, why not take advantage of one of the biggest common threads that runs through so many of our childhoods?

This is our tribute to the things that tied us together back then, and the things that unite us now.

I'd like to thank Leah, our Editor in Chief, for putting up with me for, like, a million years.

Because of you, coming on board Share in 2012 was definitely one of the best decisions I've made in my college career. Good luck in your future endeavors -- not that you’ll need it.

Thank you to the Share staff for being so awesome and ensuring that we have a magazine that truly represents the collective artistic voice of KSU. And I didn't even have to wind up judging literature submissions this year. Yay! Thank you to the Student Media department for giving me the opportunity to actually do something interesting with my time.

And thank you, readers, for hopping on board our ship of 8-bit madness this year. Do you hear that? Is the Super Mario Bros. song stuck in your head yet?

Welcome aboard, and see you at the arcade.

Jon Highsmith Share Art & Literary Magazine, Production Director

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letter from the staff!

Thank you so much for picking up this magazine. We have all worked hard to get this edition out to you in a timely manner, and we hope you enjoy it. This magazine would not be possible without the interest you, the reader, bring to the table. The staff would also like to thank those students, staff, and alumni that have submitted a piece or pieces of work to be published— without your submissions, producing this annual magazine would not be possible. Every fall and spring semester, we are privileged to view these wonderful submissions, and while we wish we could publish all the submissions, cuts have to be made so we can bring the best art, poems, and short stories to our readers. Please know we love all of our readers and contributors, and we always encourage those that did not make it into the magazine to submit again the following semester.

A special thanks goes to our advisor, Ed Bonza, who always believes in what Share Magazine does and is always willing to help in any way possible. Without Ed, we would not be able to consistently provide this opportunity to students, staff, and alumni.

Another special thanks goes to Amie Mowrey and her marketing staff. For the past two years, they have helped to distribute Share throughout campus, and with their help, Share has been able to target readers all over campus and get the word out about the magazine.

We would also like to thank The Sentinel, Owl Radio, and Talon.

Working in the same department is an honor, and they all accomplish so much to bring different content to the students.

Thanks again everyone, and enjoy the magazine!

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us!

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CONTENTS! STAFF! PAGE 4

POETRY! PAGE 5

ART! PAGE 32

LITERATURE! PAGE 72

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poetry!

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Laurel  Lowe

A Moratorium on Motherhood

those who have fulfilled the feminine mission are praised among us as elite those among us who have borne forth progeny from their loins and not their minds are the ones who live on the unattainable Olympic pedestal in golden reward for entrusting their most vulnerable pieces to the furthering of mankind goddesses of natural beauty, they are bathed in artifice, clothed in robes of a false shepherd crowned with narcissistic martyrdom they rule from behind the cloud of consummation with patriarchal hierarchy spewing forth judgment backed only by their fallacious maternal omniscience and for those of us unable or unwilling or unsuccessful we are expected to sit at the feet of the neglectful nurturers and weep for lost opportunities for our innate feminine self-actualization instead we rise, transcending expectation and convention cradling our own identities and raising them to live on in the multitude of educated minds from the genitalia of the soul and not the corporeal body, where ideas and facts mingle together and form blood in ink, our posterity springs forth like Athena, full of wisdom and piety, and permeating the groundwater of edification to affect hundreds if not thousands of others just waiting and watching

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Holly Marecheau

Define Beauty If I went by your definition of beauty,

I would be working toward clawing my way out of my head; banging it against a concrete wall trying to remember which features you like best, slitting my skin desperately trying to peel away three shades, injecting lies into my ass because my hips aren’t wide enough to birth truth, and plucking my eyes to dye them, turn them hazel or jealousy green.

I’d be memorizing every trait that makes a “bad bitch” so you can treat me like a dog, stitching processed protein into my scalp so you have something to pull on when you’re deep inside of yourself trying to remember who you are, making me forget who I am.

The only name I would utter is yours because I will have become everything you wanted and everything I would hate about myself.

I would be lying on my bathroom floor, after vomiting the manuals you’ve forced down my throat, trying to remember who I am.... trying to remember whose I am.

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Trying to remember when I lost my self worth.

I will not kill myself trying to be everything you know nothing about.

I will not to transcend and discard my humanity for a compliment.

I will sit with my curly Afro, dark skin and even darker eyes, legs crossed, and admire my beauty reflected in the night sky.

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Force of Nature Stephanie Villa

I want the cold to embrace me, turn my bones to ice.

I want the wind to kiss me, tear away my clothes and make furious love to me.

I want the dawn to paint me in the violets of the morning sky, in the grayness of the winter woods, in the blues of the lonely beach.

I want the warmth to beg me to return to it and all it offered.

I want the fire to miss me, hiss for me in helpless flames.

I want the sun to hide from me in the uncertainty of dirty clouds, in the pale skies of desamor, in shame with the memory of me.

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Haiku Rain Stephanie Villa

I had a weird dream about you. I was coming up with a haiku as I watched the most peaceful, but heavy rain. It was getting late, but I had no car and I somehow lost my way home...

I should have known the path was in me all along.

Home is whomever you write haikus of and apologies to, in the middle of the rain.

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Dee Dee Merrill

Penitent Snow

Ascetic armies guard mountains, cloaked in perpetual white.

Innocent impale upon their spires, while they stand silent and still.

Arid breaths exhale into the sun, enigmatic wonders grow.

Sheltered by shallow valleys, impenetrable.

Gelid hearts encompassed in ablated bodies.

In the hollows, sublime.

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Elizabeth  Visscher

The Sky

I dipped the brush, dabbed and pushed the paint.

Cadmium red and cerulean blue the odor rose to my nose.

Color twisted in the bristles The pigment loosened and spread across the toothed canvas.

Making its mark Returning brush to board the hues collided.

The spectrum spread to violet.

Submerged in linseed oil the transparency appeared.

More paint to thicken The brush brought back Dipped and smeared, burnt umber was added.

The birth of a new color Stroke to surface Line after line Shape after shape Color after color The canvas is covered.

A muddied monochrome sky

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34.2039° N, 83.9822° W Isabelle Woodhouse

Where magnolia petals

spin as they fall;

white parachutes in the wind.

Green like being alive;

breathing beyond

car windows.

Those nights pregnant

with rain; tense

goose bumps breaking into thunder.

Perched on Buford Dam

watching the water

where meteorites race their reflections.

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Sherri Jens

A Perfect moment

I choose not to face you As you sit down to play Two-fold: To hide the wide grin Of admiration And To hear the music From your position I chose right: When you start to play My eyes close Feeling Every vibration Every note Each complaint and question And celebration Each trill dancing chaos Around ordered progression

Your soul’s waving frequencies

Your life’s learned lesson And don’t open again till you finish Into a familiar riff Do you recognize that one you ask But I was already smiling Yes baby I do

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Kristen Carlson

Man

There he stands, a statue in front of my door mouth moving slowly as he gnaws through the layers of space, acting as my guard.

With each bite echoing his wily lies to climb inside the chambers of my mind, to explore the cavity cradling a porcelain heart.

All I see are two hungry eyes, eating me to shame ripping the hems of my dress unraveling each delicate thread until I stand with nothing left.

Nothing, but dark purple stains entwining pigments of skin.

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Danielle Steward

Moonlight Soft knocks on the window.

Peep through the blinds.

Tiptoe across the floor.

Silent greetings.

Quick embrace.

Peaceful presence.

Hasty exit.

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On a Wall in Santiago Isabelle Woodhouse

Tick tack tags sprawl across this cement grit where aerosol spit threw me up over old sick brag swag brown boys brought fat caps and paint rags in trash bags, scrawling roll call in the crags, shoes and fingers blue building this crew.

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Side Amanda Zubrowski

You turn on your side, Facing one of four walls, and it’s then I know I’ve lost you.

In me, beyond throbbing vital organs, behind lungs dusted black by smoke from various bars, and a cigarette I smoked once on the pub’s patio, the wisp of hope I had for you, for more than you, dissipates and seeps through my skin, I think.

Sneaks as sweat forming on my forehead, as I panic and pull your arm towards me, so you are lying on your back, and I ask if you’re okay.

You say you’re fine, But your voice is drawn tight, like a rubber band cutting off circulation.

In the dark, I know you can’t see the strained smile, but I supply it anyway as I place my arm across your abdomen, and say okay.

You turn back on your side.

I’m staring at your silhouette, And it’s then I know I’ve lost you.

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Souvenir Samuel Ryan

I should have stolen your umbrella;

Not as a keepsake,

Some dreadful reminder of past bliss, now bereft;

Nor for some misplaced spite,

Scoped through crosshairs from my heart to yours.

Neither holds water. No lasting impact here.

But because, now, I’m cold and wet; And you’re more prepared To weather the storm ahead Than I.

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Staring at the Showerhead on Christmas Morning

Samuel Ryan

Wal-Mart closed early this evening.

The chill of the night air less sincere Than this time last year. Most years, In fact, face such scrutiny in admittance Of a far less gentle breath.

And so it goes, as gathering rosebuds In the fields beneath the vultures.

Once captured, it’s kaput, But ‘kaput’ screams too downtrodden A word for such a splendid And splendidly presented eve, As it is, and always has been.

Hours passing by as miles, Though meant for other fortunes, Retrace themselves in familiar patterns With an unfamiliar hue.

And so it goes. We pull Our marble slabs from classic sculptures.

Denied a never-specified fate, as is Custom in this piece of country, this Time of year gleams brighter still Than the sunlit frost above the sill Which we lie, tangled, not far from, Skewering a morning following A three-hundred-some-odd prologue, Yet unable to foreshadow such A tomb ensconced in dialogue.

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And so it goes. What should be white Admits itself in morning’s light As nothing more than this Impediment, disguised as bliss, While looking up from tiled floor Upon a looming, grey sepulcher.

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Sherri Jens

Sturm and Drang

From sunny deck You say Only a few Find their way —Home.

Fine words

From a skipper

With no compass,

No mast,

No map.

You kid yourself, Cap’n; You’re adrift.

Be careful not to slip.

The deck you’ve smoothly polished, Buffed to a high-gloss sheen

[Remarkably clean], Is a slippery slope.

The rope you must grasp

Is rough on the hands

[And rougher on the neck].

Don’t mar those beautiful hands:

Precious articulate fingers.

Don’t damage the goods,

Burn the booty.

Don’t take the ropes Till you’ve learned them; Don’t wear those stripes Till you’ve earned them.

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Samuel Ryan

The Taste of Spring

I wonder, but only occasionally, If the honey freezes over winter.

The bees are fast asleep And Sylvia Plath has grown cold again, So the production must close For this evening’s renovation,

As if spring should never return.

As if winter’s endurance to stand

Against the dense black of time

Burns to the signature

Of a broken merry-go-round.

And suddenly, one sees,

Or one hears, feels, remembers That light Which called her in from the cold.

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Sherri Jens

Van Gogh Got It Right

O, those ears

How they ring

With the sting.

They heard before, Plugged by truth, Doubted all, Deafened with silence, And now— Now they bleed Words,

Disdain and contempt, Pour thick crimson liquor, Paint Christ’s crucified crown, Thorny androgyny, Prove faith alive By death— Cleanse love’s blood Shed for us [Echoes of lies, Cries of salvation, Drop to the floor Unheard], Hear not a word— Speak nothing.

Corona, Corona, Bathed in blood, Drip red, Measure by measure To the floor, Cry ruby tears.

Forever deafened, 26

Sanguine ears No longer hear— [Beat the heart: Muffled thump, Useless pump] Forever rendered— useless— And forever rendered.

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Jocelyn Rease

Maybe

Maybe, I could stop time.

With enough will power, I could

laugh louder,

smile wider,

pray harder.

Maybe, I could tell a lie

better.

With patience and wit,

it can be done.

I could blink you

into the present.

Maybe, if I sacrifice a lie, a smile,

a laugh,

time, I could,

with enough will power,

blink you into the present.

Maybe.

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Holly Marecheau

Dandelion

I’ve never been one to wear my heart on my sleeve.

I am a tank top/no top woman.

I would rather bare arms, but Deli softened me.

She taught me the splendor in serenity so I find silver linings in my days drift and let them drift by while I stare at the sky.

She encouraged me to let my mind run to marathons sometimes And to often let dreams sleep peacefully.

I’ve learned not to chase, but instead stand liberty still and allow time to erode the past.

To find depth where others deem shallow.

What does she expect me to find in kiddie pools and puddles?

I am not like her.

She likes her puddles with a little substance.

I cannot allow the sun to dry my raindrops.

I cannot wait apprehensively in the grass for more rain.

Reflection, she says, Look deep, deep enough to drown but safe enough to unveil a half empty soul.

I am not like her.

I cannot be planted in one spot mirroring seeds I’ve sowed.

I cannot judge the mud or curse the dirt, she says, only admire the life that springs out of it.

Every dandelion is a story unwritten.

Every petal new life, novel opportunities.

Unassuming beauty in the simplest form because even though the world tells her she’s a weed Deli stands tall.

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Frank Clark

The Roses Wept

You come toward me carrying a gold vase of foxglove and roses, then you turn.

With each step your image fades until only the vase remains.

It falls, shatters, into a thousand memory pieces.

The foxgloves wilt.

The roses weep.

The deck shuffles, with machine precision.

I see you walking along the beach where we grew up together I want to rush to you, but I can’t.

You turn, staring at me.

The ocean begins to rise, you seem not to notice.

I think I hear your soft sigh.

The water rises over your head.

The deck shuffles again Locked in this world, I look up, see you in the sky, a sad smile on your face, a mask that covers your pain Slowly, a familiar pattern of dark clouds, ghosts, drifts between us.

You are gone again.

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Elizabeth Visscher

Thanksgiving

Cold turkey was no longer a tawdry expression but the stark reality resting on my plate.

The craftsmanship of my mother’s cookery was an unappreciated art.

One absence of a familiar face made waste of a glutton’s feast.

My legs swung like a pendulum under my seat.

This motion was newly allowed by the barren chair across from me.

My mother scraped the lipstick off her lips with her teeth.

The pigmented wax was all that she ate.

My brother mimicked Hamlet’s ponderous pose, holding his head in his hands away from his frame.

He sighed and stirred, widening the circumference of his mashed, potato pool.

Grandpa and Grandma sat fixed like two candlesticks, with life as low as the flickering flames.

My father’s fork poignantly pieced the bird’s corpse.

I watched, hoping the meat’s toughness is what made his teeth grind.

The dog didn’t beg.

Always serving, never sitting, my mother, with a crestfallen countenance, rose.

Returning laden with holiday pastries, she spoke, “Who all would care for dessert?”

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Art!

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Death or Taxes Will Darnell

Steel, Acrylic Sheet, Glass, Foam, U.S. Currency, Cork

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Parabox Will Darnell Oak, Walnut

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Peruvian Life Cristina Migles-Schmitt Photography

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Bear and Bees April Borchelt

Prisma colored pencils on bristol board

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Conflicted Elizabeth Visscher Oil on canvas

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Eastern European Beauty Daniel Barnard Graphite sketch

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Escaping Dreams Deremier Humphrey

Ink and watercolor on wood

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For the Love of Fruit Allison O’Hara Digital art

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I Never Hit the Ground Jessica Medovich Aquatint with chine collé

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It’s Personal Mark Stanley Oil on canvas

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Mercy Celianne Pianeta

Charcoal and graphite on paper

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Muse Sheba Lee

Charcoal on matboard

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Nesta Sheba Lee

Pastel on matboard

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Peppers Mark Stanley Oil on canvas

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Remember Me? April Borchelt Oil on canvas

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Rethymno Carnaval Rositsa Asenova Digital/Photoshop

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Romance With Technology Chase King Oil on canvas

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Self-Portrait Kenneth Walters Photography

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Shadows Devin Hunter Oil on panel

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Cirripedia Crustacea III Christopher McDoniel Ceramics

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Seasons Anna Reyes

Watercolor pencil and micron pen on paper

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Aimee Zachary Diaz Pen on paper

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And Count to Ten Ryan Benefield

ink and watercolor on paper

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Breaking Boundaries Ryan Benefield

Ink and watercolor on paper

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CCC Lydia Day

Oil on canvas

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Center of a Rose Lynnette Torres

Colored Pencil on Bristol

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Death Rituals Lydia Day

Linoleum block print

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Die Verwandlung Rainey Rawles Roof tar on panel

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Dreaming of a Better Place Claire Pursley Digital art

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En Pointe Zachary Diaz Pen on paper

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Enlightenment Sheherazade Draw

Color pencil/photoshop

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Geometric Sheherazade Draw House paint on wood

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Jeep Devin Hunter Oil on panel

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Kenya Timothy Meador Digital photography

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Lines Zachary Diaz Pen on paper

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Listen to the City Nicholas Cornish-Tomlinson

White charcoal on black tone paper

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Melancholy Rainey Rawles Oil on canvas

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Painting with Pencils Sheherazade Draw Colored pencils

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Plate Expression Galina Buromskikh Digital photography

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So Many Shapes Camille Carpenter Henriquez Acrylic on canvas

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Studious Jeffery Tucker

Digital photography

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Unheimliche Geschichten Rainey Rawles Oil and latex paint on canvas

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Three-Week Figure Teri Jester-Hamilton Oil on canvas

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literature!

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Ryan Mahan

Communion

The colorful gasses and dust carried on with their tireless dance through the void of space. One day, the nebula would be forced to settle down, but until then it happily twisted and expanded, providing a happy light in the midst of an infinite sea of darkness. Centuries from now, the nebula’s light would reach the good Earth and its colonies, finally able to witness its beauty. For the time being, however, the nebula had only one observer.

The incorporeal audience remained by the nebula, trapped in awe at the sight. It had witnessed the death of countless billions of stars before this event, and would witness countless others afterwards, yet it never tired of the spectacle. The being shifted its attention to a passing cloud of helium within the nebula. With all its power, the being struggled to feel that cloud’s essence. It sensed the presence of every single atom in the cloud, empathizing with them until it felt that it was each one of those atoms itself. Euphoria crossed over the entity, and it knew once more that all that existed in the universe was beautiful. It had done a good job, it thought to itself.

Jacob Bear stared out the window, a nebula of no concern to him visible off in the distance. His heart raced anxiously, his wrinkled forehead covered in sweat. He had waited a long time for this day. He still remembered all those decades ago, when they’d figured out faster-than-light travel. It was strictly intended for unmanned missions, of course. Nobody dared throw their life away, floating through the dismal expanse of space. Jacob Bear, however, had a purpose, one single goal pushing him throughout his adult life. After all he had gone through, it began to consume his other, less realistic desires. Jacob Bear was going to find God. And if the bastard was out there, he was going to speak with him.

“Are you sure he’s here?” asked a technician, sitting from the comfort of an office parsecs away from the man he was assigned to supervise. Nobody, even the ones in charge, was quite sure of just how Jacob earned the permission to pilot a faster-than-light spacecraft all those years ago. They should have known better, many employees of the space program thought to themselves. You don›t trust a vehicle in the

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hands of a lunatic, especially not a vehicle of this kind of sophistication.

Maybe someone up top was touched by his story. Jacob wasn›t the first person to go looking for God, but he was the first one to promise he›d go straight up into Heaven itself and bring him.

“He’s here, all right,” Jacob said confidently, poring over a screen densely packed with equations only he could quite make sense of.

“There’s a...thing here.”

“A thing?” asked the technician.

“A thing,” Jacob repeated confidently, as he began to ready his spacesuit. “It’s...it’s a thing, it’s something that shouldn’t be here.

Something we’re not quite sure what it is.” Jacob grimaced to himself, realizing how foolish he sounded to the technician. He had gone his whole life ruing the fact that he had so much trouble with words. Then again, he was on the hunt for a creature nobody quite had the words for.

“With all due respect, Mr. Bear...” the technician replied, struggling to remain as formal as his job required. “We must remind you that you’re in possession of an extremely valuable spacecraft, and the last thing either of us need is for someone to bring about a second Cervantes incident. Are you confident that you’re in a suitable emotional state to continue this mission?”

“I’m not going to continue this mission,” Jacob answered gruffly.

“I’m going to finish it. God is out there. I’m going to find him, and I’m going to get my answers.” Jacob put on his helmet, his uniform having completely replaced his own weathered visage with the heroic figure of an astronaut. With bated breath, Jacob prepared the exit to his ship, and stepped out into the abyss.

“Another?” thought the bodiless entity, sensing the presence of a new mind. In all the eons it had been, not once had it encountered a thought that was not its own, a being that wasn’t itself. It was disappointed to look away from the nebula, but it decided study of the curious object was in order. It shifted its attention towards the strange visitor, and as it did so Jacob Bear knew the beast was approaching him.

Without a form, the nebula’s observer was beyond sensory perception, yet there was something about its presence that could be felt, a stirring in the gut that occurred only when one had the attention of the Almighty. Jacob Bear smiled, knowing that he had earned his audience.

“Are you God?” asked Jacob. He wasn’t sure if his words would

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be heard, or if his unusual discovery even could hear, but he had to speak. He had come too far not to. Sensing another thought from the visitor, the intangible being allowed its thoughts to be sensed as well.

“What is God?” it asked in turn. Jacob was stupefied, barely able to comprehend such a response.

“Did…did you create the universe?” Jacob asked hesitantly.

“I did,” answered the being. “All of this is my work.”

“Then you’re God,” explained Jacob.

“I see,” said God, its thoughts betraying no emotion. “And what are you?”

“Me? Really? You don’t know what I am? I’m a human.”

“What is a human?” it asked. Jacob’s eyes widened. He clutched his chest to make sure his heart hadn’t stopped.

“How do you not know what a human is? You created us, didn’t you?”

“Do humans come from stars?” God asked. “The stars are what I notice the most of my creation.”

“Er…well, sort of,” Jacob said, in disbelief he would need to explain such a concept to God. “We live on a planet, which orbits a star, I guess.”

“You’re on top of a planet?” thought God. “You are very small, then. Smaller than a planet. Much smaller than a star.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s right,” answered Jacob. “We are smaller than a star. You want to know something else interesting about us?”

“Yes, please,” said God eagerly, its words laced with emotion for the first time. “This is all very fascinating.”

“Quite a few of us are very unhappy,” Jacob scoffed. He waited for a response, but God stayed silent, lost in its own thoughts.

Unhappy. God understood what Jacob meant by the word. It could tell the feelings Jacob experienced as he thought it, but God was unfamiliar with the emotion itself. Happy, it knew. Happy was what it felt when it gazed upon its work, when it observed all the incomprehensible vastness of a galaxy at once. Unhappy was the opposite of that, it deduced.

“What could make one unhappy?” God asked, breaking the long silence. “Can you not see the stars?”

“We can see the stars just fine, thanks,” replied Jacob. “We’ve

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also got crime, poverty, hunger, loneliness. There are a million different ways the world can screw you over. I’ve gone through quite a few of them myself. For a long time I’ve wanted to know who I’m supposed to talk to about all the shit going on back on the good Earth, and as far as I can tell the buck stops here.”

“That is unfortunate,” God answered, pondering the thoughts behind Jacob’s words.

“You’re right, it is,” replied Jacob just as bluntly. “Now why does it happen?”

“I don’t know,” God replied, sounding just as serene as ever.

Jacob’s eye began to twitch involuntarily, his hands briefly balling up into fists.

“What the hell do you mean you don’t know?” he asked, poorly attempting to remain calm. “Didn’t you create the universe? Didn’t you create us? All of this is yours, isn’t it? You’re supposed to know!”

“Are there things smaller than you?” God asked.

“What?!” Jacob screamed. Quickly regaining his composure, he cleared his throat and tried his best to answer the question. “I mean, uh…yeah, sure. There are things smaller than us back home. Like bugs and stuff.”

“I see,” God answered. “Do these bugs ever suffer?”

“I’m not sure if they’re smart enough to, but…I mean, I guess so.”

“Do you care that the bugs suffer?”

“Of course not. They’re just bugs. Sometimes we even kill them oursel…” Jacob stopped himself, realizing the gravity behind his own words. “Wait a minute…you don’t mean…”

“How unusual,” God said, its thoughts laced more with curiosity than anything else. “I would never kill something smaller than me.

Death is common enough when it comes naturally.” God’s attention gradually shifted slightly away from Jacob, and back towards the shifting gasses of the nearby nebula.

“I love the stars,” God said. “I think they’re my greatest creation.

When their time arrives, some of them leave behind a nova, expelling all their gas into beautiful clouds, like these. Eventually, the gas will settle back down into a single mass. More matter will be attracted by its gravity, and soon a new star appears in its place. The stars die, and then

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they are born again.”

“Not all of us are born again,” retorted Jacob. “I had a friend once. He worked his ass off every day in exchange for just barely enough money to stay off the streets. He had no love, no future… nothing worth living for, he thought. One day the…the world just got to him. Why did that happen, huh? Why wasn’t he allowed to be happy?”

“I don’t know,” God answered tonelessly. Jacob tossed his hands into the air in frustration. How could something with the intelligence to create worlds be so idiotic? How could this thing dare to call itself the one behind all that exists yet be so ignorant of even the most basic facts of how people work?

“What…what the fuck is the matter with you?” Jacob roared.

“I’ve gone my whole life thinking that God was trying to screw me over, but finding out you don’t care…that’s even worse! If I died…if all of us died, would you even know it happened?” God remained silent.

“That’s what I thought,” continued Jacob with a grimace. “And now that I’ve found you, I’ve got to go back home. I’ve got to go all the way back to Earth and tell everyone this whole trip was a bust. And after that…I don’t know, I guess I’m supposed to spend the rest of my days as the world’s laughingstock. There’s fucking nothing for me now, is there?” Jacob began to hyperventilate, tears forming around his eyes.

“I thought after I found you, after I got my answers…I thought I’d be happy. And now it turns out my life dream was a complete waste. I mean…just what the fuck am I supposed to do?” God pondered Jacob’s thoughts, making sure it understood each word as deeply as Jacob himself did.

“You could try looking at the stars,” God suggested. Without a further word, Jacob turned around, preparing for the long journey back home. As its curious visitor left, the being returned its attention to the nebula. Already it could sense the dance of the clouds beginning to slow. Soon it would become a star, its role in the universe beginning anew.

Euphoria crossed over the entity, and it knew once more that all that existed in the universe was beautiful.

81

El Diablo Lance Hansard

“Oh God! My head is killing me. I need some Tylenol.”

John threw the covers back and tried to pry his head from the pillow. With every inch of movement his head throbbed and squeezed around his brain. The pressure was so intense he could hardly open his lead-like eyes.

“They should put a warning label on tequila,” he thought to himself as he stumbled from his bed towards the bathroom.

Every step was like a sledgehammer punching him right between the eyes.

“Oh, dear lord, make it stop.”

Squinting into the blackness, he tried to remember his way to the bathroom door. The thoughts came slowly as he tried to rationalize through the haze that now veiled his brain.

“I am an educated man. Why do I do this to myself?”

After staggering for what seemed an eternity, he finally breached the threshold, flipped on the light and drew his head back like a slingshot. The light pierced the darkness; John almost fell trying to avoid the brightness.

A few more unsteady steps and John reached the sink.

Throwing his arms out to prop against the counter, he hovered for a minute. An overwhelming urge to vomit grew in his stomach until he could feel the pressure in his throat. He leaned in toward the sink, but nothing came out.

“For the love of God, just let me throw up already,” he thought to himself.

Every thought increased the pressure in his head. After a minute of dry heaving, John lifted his head and gazed into the mirror. He tried to focus his vision, but all he could see was the bright red reflection of his eyes glaring back at him.

“Damn, I guess I just ain’t as young as I used to be,” he thought. “Twelve shots of tequila and I end up a sideshow freak.

Twelve shots. What the hell was I thinking?” The thought rang in his head like an enormous bell, with a shrill and piercing the 82

echo. The cutting and throbbing reverberations echoed in his head while his stomach rumbled, reminding him that his head was not the only problem at this moment.

“Just freaking puke already. This isn’t college, and no one will care,” John heaved a few more times, but nothing would come out. As he slowly lifted his head, his vision focused on the mirror. A black figure stood behind him.

John spun around panicked, while flailing his arms outward in an effort to strike whomever was behind him. As he yelled, his arms sailed through the air but found no target. John stood there trying to catch his breath, scanning left and right, trying to make sense of what just happened. There was no one there.

The only sound was that of John’s breath as his heart pounded against the walls of his chest.

“Pull it together man,” the thought tumbled through his head like a pair of jeans in the dryer. “Twelve shots, what the hell were you thinking.”

John turned back toward the mirror half expecting the figure to be there behind when he looked into it. Nothing. Just the reflection of a man trying to prove that he could still hang with the younger crowd.

“Drinking was better in college,” he thought.

John pulled on the handle of the medicine cabinet, keeping his eyes strained on the mirror as it slowly moved out of his field of vision as the door opened. With the door three-fourths open he shifted his weight to his left leg, leaned over and peered around the door frame checking the mirror one more time just in case. Satisfied that there was no black figure in the mirror’s reflection, John tried to square himself up again so he could find the bottle of Tylenol.

When he looked forward, instead of seeing the shelves, a severed head stared John squarely in the face. The rotted head’s jet-black hair fell from its crown into a stringy matted mess caked with a mixture of grime, dirt and dried blood. The head’s skin had dried into a leathery sheath stained with blood. The lips had receded due to the drying skin, giving the head the faint 83

appearance of smiling. Black, stained teeth protruded gnarled, jagged and crooked from the face. Maggots filled the eye sockets.

Some were crawling in and out the nostrils; others bored into the skin.

John flung himself backward. The shock overwhelmed him and his feet tangled on one another, causing him to fall backward. His head struck the tile floor.

He tried to regain his senses after the momentary blackout. He slowly opened his eyes; the fear that was gradually overtaking his senses fully emerged. He was dazed and confused, but he knew that he had to move; he had to retreat. Summoning up every ounce of energy he made his move.

John flipped up on his side, pulling his right leg up under him. He planted his foot and shoved his body toward the bathroom door. Spinning over he placed his hands on the floor, and with a lunge he regained his feet. Reaching out and grabbing the doorframe, he pulled hard with his arms as his feet scrambled toward the door.

After clearing the doorframe, John spun around and looked back at the medicine cabinet. There was no head, just some shelves lined with medicines bottles, a toothbrush, after-shave, some razors and toothpaste. John’s heart felt as if it were going to burst through his chest.

Tachypneic, with sweat rolling down his forehead, John tried to calm himself and process what had just happened.

Thoughts cluttered his mind, changing as fast as his heartbeat.

“What the hell was that? What the hell—was that?”

As the confusion settled in his mind, his breathing slowed and his heart met a runner’s pace. John could only muster one rational thought: “That damn Pedro and his freaking tequila.

That’s the last time I ever get drunk with a Mexican.”

John could feel a pressure growing in his throat again; he thought for sure he was going to vomit this time. He staggered back into the bathroom, dry-heaving as he made his way over to the toilet. John reached out his left arm to raise the toilet lid.

Grasping the edge of the lid he lifted it, smacking the tank as it came to rest in the upright position.

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John leaned over in preparation to purge when he looked down into the bowl. Blackness emerged from the drain up through the water. It crept its way up, swirling in the water until it had fully consumed the bowl. Spewing forth like a volcano, the blackness was coming for John.

In a panic, John threw his head backward, upsetting his center of gravity. John fell back against the wall. The blackness continued to emerge from the toilet. The shape continued whirling about trying to take form. At first, it appeared to be smoky and translucent with a hovering movement. Then it became fluid-like with wings and fangs, ever-changing to claws and horns.

The blackness ebbed ever closer to John, and it gradually began to solidify. Tentacles took on a more familiar form of human arms. The arms reached outward toward John trying to get a hold of him. John was horrified and slid down the wall. The blackness—an unearthly blackness—continued in a fluid motion inching closer to John.

John was withdrawing and curling himself into a ball but it was no use; there was no way to escape. He was trapped, terrified, and exhausted. He shriveled, wedging himself in a fetal position at the base of the wall and the floor.

“No, no, leave me alone,” he yelled.

The blackness fully formed into a faceless silhouette—a large soulless empty shell. Inching closer and closer, the blackness reached its arms toward John’s neck. In a final effort to protect himself, John buried his head into the folds of his arms. The blackness was now inches from overtaking him. Mind whirling, screaming, and kicking, John swung and flailed violently. It was of no use. The blackness just kept coming, creeping and oozing its way toward John—until it consumed him.

John lay motionless. There was an odd sensation overtaking his body. He felt warm and comfortable. He felt relaxed. Then, he realized he was not lying on the cold hard tile floor; instead, he could feel the security of his blankets. All the anxiety that had consumed him ebbed away. He slowly opened his eyes realizing that he was in his bed. He lay there staring at 85

the ceiling.

“Ah, it was all just a dream, a horrible nightmare,” he thought as a smile crept across his face. Hunger pangs welled up in his stomach. “Maybe I’ll have some waffles, warm waffles, covered in butter and drowning in hot maple syrup. And bacon, yeah bacon, that’s what I’ll have for breakfast—waffles and bacon.”

John lay in bed for a moment content with his breakfast choice. “It’s gonna be a great day,” he thought.

He rolled over on his side, and then sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Stretching his arms out, he yawned, and then began rubbing the sleep from his eyes. When he finished, he looked toward the bedroom wall in front of him.

Frozen, panic-stricken, where every muscle in his body constricted at once, John sat paralyzed. On the wall, painted in blood with streams trickling down from the bottom of each letter, two words appeared: “Twelve shots.”

86

The Fortress of Azum’Kai Logan Florence

Mofar moved as a cat in an alley, his broad shoulders

hunched, one moving after the other like a lion stalking its prey.

The burly youth moved silently through the stone corridor, his lithe legs in a half crouch, moving with the shadows cast by torch-light lining the grim, cold walls. His golden mane fell to his shoulders and a short, dark beard outlined his face in the dim-lit passageways.

He wore little in the way of armor, sporting only two bracers of hard leather that sat upon his forearms. His torso was bare, and his skin stretched across his hard muscles, which peaked like mountain tops as he slinked through the darkness.

In his calloused paw, he brandished a heavy broadsword in a white-knuckle grip. He wielded it as if it was a single steel claw, completing the Burgundian’s feline appearance. He held the weapon low, as if to drive it up into an unsuspecting foe that may leap from a dark corner or hidden doorway.

He had little experience with towers, dungeons, and other daunting structures of civilization, but he was not foolish enough to think he was alone in this place. He could not be the only thief brash enough to rob the legendary Fortress of Azum’Kai on the one night it went unguarded.

The entire Arcadian capital was jubilantly celebrating the Imperial Festival of Unity. The streets were flowing red with wine, and every solider within city walls had a girl draped in silk under his arm. Slipping past drunken and distracted guardsmen had proven to be an easy task, and scaling the stone walls of the fortress was far less daunting compared to climbing the cliffs of his native Burgundia.

Nevertheless, it was the stony depths of the fortress that had given him problems. He had more than once lost his way and he was still unsure of who or what lurked behind every dark, cold turn. Even more concerning, the young barbarian was beginning to question the legitimacy of the map he had stolen from that shady merchant.

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The brawny youth stood upright, sheathed his blade and reached for a torch which hung on the wall. Holding the flame close to his face, he knelt once more and retrieved a piece of old leather from a pouch on his belt. He squinted in the fire-light as he held the map in his hand. The ink had begun to fade in its old age, but he could still make out the dotted line that would lead him to his prize. A confident smirk found its way onto his bearded face. He reassured himself that the map was legitimate. This was not some Arcadian scroll drawn by an architect’s hand; this was a treasure map hastily sketched by a thief ’s nimble fingers as he navigated these very halls. And now it was his.

With a sigh of relief that he was still on course, the barbarian hung the torch on the wall and stowed his map away. As he raised a mighty arm to wipe the sweat from his furrowed brow, the shrill, sharp sound of a blade leaving its sheath echoed in the stony passage. Before the Burgundian could even reach for his weapon, the sensation of cold steel clung to his throat.

“Don’t make any sudden movements,” her words lingered in his ear as she pressed the dagger upward under his chin, its sharp edge so tight against his flesh that breathing became a chore.

“Taken hostage by a woman? I thought I’d never have the pleasure to live out this fantasy,” Mofar growled from a pained throat.

“Barbarian pig!” she whispered in his ear, her chin pressed on his massive shoulder and her teeth brushing against his ear as she spoke. “With a single turn of my wrist I could paint the walls red with your blood.”

“Then I shall mind my tongue,” he grunted from behind the blade. “Although you’re making it increasingly more difficult to do so.”

“Keep trying your luck, savage,” her dagger dug even deeper into his skin with every word she spoke.

“But, I haven’t come for your life. If I wanted you dead I would have buried this blade in your back. My purpose is a bit more elegant then murder. You have stolen something from me.

And I would very much like it back. So long as I get what’s mine, you may live,” she grabbed a tuff of his long hair and jerked his 88

head back, exposing the fullness of his throat to her cold weapon.

“Sound fair enough to you?”

The strapping youth paused for a brief moment, and then gave his answer. He knew exactly what she wanted.

“Remove the knife from my throat and the map is yours.

You have my word.”

The impish rogue lifted her dagger from his neck and directed its point to his bare back, its blade less than an inch away from his flesh.

“That’s a good lad. I thought you’d see things my way.

Now, reach for the map and I promise you’ll go unharmed. And have you ever considered wearing armor? It may have saved your life if I had decided to backstab you,” she said softly and silkily, but rife with mockery.

“I am a Burgundian,” he replied reaching for the map, with his back still turned to his captor.

“Armor is an unnecessary luxury to my people. We use what ore we can get fashioning swords and axes instead of—” “Fascinating, now hand me the map!” she snapped impatiently as she greedily snatched it from his hand.

Mofar turned his head over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the woman who just held his life for ransom. She was short, but strong in limb and compact in shoulder as most rogues come. She had a presence of unbridled strength about her, yet it did not distract from her femininity. She was older, perhaps a decade more than Mofar, but she still clung to her youth. She had a sharp, lined face and a full bosom which she flaunted in a thick leather corset which seemed to serve more as armor then apparel.

Her curly black locks fell to her cloaked shoulders, and her bright green eyes peered out from under her darkened hood.

“I’m impressed!” she exclaimed, finally lifting her long gaze from the map. “You’ve managed to follow it thus far. Not bad for a young hill-savage. And you can turn around now, I’ve long sheathed my dagger.”

Mofar turned to face the rogue, the dim light flickering off his bare chest as he spoke.

“I stole it from some loud-mouthed merchant in a tavern 89

when he had his face buried in a wine-pot. I knew its worth, so I seized the opportunity. I did not realize the map was yours.”

“That’s because he was going to sell it to me. As soon as I had picked a few more pockets for extra coin, or course. I really should be thanking you. This method proved to be much cheaper.” She gave the barbarian a sly smirk as she rolled the map in her hands, storing it under the confines of her cloak. “I suppose I should ask a man his name after I threaten his life.

What do they call you Burgundian?”

“My name is Mofar, son of Hrothgar, of the Storm-Peak Mountains,” he folded his thick arms across his massive chest and raised one dark eyebrow at the buxom thief. “How did you track me so easily? It is not every day someone manages to take me by surprise.”

“It’s also not every day a Burgundian comes to the capital city of the Arcadian Empire. Especially during the Festival of Unity,” she replied in a taunting tone as she gazed up at the much taller man before her. “My name is Lorila, by the way, as you were so kind to give me yours.”

“Lorila,” Mofar repeated the name in his thick baritone.

He still wasn’t used to pronouncing Arcadian names. “And what brings you here?”

“Same as you, I’d imagine,” she assured him. “You seek the treasure-rooms of Azum’Kai as well?”

Before Mofar could even part his lips to respond, a startling movement of bronze and blackened cloth sprung from the darkness behind Lorila’s shoulder. The creature’s dull helm gleamed by the torch-light, as it extended a cold hand, grasping aimlessly at the darkness.

“Behind you!” Mofar howled as he snatched the curvy Arcadian and tossed her aside. She hit the stony ground hard, but quickly gained her footing. She clambered to the shadows, her back against the wall and her long dagger drawn.

Mofar roared like a lion and barred his teeth, charging the creeping wraith with a rampant fury. His war-cry echoed through the fortress halls as he brought his foe to the ground with a primal tackle. The sound of armor clanging against stone sang 90

through the corridor as they slammed to the ground.

He drove a knee into his opponent’s chest and clutched his throat in an iron grip, pinning him down like a cat pins his prey.

His opposition struggled, hissing and screeching like trapped vermin. With his free hand, Mofar tore away at the creature’s bronze helm concealing its face. A mighty gasp escaped the barbarian’s lungs as he witnessed what lay beneath. A skull of bleached ivory starred back at the Burgundian, a bizarre green magik leaking from its sunken eye-sockets.

“By Donar’s beard …” Mofar cursed under his breath.

“What manner of sorcery is this?”

The barbarian drew his blade, its steel edge a gleaming beacon in the darkened hall. He lifted the broadsword on high, and drove it towards the undead target. Metal met bone in a harmonious clash, the skull splintering as the Burgundian blade punctured deep. The curious green substance oozed like steam from the piercing wound, as if the creature’s haunting spirit was fleeing the skeletal husk. Mofar rose from his kill, his chest rising and falling as he breathed deeply from the exhilaration of battle.

He turned to Lorila, her eyes and dagger alike shining through the darkness.

“Are you alright?”

“Y-yes, of course!” the shapely thief seemed to be a bit more stunned from the incident then she led on. “I’m just … not used to anything sneaking up on me like that.”

“Think about that when you get the urge to put that knife to another Burgundian throat,” Mofar ripped his buried blade from the lifeless skull. “What was that wretched beast?”

“Skeletal Guardian,” Lorila answered, her tone slightly puzzled. “Pawns of necromancy. It is said that a curse was placed upon Azum’Kai. That the remains of the dead guard the treasure-rooms.”

“I have heard stranger tales,” Mofar replied. “But I was unaware that this fortress was haunted.”

“Ghost stories. Local folklore. To keep the young ones away from meddling in the towers. No self-respecting Arcadian believed them to be true.” The rogue seemed to have trouble 91

coping with the reality of dark magik. “But, it seems that the dead do walk these halls among the living, guarding the hidden treasure-rooms …” Lorila’s eyes went wide as she witnessed more looming figures trudging through the darkness. “Behind you, barbarian!”

Mofar spun on his heel, brandishing his blade on high.

Out from the blackness of the fortress’s depths, the skeletal specters lumbered toward their prey, all brandishing rusted scimitars and wicked axes. The glowing green magik was radiating from their gaunt forms like smoke from a flame.

“We haven’t much time,” Lorila said as she hastily drew the map from her cloak. “Fend them off for as long as you can.

According to the map, the door to the treasure-room is near. It’s just hidden. I’ll have to find it. It’s our only chance.”

Mofar eyed the rouge suspiciously, but before the Burgundian could even protest Lorila took off down the hall, her hooded cloak aflutter behind her. She turned sharply down a dark corner and disappeared from Mofar’s sight.

“No doubt that’ll be the last I ever see of her,” Mofar mumbled as he readied his blade. “That is, if by Wodan’s fate I make it out alive.”

With his god’s name still fresh on his lips, the young Burgundian charged the line of nearly a dozen fiendish wraiths before him. The first kill was the cleanest, as he easily cleaved through a bronze helm, shattering the hollow skull beneath his steel. The magik leaked from the sword-wound and the skeletal soldier crumbled to a pile of lifeless bone.

Several more closed in on the barbarian with unexpected speed. They circled the Burgundian from all sides, closing in at a persistent, steady pace. Mofar took a low stance, wielding his broadsword in a two handed grip, and let loose a mighty battle-cry. The horde of skeletal fiends answered his challenge.

One leaped at him, swinging its war-axe wildly. Nearly a second later, it fell to the ground, its skull split in two with a swing of Burgundian steel. More rushed the barbarian, a wave of emotionless instinct. The narrow corridor was crowded as the undead piled onto the barbarian through sheer numbers alone.

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Mofar felt bony fingers as hard as iron-rods scramble at his person. A curved scimitar whistled past his neck, barely missing his throat. Mofar’s face turned red as he bellowed a fierce growl. With every muscle burning like fire, the barbarian burst from the grips of his undead adversaries.

Now free from their grapple, the Burgundian fought like a wild, cornered lion. Another skeletal warrior relentlessly charged him. Mofar side stepped its axe swing, grasping its thorny spinal-cord in a mighty paw. He lifted the wraith high, spun around, and slammed its head into the stony brick wall. The skull imploded to shards on impact, the green life-force fleeing from the remains. Mofar tossed the lifeless bones at the feet of the other undead guardians. For a moment they halted, as if fear of defeat crept into their hallow skulls. Mofar’s nostrils flared as he snorted like a bull; the youth brandished his sword high and charged the opposition once more. His blade was working quickly now. He hurled the weapon in wide arches, smashing apart any skeleton that came too close. The shinning edge splintered bones and cleaved rusted steel in two. His broadsword sang with every swing.

Soon nothing but decrepit bones, marrow, and rotten sinew lay scattered and broken at the barbarian’s feet. He took a deep breath of air, his lungs stinging from the prolonged combat. But he couldn’t rest now; he had a thief to catch. Mofar quickly sheathed his weapon and sprinted down the ill-lit halls of Azum’Kai. He took turn after dark turn, racing deeper into the labyrinth of the blackened fortress. That dastardly rogue had taken the map! How was he supposed to claim his plunder? How was he going to even get out of this forsaken castle?

His teeth snarled at the thought as he ran. He refused to spend an eternity navigating these halls just to be left empty handed. Mofar’s eyes began to flicker with rage, as his leg struck a jutting object, sending his burly form tumbling in the dark. He lay flat on his back, his head spinning in circles, as he gazed up at Lorila standing over him, clenched fists resting on her wide hips.

“Are you mad?! You could have killed me! Watch where you put that damn boot woman!” he growled at her.

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“I’m about to make it worth your while,” a clever grin sneaking onto Lorila’s face. “I’ve nearly found what we’re looking for.”

Mofar rose to his feet with a groan and Lorila turned to the stone wall before them. She began to gracefully trace the contours of brick and stone, her petite hands moving with skillful dexterity.

“Arcadian architects are well known for their secret passage ways. And the map places the entrance somewhere around this hall. It’s usually as simple as pulling out the correct brick. The thief who created this map would have marked it. It’s an old trick among our kind.”

Her eyes darted from brick to brick, examining the rock carefully. Mofar stood aloof, a skeptical look across his bearded face.

“And what happens when you remove said brick? The doorway just reveals itself?”

“Hush, savage!” Lorila snarled at him. “Can’t you see I’m a little busy … Ah-ha!”

Lorila yanked a loose brick free from the wall, a subtle rune Mofar did not recognize etched on its face; it appeared to vaguely resemble a crescent moon with a dagger running through it.

“Mark of the Arcadian Thieves Guild,” she told him as she tossed it to the way-side.

“Glorious,” the youth grumbled. “But, how do you suppose we—” Mofar was interrupted by the rumbling clamor of heavy stone bricks tumbling from their stalwart position, revealing a large, rotting wooden door behind the darkened wall. Lorila gave Mofar an innocent, yet prideful look.

“After you,” she said sweetly.

Mofar grunted and lifted a booted heel, slamming it into the door with a mighty kick. It snapped the hinges, and the wooden entry collapsed in front of them, revealing the contents of one of Azum’Kai’s secret treasure-room. The glisten of ancient treasures nearly blinded them from the darkened passageway.

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Piles of gold and precious gems were scattered across the hidden chamber, ripe for the taking. Mofar had never seen so much gold in the entirety of his life. Mountains of ancient coinage from the Arcadian Emperors of old shimmered before his star-struck eyes.

A triumphant grin ran across the young Burgundian’s face. The vast, shinning plunder of Azum’Kai was finally his for the taking.

95

Grandma Fiona Van

How does grandma feel when the sun’s heavy rays spill through her blinds? Does she curse her aching back while dreaming of the days when she was 16? Or does she carefully weigh her limited plans for the morning in her mind (breakfast? more sleep?) before pulling the covers back over her head?

How does grandma feel with her fading eyes and paling skin?

Does she peer into mirrors and ponder wherever went her glossy hair and prim figure? Or does she skillfully avoid them, afraid to accept how fast the years have waltzed by?

How does grandma feel when the temple monks ring their bells and sing their songs? Does she submerge herself in meditation, chanting faithfully along to the rhythm of the gong? Or does she gaze into the enlightened one’s eyes and sinfully ask if he exists?

How does grandma feel when she sees young girls lost in foolish fantasies and blind romances? Does she scold them hotly— reminding them that education is what will bring to them happiness? Or does she gently take their hands in her own, hoping that their warmth would somehow convey her deepest pains and mistakes of when she first learned that not all boys were princes like in the fairy tales?

How does grandma feel when her daughters cook her meals and her sons send her money? Does she accept them proudly, boasting her good fortune among friends? Or does she put on a show (yells at them, tells them they’re no good, emphasizes that she doesn’t need anything) in order to conceal her disappointment and shame that she has lost her place as their mother, provider and caretaker?

How does grandma feel when she waves goodbye to her once 96

small children and slips into bed at night? Does she drift into immediate sleep, snoozing away all the morning’s troubles? Or are nights the longest — the most painful? Wrapped in thick blankets and the bitter smell of medicine, does grandma silently weep, wondering why the empty spot beside her is so cold?

97

The Right Thing J. Caleb Rice

Jonas finished a long Saturday of work, much like any other, after waking up before the sun, and leaving the Mill at dusk.

Unlike most days, today he allowed himself to be at rest, knowing that he was fortunate enough to have tomorrow off for church and a day to spend some semblance of time with the family that he had already worked so many hard years to provide for. Today was bad, but tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow is what makes today acceptable.

He just had one last task to complete before he could begin the walk home to his beloved family. He had to go to the foreman to get his weekly wage. Usually, it was just enough to get his family through a week with enough food to stave off the hunger, to keep the roof over their heads and sometimes to give his children a new toy or candy to share. He didn’t understand their fascination with the beloved bubble gum, but he did truly love their faces when they got to have some.

The pathway up the stairs to the Foreman’s office always intimidated Jonas. The cramped hallway connecting theconnected The Mill to its management. He tapped on the door and waited to hear an acknowledgment of his presence before he entered into the small, cluttered office. The foreman was looking at some papers spread out on a desk, leaning over them, with elbows on his knees and a troubled look on his face. He lived in a world of troubled glances and stares. Jonas understood the pressure that the foreman’s bosses passed down to him, trying to keep 98

production high and expenses low. Sometimes the foreman dealt harshly with those who had trouble keeping up, but Jonas understood. He had the Mill to keep up.

“Hello Jonas,” the Foreman said.

“Hi Boss. How’re you doing today?”

“Well, Jonas, I don’t know rightly how to say this. The owners of the Mill are requiring me to cut back on our expenses, and seeing as how they’re already slashed as thin as they are, some serious changes have to be made.”

Jonas was confused because the foreman never spoke to him about what the bosses were up to. He began to feel the troubled look on the foreman’s face creeping into his own.

“Jonas, I have to let you go. You can’t come back next week.”

Everything went black. He felt his throat tighten and his heart beat violently inside of his chest. He felt nauseous. His back felt hot and all of his body felt tense.

“Jonas, you know that I think you’re a stand up guy, but you aren’t keeping up with everyone else. Your numbers are slipping. That’s why it has to be you. I’m sorry.”

Jonas seethed, “I’ve been with the Mill for fifteen years.

How could you let me go after all that? I fought with your brother in France! We’ve known each other for twenty-five years! How could this happen?”

The Foreman didn’t respond. He just shook his head slowly. After a few silent moments he finally said, “Jonas, please leave.”

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Jonas started to leave the office, holding back his rage, when he remembered his wage. “Give me my wage at least,” he said, feeling defeated.

“I can’t do that.”

The words hung in the air like burnt gunpowder, acrid and unyielding. Jonas stared blankly, while a feeling of dread sunk into his stomach like a pond of water being drained. He realized that the foreman didn’t have the money to give him and no amount of anger and yelling would relinquish to him what he deserved.

Quietly, he left the office, and shuffled down the tight hallway into the Mill, where he had spent so much of his life toiling away. He walked through the front door out into the street.

Jonas trudged the road home slowly. His thoughts lingered on his mortgage, already a month behind, which had a payment due at the start of the week. His thoughts led him into despair. He thought of his wife and children and imagined their faces when he told them that they would have to leave the house. He had already sold the car, which he bought in the times when everybody thought that the economy could only get stronger. In those days, everybody was so confident about the future. Everyone knew that only good things were to come. Six years; he wanted to know where those people were now. He considered all of his possibilities. He could beg for another job. He could beg on the streets. He could run away. He could end it all. None of his options sounded right.

He heard a sort of muffled cry as he crossed the train tracks. Surprised, he turned towards the sound and saw some 100

slight movement behind some of the bushes about twenty feet away, where the tracks came from a lightly wooded forest. After looking for a few moments, Jonas heard the sound again, clearer this time, so he slowly approached to investigate. As he neared the bushes, he began to make out a man’s figure on the ground. He called out toward the figure, and he heard the man gasp sharply in response, as if breathing pained him. Jonas approached the man cautiously;; after all, he had heard stories of thieves tricking victims into believing that they were hurt just to rob them. But, as Jonas got closer, he could see blood trailing away from the man’s body into small pools, and he was bent in an unnatural way.

“Hey Mister, you ok?” Jonas asked. The man replied between troubled breaths, “I’ve certainly been better.”

“Well what happened?”

“I don’t know why, but I thought I could beat the train. And it clipped me. It was moving faster than it normally does. I don’t understand it. “ Jonas looked on with pity and asked, “Well, let me go get help?”

The man looked up at him from the ground with a quick hopeful smile that slowly faded into a pained grimace.

He reached into his shirt pocket and got out a pen and a small notepad. Lying on his side, he began writing. He began to cry softly and said through his quiet tears, “Sir, it seems to me most fortuitous that you have arrived here at this moment. I believe it to be the case that these very moments are to be my last. Please, could you give this note to my wife?” He folded up the paper and stretched it towards Jonas. Reluctantly, Jonas took it from his 101

bloody hand. “Also, can you give this to my son?” He pulled out an envelope and handed it to Jonas as well. “My address is on the envelope. Sir, it would mean everything to me for you to do this.”

He started sobbing uncontrollably. Jonas bent down to grab his arm and said, “C’mon Mister. We have to get you help!” But the man remained and then was silent.

Jonas looked at him in horror. He had seen men die before but never like this. The man had died with a pocket watch in his hand, clutched tight into his chest. The dead man lay there curled and bent as if even death were not enough to release him from his pain. Jonas looked at the note and the envelope that he had been given, and his first thought was to see what was inside. What could be so important that a dying man would entrust it to a stranger to give to his son? He looked at the address on the front of the envelope and saw that the road was close to where he lived.

Jonas’ and the dead man’s roads forked away from each other about two miles from the tracks. The envelope was not sealed, so Jonas looked inside and saw that it contained money. He wasn’t sure what to do about the dead man, but he figured that he would start by seeking out the dead man’s family.

As he began walking back down the road, Jonas began to think of his own family and how hurt they would be if he were to have died instead of that man. He loved his wife dearly, and his children were always weighing heavily on his heart. He couldn’t stand to think about them being left alone, destitute, with no hope of a future. Not that they really had much of one now, but at least they all had each other to share it with. He thought of the dead 102

man’s family; how terrible it would be to be the one to deliver the news that he had died or how terrible it would be to not have been there in his final moment. But Jonas did find it somewhat comforting for them that the man had taken his final moments to arrange a ‘farewell’ of sorts for his family, and he started to take pride in his role as messenger for a fellow husband and father.

Jonas looked back into the envelope, and his heart sank.

There was certainly enough in there for him to pay at least two months of his mortgage payment, which would be enough to get ahead, and maybe even enough to get his wife a new dress (she hadn’t had a new dress since before their children were born). His heartbeat slowed to a crawl as he contemplated all that was possible with the contents of the envelope. How would the intended recipient even know that it had been on its way? Maybe the man had planned to gamble it away, and then decided against it when he was no longer in a position to use it? The boy is probably just going to waste it all anyways. Why should he get it and just throw it away?

The more Jonas walked and thought, the more he convinced himself. He saw a sign indicating the fork in the road ahead. The dead man’s road was to the right, and Jonas’ was to the left. As he neared it, his pace slowed, but his heart quickened. He could feel it throbbing in his chest and behind his ears. Finally, he looked down and sauntered to the left. He started the final stretch of the walk to his home, where his wife and children were waiting for him, probably wondering why he was so late.

He got about halfway down the street when he 103

remembered the note, jotted down by the bloody hand. Jonas stopped. He looked at the note all folded up. He considered for a moment, and slowly unfolded and opened it. “Dear Rose, I know that we’ve had our differences and quarrels, and I’m sorry for not doing better. I love you and our son very much. I cannot come home. I hope that we will meet again one day in that great kingdom that Pastor always talks about. Your love, John.”

As Jonas read the note he wept because he saw himself in it. He and his wife had a fight just two nights ago, and they had never really come to terms with their fight. The more he looked at the note, the more he wept. He shook his head and turned around.

He knew the right thing to do, and he knew he had to do it.

He made the trek back up the road to the fork, and he searched the depths of his own heart and brokenness. How could he ever entertain the idea of stealing another’s inheritance, especially a child’s? Was his heart really so dark as to steal from a dead man’s son? Jonas hoped that he would find some sort of respite in completing the task, delivering what was not his to its rightful owner.

He neared the fork, and for a while, he just looked at it.

Jonas thought, “How can this man have lived so close to me and we never met?” He thought about that as he made the turn to the left down John’s street, towards the man’s wife and child. He wondered what they were like. Were they a happy family, like his family? Would they be mad at him? A slow fear crawled up from the center of him into his stomach and then into his chest. He felt his heart quicken as he approached the house. His pace slowed 104

and time seemed to slow as well.

Standing there, he looked at the house from several lawns away, holding back tears as he remembered John. He thought about him lying there near the tracks, and the horrid, unnatural look he had about him. He remembered how much pain he had been in, and the desperation in the man’s face that showed his family needed to know that he loved them. Jonas marveled and hoped that he would love his own family and think of them if he were to be in such a situation.

He walked to the bottom of the stairs leading to the front porch. There was a little boy sitting on a small chair. It was John’s son. The envelope was to go to him. He looked at the boy and thought what the rest of his life would be like without his father.

Jonas thought about his own father and all of the sacrifices that he had to make for his family and imagined what his life would have been like without his father.

Jonas mustered what courage he had left after the day’s events had taken their toll on him, and fighting the knot in his throat he said, “Hi there son, is your mother here?” He could think of no way to directly tell the boy what had happened to his father. The boy looked up at him from his seat, a toy cowboy in his hand, and said back, “No sir, I don’t know where she is. I haven’t seen her since she left for the store.” His face was downcast and he looked at Jonas expectantly. “Have you seen my papa?” he asked. Jonas walked up onto the porch and said, “How about we go inside for a while?” and he opened to door and led into the boy’s house.

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The house was small, like his house. The boy led him into the kitchen, and Jonas looked around. He saw that some pots and pans were strewn about with some plates and silverware. His eyes fell to a piece of paper on the table. He picked it up, and it read, “John, I’m terribly sorry for it. All of it. I just can’t stand looking at him anymore, knowing he’s not yours. I know you love him immensely, so I’m leaving him with you. I’m going to be with my sister in Boston. Please don’t follow me.”

It was signed simply, “Your love.”

Jonas looked at the note, and he looked at the boy. He said, “Do you know where your mother went?” and the boy shook his head, with a questioning face. Jonas sat against the wall, John’s note in his right hand, his wife’s in the left. In a single day, this boy had lost everything that he needed, and he didn’t even know it.

How could Jonas explain to him that his father was dead and his mother was gone? Who was going to take care of him now? His mother is somewhere in Boston, which wasn’t enough to find her, especially since she hadn’t signed her last name. Jonas looked at the boy and thought of his own son and his daughter. He couldn’t imagine them being alone.

As soon as he thought about leaving his kids alone, he knew what to do. He looked the boy in his small eyes and said, “Son, your father has gone on to that great place your preacher talks about. You’ll have to wait to see him again. And your mother is gone too. I don’t know if you’ll ever see her again.” The boy looked confused and afraid. Jonas said, “Son, I know you’re afraid. I can’t tell you why this happened, but I think you should 106

come with me. I have a son your age and a daughter a little older.

Please come with me now. I know you’re afraid.”

The boy cried a little, looking at Jonas from his position on the floor and said, “Can I bring my toys?” Jonas smiled and nodded, and the boy went and picked up a toy. “This one he said,” and he held up the cowboy he had been holding outside. “Papa gave me this. He said it reminded him of when he was little like me.” Jonas tried to smile to the boy to reassure him but couldn’t restrain his tears.

He and the boy left the house. He didn’t know how to explain the boy to his wife and to his children, and he didn’t know how he would be able to provide for them, let alone this new little one. But Jonas knew that he was doing right by the boy, and by John, his father. So he and the boy walked back up the street towards the fork to make the right turn back to Jonas’ house, where his wife and children would be waiting for him.

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Zachary Tipton

My Last Meal

What smell wakes me at this ominous hour? A baking pie’s pheromones delight my nostrils.

The moonlight’s blades have cut long rectangular slits in the wall above me. Dirty laundry piles have exploded and spread casualties throughout the 10-by-10 topography. Pots clang and drawers slide in and out of their natural state. I follow the sound with my eyes, and see a beam of blinding light scatter across my retina from the kitchen. I hear her humming. She knows something.

I have kept a secret from her since we first met. The pressure of an unconscious flood of guilt has gradually built for three years. The dams overflowed. The levees broke. The problem became conscious. What started with involuntary twitches and violent weekend nightmares has mutated into a feverish frenzy in which my fingers have no choice but to partake. I have scribbled in and filled up fifteen notebooks since Wednesday.

When I manage to control myself and prevent the world from witnessing my psychotic thoughts any longer, I measure the distance between the top left corner of my recent tirade and the nearby pencil box. I mark an imperceptible point along the perimeter and check the previous calculation again. If I leave the room, my leaving means I have convinced my limbs they can do no more.

With mechanical mastery, the fragrance of the smoke string cranks me into a 90 degree angle. I turn to the right and put on a pair of pajama pants. I stare at her through the crack below the door hinge. Spilled sugar and flour have caked the countertop.

Her worrisome hum has faded, but she dances in silence. She rises and falls with graceful swoops, but I cannot trust her fluctuations.

She must have read every aching word I wrote.

But I desire food too much right now. My inner eye clouds with sweet discs. Fruity fillings take shape. My tongue trembles at a 108

freshly budded vision of multiplicities of meringue and lemon tart.

I open the door and snap out of my stupor. She greets me with a cheery smile. I glance at the aging clock. She takes two pastries out of the oven. Their odorous harmony confuses my senses, and I ask her about the ingredients. Lemon meringue and apple. Which contains the toxin?

Nothing unique catches my eye. The twosome perfectly replicates the artificial magazine versions sans the professional lighting. A sugary glaze shines fluorescent. Apple chunks bust through the top layer of the yin, while a swirl of yellow-white caps the yang.

The balanced concoction will kill me, but my will overrides caution. I beg for a slice of both.

I sit at the table. On separate plates, she places the pieces less than a foot from my face. She seems too eager. She waits for me to take a bite from the other side of the table. I tell her my appetite has shifted. She enthusiastically refuses to accept my excuse. The secret has taken its toll. She wants to harm me. She dreams of a life free of my existence.

I lift my fork and close my eyes. Did I remember to triple-check the ciphering I inscribed over my confessions? I try to picture the exact location of my most recent diabolical doodle. Can I persuade my psyche to describe its contents? A taste of electricity releases me from my trance. A graham cracker crust hits my mouth muscle first. It crumbles like a sandcastle. Saliva builds as I consume apple jelly infused with cinnamon. I forget my troubles for a stretched-out second.

Without visual awareness, I inhale the desserts. Evidence covers my lips, but memory of the event eludes me. I remain transfixed with a mix of flavor and guilt. How did I give in so easily? Did I really think I had the ability to avoid such delicious temptation?

Did she predict that I would choose wisdom of piquancy over self-preservation? My stomach churns. My intestinal bowl gurgles and processes its information. How could she do this to me? I 109

notice that she doesn’t have a plate. I question her, and she responds with a scripted answer. She had some already and reveals that she stuck spoonfuls of custard in her muzzle while the oven preheated. I acknowledge to myself that this would clearly leave enough of a short interval for her to sprinkle contaminations.

I stand with fumbling hesitation, while the room turns topsy-turvy. A profound dizziness spreads the scene into impressionistic confusion. I rush to the restroom and dunk my cranium past the edge of the toilet’s rim. I curse her. She cries and claims ignorance to all accusations. I heave and heave again.

I stick my index betwixt my jaw and strike my uvula. Each tap of the palatal punching bag generates a gag, but it doesn’t encourage a thing to exit my body.

I return to normal form and lean against the medicine cabinet.

We have exchanged positions. She sobs. I say that I have prophesied this day for some time. She denies wrongdoing, but I push through her teary rebuttal and explaination that she never intended to do anyone harm. Like a new lawyer, her attitude shifts from hopelessly concerned to stone-stoic. She asks me to explain.

I refuse to speak. My upper lip anchors to its counterpart. How could I possibly allow her entry to my black hole brain? Besides, if she has already encroached upon my emotional barricade, what use do my revelations have? Would she prefer to watch me collapse while I dish out my life story? I feel warm. A sweaty coating surfaces to my skin. What sort of infection did she trick me into swallowing? Where could she have purchased this terrible germ?

Pain suddenly shoots through my nerves like lightning. A great, wordless wail emerges from my throat. A storm approaches. The fractures in my skull swell. A vessel leaks its elements. I float alone. The next eight slides of sight appear to jump around like an old film. I cannot recall more than colors and sound.

A tea kettle frets and rings its alarm. In a half-haze, I spot my 110

stack of loony logbooks. The familiar angles ease my system. How did I survive? Did my outrageous outburst propel her to provide an antidote mid-slumber? What happened?

I reach for the crown of my brooding tower and hold it close to my chest. These pineal professions have done me no good. Any specialist with access would immediately lock me up and electrocute my temples if they had a chance. Their telephone calls would mimic the same statement: surely, the ramblings of a madman!

Two cups land on a counter. She lifts and pours the hot water as Chinese torture comes to mind.

I am an uncontrollable engine. I have no choice but to review the few coherent lines of messy insanity near to my heart and acquire an iota of clarity.

Black nothingness! I vomited a void. Page after opaque page of oblivion embrace my corneas. Smeared, dry ink coats the once striped paper from beginning to end. I snatch the others, but they read similarly. What kind of nihilistic joke is this?

“Good morning,” she says. “You look better.” Not a hint of irritation appears to have affected her voice. She hands me a ceramic mug with a dozen Dalmatians circling the exterior. I nod, apologize for my actions, and quietly thank her as she leaves.

Does she really believe she can fool me? How dare her! I immediately reverse my persona and set the brew aside. Its orange essence pervades my nasal cavity, but I have suspicions about her motives and the steam. How do I gain complete comprehension of her plans? She wishes this; I know it! The apprehension I continue to experience pleases her sick and twisted ego. If I terminate the whole relationship, she may sneak into my home at night (using one of the pair of spares I gave her the year before), plant the invisible poison on an old slice of pizza Margherita, and escape without a doubt of her innocence! She has the upper hand!

Why did I have to write these terrors? What terrors? Where did my secrets go?

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I boil in bed until noon. I haven’t taken a sip of her citrus venom.

A snake has transformed my head into a home. Its coils squeeze tighter by the minute. She calls for me and says she made lunch.

I worry I won’t get to enjoy tomorrow’s, but I respond with fake glee. I have to play her game.

Unnamable nothings materialize in my realm as panicky shadows.

I grasp for words, but they dissolve into gibberish. The torments that bore thick trenches in my dome seem like an ancient evil unraveled in a forgotten era. Why can’t I recollect a single detail?

She shouts for me, and a moody doom penetrates my peripherals.

Will I walk the plank? Do I have another option? The wide outside narrows. I have a solitary course. Either I will die with the dignity of a being who loves his fate, or treat every meal as my last.

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Rebecca Bowman

The Final Signature

They were, ironically, meeting in the same restaurant where it all began, so many years ago. She could see the same table they had occupied on that first night; the one by the window overlooking the bay. At that time, she had worn her very best dress with the heels that were slightly too big; the red ones that almost slipped off her feet whenever she took a step. In stark contrast, she now wore a dull grey suit and flats, making no moves to fix her hair or reapply her lipstick.

He was late, as per usual. She sat facing the creaking oak door, slowly sipping her water with lemon and rehearsing in her head what she wanted to say. She did this stubbornly, knowing it was futile, but she practiced because today she needed to have some semblance of control.

And there he was, strolling casually through the door as if he wasn’t fifteen minutes late, and as if he was here not to ruin lives but to chat with friends from work. She waved lightly, feeling her muscles tensing, and he cheerily clomped over in his boots.

“Hello, there. Sorry I’m late; I got caught up in a game of soccer with the boys.” He sat, ordering a beer with his typical charming smile.

“No problem at all,” she replied lightly. Inside, she was screaming at him that this was important, much more life-changing than a game of soccer. Her smile tensed a bit around the corners, and she furiously twisted the napkin in her hands under the table. Try as she might, she could not stop this nervous habit that she had picked up from him.

He insisted that they order an appetizer, and she nodded silently, unable to form an appropriate response. She sat silently, watching him slurp and smack until he had devoured an entire plate of wings. Finally, finally, he pushed the plate away, wiped his mouth, and leaned toward her.

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“Let’s get down to business, then.” He spoke normally, but his shoulders slumped and his frown wavered in such a small capacity that she knew she was the only one who could see the difference.

She swallowed, passing him a thick manila envelope with creased from weeks of being carted around in her handbag. He pulled the multitude of pages out and flipped through them.

“There certainly is a lot here. Although I notice that you helpfully marked all the pages needing signatures with sticky notes,” he tried for a joking tone, falling just short. She simply nodded. After a few moments browsing, he turned back to her.

“Will you save me some time and walk me through the important stuff? I have a meeting in an hour.” He gazed at her until she relented. Pulling her chair closer, she flipped through several pages, outlining the information she knew was important to him.

“It’s really quite simple, and standard as well. Nothing out of the ordinary whatsoever,” she told him, parroting the lawyer whom she had met with earlier in the month, when things had started getting bad. He nodded, with a thoughtful expression on his boyish face. She watched with fascination as the condensation dripped down his beer bottle, causing a water ring on the light wooden table. He always forgot to use a coaster, especially when he was out in public.

“What about the girls?” he asked. Now a hint of pain worked its way into his voice. His thick eyebrows drew together. She softened as she answered.

“They’ll be happiest this way. It’s what’s best for them.” Seeing his expression, she added, “We have to do what is best for them. We can’t be selfish about this.” She knew it was harsh, but she couldn’t sugarcoat things for him anymore.

He nodded. After a moment of silence, he picked up a blue-ink pen from the table and began to sign. She reflected vaguely that the whole situation felt so anticlimactic, finalized and finished with just a few signatures written in cheap, blue ink. They ought to have special pens for this sort of thing, she thought.

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He finished signing, and gulped down what was left of his beer.

She gathered the papers, returning them neatly to her purse.

“I’ll file them myself, first thing in the morning. Soon, it will all be over with.”

He nodded once, curtly, refusing to meet her gaze. She stood and placed a tip on the table for the waitress, mostly because she knew he would forget.

“Thank you for doing this, darling. I appreciate it,” she murmured before striding away, appearing calm and content.

She would drive back to her office, finish work for the day and return to the small, cozy house with the girls. She would make dinner, clean, do the things she was used to. She would forget about everything that had happened and would, in time, return to a normal life. She was lucky because she would never know what it felt like to have to leave your life in search of a new one that might accept you.

He took slow, deep breaths and stared at the new water stain on the table. The only physical remainder of what had transpired there that day. Soon, even that would be cleaned away, or the table would get a new stain, and there would be no evidence besides the palpable heartache that was showing in his eyes and the tension in his muscles that he couldn’t seem to overcome.

Slowly, he stood as well and exited his old life, with only the sound of his boots on the floor to prove that he was still living.

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notes...

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