This, dear readers, is the first issue of Illuminati in over a year. When the former editor, one Britton Stockstill, left our campus to continue his education in Oxford, the publication essentially came to a screeching halt. Our campus has such a high turnover rate that one would be hard-pressed to find a student, even a creative writing major, who even knew what Illuminati was. A Google search brings up conspiracy theories and images from the back of printed money, not a student-run literary publication. The office itself, shared with the temporarily defunct Kaos, had became a virtual black hole. Here’s where I come in. After a particularly grueling interview with the Communications Board, where I was peppered with freedom-of-speech queries, hands were shaken all around and I was given a key to the Illuminati office, located at the back of Hawk Haven in Johnston Hall. After struggling with a lock that seemed destined to never allow me entry, I stepped into what can only be described as akin to a child’s closest after being told to clean his room or else. There was trash, extra chairs and tables, open boxes of pancake mix, drawers full of tampons (?!), a huge paper hamburger, fries (complete with ketchup) and coke, even a piano. I don’t know how to play the piano. As a slight obsessive-compulsive, I knew I couldn’t get to work until I could find the computer, so I enlisted pseudo-staff member Gabe Miller to help me get the office and equipment in order. Just before Spring break we had our grand reformation open-house, complete with free pizza and girl scout cookies. Our esteemed faculty advisor, Eric Melbye, claimed we had the best turn-out he’d ever seen. It certainly helped that Laura Richey stood in the hallway, flagging people down with bribes of as much free pizza as they could eat. Ultimately, in between classes and the highly-sought-after-”real life”, I’ve managed to cobble together my first issue as Editor-in-Chief. My goal for this publication is to represent our student body, alumni, faculty, staff and community as a diverse whole. I’ve known from before I was editor that MUM has some extremely promising writers and artists; I’m so glad you chose to share your work with us (even if I had to threaten you with grievous bodily harm...you know who you are). We hope you enjoy it and that you’ll be sufficiently impressed to join us either as a contributor, a submission judge, or staff member (or preferably all three!) come Fall 2005. We seek to represent the entire campus, to hear your voices, and to give you the platform and praise you deserve as an artist.
2
ILLUMINATI Spring/Summer 2005
Editor-in-Chief Michelle Lawrence Staff Technical Support and Assistance: Gabe Miller Campus Relations and Assistance: Laura Richey Publishing Oxford Publishing Faculty Advisor Dr. Eric Melbye
Contact us at illuminati@muohio.edu if you would like to join our staff!
3
CONTENTS Nicole Scraer
Every Writers Curse
6
Stephan Temple
Luke Warm Coffee and A Six Pack
7
Lindsay Gabbard
I’m Sold
8
Mark Houk
The Virus
11
Laura Richey
Soundless Malady
12
Michelle Lawrence
Leaving
13
Susan Gillete
A Grownups Fairytale
15
Gabriel River
Hollowness and Hope
17
DeAnna Pretty-Jones
Don’t I Still…
18
Mark Houk
The Cutting Edge
19
Mark Houk
Trilogy
24
Crystal Prater
A Woman Misunderstood
25
DeAnna Pretty-Jones
This is A…
28
Michelle Lawrence
Caught
30
Susan Gillete
Genesis to Revelations
43
Jan Toennison
photograph
44
Ryan Magee
The Natures of Evil
45
Nicole Scraer
Wonder
51
Michelle Lawrence
Figure Eight
52
Nicole Scraer
Inspiration
53
Susan Gillette
Ecstasy
54
John Tassoni
Forts
55
Krystal Sears
Flowers in Dew
67
4
“An author values a compliment even when it comes from a source of doubtful competency.� -Mark Twain
5
Every Writer’s Curse Nicole Scraer
Writer’s Block. The curse of any and all who compose. Inspiration falters, Words fail to come. A passion becomes a chore as we Try to force what we feel. Suddenly, a word comes to mind. Next a phrase. Composition begins as pens and pencils Flow effortlessly across paper. Sensing a rhythm, finding a groove Emoting all those pent-up emotions with ease. Until finally... Damn, I forgot what I was going to say.
6
Luke-warm Coffee and a Six Pack Stephen Temple
The alarm clock blares. The pounding in my head resonates with an unending agony. My room is cloaked in darkness, but daylight threatens me. The rising sun makes me wish for death, Or at least some aspirin. I despise mornings. Composure returns, though my stomach churns in protest. The coffee pot stares at me, promising a steaming cup of relief. But as I reach for the pot, reality slams me in the face like a closed fist punch. Luke-warm coffee to start my day. Breakfast becomes a swift memory as I gulp down my third cup of tar. Cleanse my body, dry my soul, and try to clear the morass that is my head. Work starts and ends in one continuous blur. ‘Have a great night’ becomes rehearsed and monotone As the morons, in their steel coffins, roll past my drive-through window. Stress builds, tempers flare, anger erupts, and words are exchanged. My only thought is an end to this madness called ‘Fast Food’. All I want, at this point, is a drink. A mind numbing, time consuming, relaxing drink. An end to the worries of the day. A precursor to the euphoria of the night. Blessed night. Darkness enveloping all I survey, all that I am. Stop by the nearest gas station, and pick up an ice-cold six pack. One beer, two, three, four; the ‘real’ world becomes a memory. Five, six, ‘Oh Damn, I’m out’. Glance at my watch, time for bed. Luke-warm coffee and a six pack.. .My Life. It’s not pretty, but it could always be worse.
7
old S m I’
Lindsay Gabbard (Malcolm Sedam Award for non-fiction, 2003)
Everyone has seen at least one in his or her lives…and has probably turned it off before it was over. There are many different products that are demonstrated on these TV shows, whether health and beauty related, such as the Bare Essentials makeup collection, the Ab-Roller, and the Windsor Pilate’s Program, or the REVO Styler. There are my personal favorites, the home and kitchen products, that include the Orange-Glo cleaning spray, the AirCore cookware set, and the George Foreman Grill. There are numerous different types of personal betterment programs based off the self-help innovator, Tony Robbins. And all of them have one common claim; to dramatically improve your life. Infomercials. The incessant nagging of the endorser would turn off the average person that their product is essential for customary enjoyment. What would you do if you didn’t have one utensil that could slice, dice, chop, cube, shear, julienne, juice, core, shred, crumble, grind, grate and powder for $12.95? Average Joe and Jane Doe pop up onscreen with testimonials that guarantee the godsend product has cut their work time in half, eased their pain to almost nonexistence and their outlook on life has done a 180-degree turn. It’s entertaining to me to watch endorsers bolster the product, trying hard with their perfectly capped teeth and thought out puns to woo the studio audience and people at home. “Folks, with these luscious 600 thread count sheets on your bed, you’ll defiantly want to be wrapped up in yourself” It’s unoriginal and scripted, like watching Jerry Springer where an inbred hick falls in love with her cousin, then brings out her lesbian lover who she wants to marry. It’s a droll diversion from real life. My discovery of these 60-minute escapisms started when I was watching TV one day aggravated by the lack of entertainment. Flipping through the channels, I stumbled upon a station entirely for infomercials. Perhaps it was the excess dosage of codeine in my system, but I was intrigued. It was four-layer dehydrator that could make banana and apple chips; numerous flavors of jerky, and preserve pictures at the same time. 8
The host was about as annoying as a gnat in your ear. His swaying salesperson techniques and his outwardly use of adjectives like smashing, magnificent, superlative, bravura, and glorious made me scoff because it was so cheesy. “You know, I don’t think you could find a more flavorsome piece of deer jerky if you combed the entire state of Montana.” With his clever statements and slick appearance, he has persuading people down to a science. I would say that these types of programs aren’t particularly appealing to the majority. Most people do not like to be randomly hassled to fork over their dough. It’s like a telemarketer calling in the middle of dinner or an annoying pop-up window advertising free long distance phone service while you are searching the internet for information about the history of woman’s suffrage. No one wants to hear about useless trash they don’t need, especially if they want you to pay a ridiculous price. Every infomercial follows the same pattern. One example of a sugaring hair removal system shows how a stereotypical, hour-long, celebrity-endorsed paid program can turn up the cheese factor. First, there is the eye-catching Introduction, where the celebrity endorser or inventor begins with a cozy, one-on-one talk. This is the most important step, where they earn your trust and gain your attention. After this, come the Testimonials where your “average Jo” will talk about how it has changed their life. An actor is shown frowning, “Before using the Sweet Simplicity Hair Removal System, my life was a wreck! I spent so much time shaving that I had no time to enjoy life.” Now she flashes a smile. “Now, I can spend more time with my family, stay longer at the mall and my husband actually smiles when he touches my legs! Thanks Sweet Simplicity!” (thumbs up and wink) You get my point, pure corn and exaggerated. I call the next step, The Convincing of the Unknowing Assistant and Audience. This is where the endorser is at the peak of tawdry. Using as many adjectives as the cast of The Sopranos have vowels in their last name, they use their persuasion skills to the limit. A hairy leg is shown on camera and a soft voice is heard. “See how I’m not rushing to apply it? That’s because it’s not hot wax, it’s Sweet Simplicity.” (wink) “Oooo, ahhhhh” her assistants chime in. She applies the goo and a hair removal strip. Rrrriiiip! She doesn’t even flinch, but hesitantly grins. “Now feel,” she directs. “Silky, huh?” The assistants nod in unison. It also has a variety of uses. Sweet Simplicity is all natural. How all natural? “Natural enough to eat!” she exclaims. With that, all of the silk-pajama clad, hairy women dip their applicators in the jar. “Tasty!” replies one “friend” of the celebrity-endorser. 9
Next, there is another Testimonial. After that, they add on free gifts to enhance your satisfaction with the product, which I call: Addition of Free Gifts. Sweet Simplicity: The Amazing Body Polishing System includes the four ounces of skin buffer, the six ounces of natural enough to eat hair removal bruleé, four ounces of the skin polisher, body and face applicators, and the small and large hair removal strips. However, since we (the host will usually refer to the viewers as “my new friends watching at home”) are such special customers, we will receive double the hair removal strips and A FREE GUIDE TO SMOOTH SKIN INSTRUCTION MANUAL! Then they cut to a soft focus beauty shot of the entire package. For the clincher, they throw out the Markdown of Price. This is how they hope to attain the last few that are still uncertain. After advertising the complete Sweet Simplicity System for two payments of $19.95 the entire hour, act in the next 8 minutes and they knock off a payment. Now, only one easy installment of $19.95! This “once in a lifetime offer can’t be found in stores” so ACT NOW, screams in bold red flashing letters on the ordering screen. I wonder how much of these products are sold, and to whom? It makes me think of the Spice Girls. They were incredibly popular yet no one would admit to buying their album. These products are about as practical as washing your car in the winter. When was the last time you needed a 47-piece collection of knives that could cut through your good Sunday dress shoe? Give me an hour of silly, money-hungry salespeople selling goat cheese over an Austin Powers sequel any day.
10
THE VIRUS When I ask you for the money I take it with a full hand & Let the gold drip through Into the dirty sand It will take me from here Away from the smoke and fruit Of the anguished Giving me pure forgetfulness Then somehow We meet again Beneath the cold pool Of the giver’s falling sound
The water has washed down The rocks and drowned The bears and sinks deep Into the soul O’how we walk about in it Our feet and hands washed free So we are one with that Which is wet We are the sea Much like mother earth and her world All life sits at her table Just to watch her spin and spawn From her like invisible cells
Mighty wind out there Blowing against my window Bringing with it That which stains and runs Like veins through my feet It stains the wooden bark & Turns it green and gray Full of life now Drinking their fill Having a stay The dew that bubbles In the humid air Is like a warm bath coming from the sea
I am very afraid In this modern age That we will one day forget About the sea and decide Then that our manifestations are True and correct I am afraid it is getting too close To the day when man says We created this Earth In our own image Mark Houk 11
Laura Richey
Soundless malady
Silent disease? From within the voices are so shrill. “Don’t eat this! Do eat that! Don’t forget to take your pill!” The sugar river surges along (so sweet it sounds though not). Key-tones playing in thy temple, The pain given not a thought. Phalanges, thighs, arms and gut The needle does provoke. To mind, heart, faith and soul The silence is a joke. Screaming reason tells, “It is a choice; Meds or family bread divine?” Not a decision at all you see, For the blood is only mine. Oh! Soundless malady, One thing I ask you please, TO SHUT THE HELL UP! Let live without your deafening dis-ease. 12
Leaving Michelle Lawrence
Every other Friday night at seven I send her out the front door by herself. Her backpack stuffed almost to overflowing is heavy and awkward on her little shoulders. She'll be gone for forty-four hours. She is leaving, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. All I can do is watch the clock and wait. She used to cry before she had to leave. Now she just hugs me and walks outside, slamming the storm door behind her. When her dad comes by himself, his dilapidated truck belching and squeaking down the street, she'll respond in kind to his overdone, Kentucky-by-way-of-Ohio-twanged "Hi, baby!" When he shows up accompanied by his third (I think) wife, she doesn't say a word, just gets in and allows him to buckle her into her booster seat. She feels the tension in the air and knows it’s better to stay quiet. I secretly watch them pull away from behind the curtain. I can't look directly at them; the sight of their faces makes my heart race and my stomach clench. It's hard to get my breath. Watching them speed down the street, her little body strapped in the backseat, makes me feel like I am sending her to Hell, and I can't stop it. When they turn the corner I begin praying, imploring God to keep her safe, make them bring her home on Sunday. The fear that she might not return lurks in the not-far-enough distance. I sense it and can't quite keep it at bay. It lurks like a feral cat on the hunt. It's eyes glow while it waits to pounce. Is there any way I can stop it? 13
When the car is no longer within sight I start to pace, straightening an already obessive-complusively clean house. I never know when they'll show up early, pounding on the door with a police officer, trying to catch me being anything other than perfect. While that is no way to live, it will never happen. They’ll never see me anything but perfect. I can't stop thinking of how she looked as the car pulled away. Disappointed resignation dulling her usually bright, clear blue eyes. She wanted me to stop it, and I couldn't. I’d failed her. The house might be deathly still, the life removed from within its walls, but my mind is anything but still. In an attempt to quiet the nagging questions (Is she eating? Are they hurting her? What in God's name is she witnessing? Are they trying to get her to believe I'm a lesbian again?) I console myself with chocolate bars and cheap white zinfandel. I'll let myself be imperfect for an hour or so. The junk food and wine numbs the feeling that my child--my life--is in the hands of my enemies. I couldn't stop it. I fill the rest of my sentence with meaningless tasks, as much sleep as my mind and body allow, and simple, lonely waiting. She has left, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. All I can do is wait. Forty-three hours to go. 14
A Grown Ups Fairytale Susan Gillette
There is a difference between truth and fantasy That is not always so clear to see There are strings attached to each of our lives That make us want to believe convenient lies There will come a time in each of our lives we will be forced To do something we don't want to For the sake of another we will have to choose As children we are led to believe we will grow up to live Happily ever after Yet as grown-ups, we grasp the fact that most of us Spend the majority of our lives searching for happiness But you are a legend in my mind Your memory will live on through all time You were the highpoint of my life You were a Sweet dream That disappeared in the morning light Maybe your kisses weren't as perfect as I remember Maybe your jokes weren't as funny as I recall But with you I felt alive You were definitely the greatest love of all You might not have turned out to be a prince But you were charming It might not have lasted forever But it was fun while it lasted And you are a legend in my mind Your memory will live on through all time You were the highpoint in my life You were a sweet dream That disappeared in the morning light 15
And now, almost a decade later, still nothing can compare to you We settled down into our neat little lives And do what makes everyone else feel right Thus, the formal initiation into grown-up life True happiness comes only in small doses When least expected from time to time Disrupting the routine of life But we...we were a legend in our time Our love still lives in our hearts and minds I had the best time of my life with you We were a sweet dream that in real life Could never come true.... And so I go on about my way Doing chores and earning my pay I take joy where I can find it But some nights, when the house is locked up tight And I have turned off all of the lights I lay in bed with thoughts of you my head I drift off to sleep... In search of you
16
Hollowness and Hope Gabriel River
Love and air not visible, Like attempting to find a shadow Within the darkness, futility awaits Those seeking the unobtainable. Gasping for final breathes, absolution Sought but seemingly absent; Light strangles Without prejudice all searching for it. With this Finality comes the onslaught of a new beginning In which hedonism and gratification for ones Self inevitably are negative expedients. Knowledge Creates hope creates salvation creates bliss Devoid of falsehoods and evil.
17
Don’t I Still….
DeAnna Pretty-Jones It feels fine to know that you and Her Argue all the time Cause it would cut to know She was getting the love That should have been mine I don’t want you Rarely think of you I could but I won’t Lie Cause even though It’s just sometimes Something deep within Aches for you Inside But I don’t cry Not anymore I think of something else Just before Cause tears leave a trace Dry salted lines Staining my face What’s maddening is That you will always be Someone I have to see It’s saddening To know That every now and then I won’t want you to go Thought I was miserable When you were here Yet I find it pure torture When you’re not near Perhaps it is easier To pretend I don’t care Yes That’s best I’ll leave it there. 18
THE CUTTING EDGE Mark Houk
It’s time for me to try a new way to slaughter my chickens. Lately I’ve just been using a machete to do it. I think that I have the right idea, but the machete ain’t cutting it. The last chicken I killed took two swings of the machete. I need
something with a
little more leverage and a longer blade. Something like a Samurai sword would work. I’m a chicken farmer. Not a big chicken farmer, because I don’t sell any of my chickens. I’ll slaughter them and eat them. It’s as simple as that. I raise my own chickens because I cannot eat the chickens that come from those huge chicken farms. They inject steroids into the eggs to make the chickens grow fat. And it’s not that that ruins the meat or that it grosses me out. I am allergic to those certain types of
ster-
oids and cannot eat them. So to ease my chicken appetite, I must farm chickens myself. I only have around two-dozen at anytime. It isn’t that overbearing for just one person. It is basically just me out here alone. Me and my chicken coup and a few neighbors that live on down the road. Just about anything goes, when you live as far as I do away from town. That is why I like it. My home is very secluded and quiet. Early this morning I went down to the local pawnshop to find a Samurai sword. The first store I stopped in was one of those Jewelry/Gun shops. I drove by this place twice before I finally stopped. It is filthy looking. You know the ones that usually have a few power tools that are sitting in the window next to some cheap guitar. 19
When a store has a guitar in the window, it’s usually worth stopping in. This place is cluttered with all sorts. The floors are a mess with dirt and pieces of who knows what. There is no one else inside but the owner. He is sitting in the back behind the counter. I take it that this must be Mike. He seems to be having a hard time making a healthy living. I kept my distance from him, because, when I look at him, I feel this nervousness come over me. He says I should have a look around, and I do because I like to look at junk. Try to find good use in junk is what I’ve always been told (if you can do such a thing). I ask Mike about the guitar in the window, and he said to go ahead and take a closer look. I pick the guitar up and sat down with it. Mike complimented the guitar saying that it has a beautiful sound and this and that. I knew it was no good. Then he barked something out that sounded like a hundred bucks. Someone probably pawned it off for a hundred bucks, but Mike probably ripped them off. I gave the guitar a few light strums and all that came out was a buzzy, out of tuned sound. I liked the look of it, though. Mike kept saying how great of a sound it had. I didn’t want anything to do with the guitar, so I told him what I was really after (the sword). He said he had just the thing in the back and he went to get it. Meanwhile, I had a chance to flirt around the glass case that displayed all his gold jewelry and some small arms. These glass cases were in great need to be cleaned. The tops were all smudged with that sticky residue a soda pop will leave after it’s been spilled. Overall, they were really scratched up and dusty, and one of the fluorescent lights was blinking rapidly. I know why that is. And I know why the glass on top of the case is all scratched up, too. People will bring in a diamond or a diamond ring or something and to prove that it is somewhat real and 20
authentic Mike would scratch the glass with it. If the diamond was real, it would scratch the glass, because a diamond is much harder than glass. I always thought that to be really stupid, because it ruined the glass. Within a few minutes, Mike returns with the sword, but it is not what I want exactly. He gives me this plastic toy sword, and it seems apparent to me that it belongs with someone’s costume or something. “Here you go, son,” Mike says. I take it from him, and trying to hide my smile I rear it back high above my head and ask him how much it would cost me. I just held it there. “Fifteen bucks,” he says. I quickly make a forceful swing with the sword in the direction of his neck and knocked him with it close to where the neck meets the left collarbone. “I want a real sword, not this plastic.” I believe that made it clear. He was a little bit startled when I hit him, but he walked off into the back of his shop with a smile. I can still here him laughing. “That’s what I’m after,” I say when he comes back with the sword. It is not an authentic Samurai sword, because it has a plastic cover for the blade and a tassel design hanging from the handle that’s made of plastic fibers, too, not horsehair that they use on real Samurai swords. But overall I found it to be relatively sharp and pretty strong. I pay a hundred bucks cash for it and I am out the door. I’m usually that kind of shopper: the one stop shopper. I like to buy things only when I need them. As soon as I make it home, I am so excited. I go straight for my chicken coup, grab one of the best chickens and take it to the chopping block. My method for slaughtering chickens is already a little more creative and fun than just any old 21
slaughtering block. I have a box made out of oak, and it has to be a heavy wood or else the chicken will start to run away with it. The box has a small whole in the top for its head and neck to stick out. You put the chicken underneath the box and it will peep its head out through hole. This is also fun to watch, because the chickens don’t seem to mind this part. They seem very relaxed and sit still and motionless. I take one swing at the chicken’s neck and off the head. You can see through the top of the hole the body wiggling a little. Then I lift up the box, and the chicken’s body takes off real quickly and runs around in circles for about four minutes and then falls dead. After all that excitement, I pick the feathers off the bird and clean it and begin the process of making chicken soup. Making chicken soup is a two-day process. The first part is to make the chicken broth, and that’s really easy. You just stick the cleaned chicken in a big pot of boiling water with your carrots, celery and onions and maybe some fresh seasoning like garlic, sage, and parsley and just let it cook overnight. After this is done, the chicken meat will easily fall off the bone. Clean off all the meat and spoon out some of the fat from the broth, put some more fresh veggies and herbs in it and there you go. You will be eating chicken soup for a week. The next morning I awoke to the smell of chicken soup. The aroma passes through the air and almost drags me out of bed. When I open my eyes up completely, the day is still early, but the windows show the bright light. And there leaning against my clothes dresser is my Samurai sword. It doesn’t even look like a weapon to me. It looks like a toy that I can’t wait to play with. I jump out of bed and go into the kitchen to turn off the stove. I pick up the sword, unsheathe the blade, and start cutting the air into little pieces. 22
The second part to making kitchen soup takes as little time as it does to make the first part. I start on in it in the morning, while having a cup of coffee for breakfast. You need to have a big pot for soup, and you might as well make enough to last. I throw all the ingredients in and turn the burner back on. And voila, it will be ready by lunchtime and I can’t wait. It has been weeks since I’ve had my homemade chicken soup. Three hours later, the soup is done. So here I am eating my soup at the kitchen table, and I start to laugh about seeing that chicken run around after I cut its head off. I’m just sitting here laughing to myself. On TV, the Grand Ole Opry is playing some live music. The music is just as pleasing as the soup. I’ve seen this band before; they are a bluegrass band, but I can’t remember the name. They are one big happy family I do know that. The father is the singer; the eldest son is the mandolin player, and the other son plays the banjo. What’s funny is their hair. They all look similar in the face, but the hair gives everything away. They’ve got that hair that’s real shiny and puffy. That’s just the way the bluegrass players wear their hair. It is perfectly shaped. Meanwhile, it hits me. What would happen if I cut off a human head? Would they run around uncontrollably? Or would they continue doing what they were doing for a moment or two before they hit the floor? I bet an artist would probably be the best candidate for something like that. Imagine a painter and he’s standing there painting, and then zip his head is cut off. I bet he would give the canvas a few strokes before his body fell. This is all just stupid thought. I don’t think I would ever do something like that. But I’d be surprised if someone hasn’t thought of it yet. 23
SOONER or LATER I didn’t mean to treat you so bad, after all that we’ve been through. You gave me a piece of chocolate that was carved into a little heart, so I ate it there in front of you and you laughed as I choked a little before it was gone. Later on I called you, and it rang and rang and no one answered. So I gave up on you after that first call. I reflected on what had happened to our relationship that night; I got really upset that it took me that long just to call you. I always wished to see you lying in bed next to me under my dirty sheets; as it was in my dreams every night since then. WHAT’S IN MY COFFEE This was never of my design. You made your world, and I’ve got a handle on mine. We’ve figured out how to make tea together, with little droplets of Chinamen’s hands. It does taste good, doesn’t it? The trick is to dip the whole sugar cane into the toilet and then roll it up in newspaper, say a quick prayer for all those smeared names, then dip the whole contraption into a bucket of tea, swirling it around. And when it’s through making faces, turn off the burner and slowly stir until further instructions. HOT FEET Yesterday my hair caught on fire while I was in the shower, luckily in the shower. I don’t know what happened, but spontaneous human combustion sounds prone. But that would never happen to me. Anyways, when the hair caught fire and began to drip to the bottom of the basin it sparked the water into flames as well, and burnt my toes, and run me out of my house. There are only a few things I fear in this world and water turning red-hot is one of them. I’ve never been back to that god-forsaken bathroom. Mark Houk 24
A Woman Misunderstood Crystal Prater
I grew up fast, in downtown Detroit. I was an only child, but I still received little attention from my mother. I had big hopes and dreams, many of which were crushed. I thought that I had bad luck. People told me that I made too many bad choices and the consequences that I suffered were my fault. I didn’t believe that. I did things that people would call crazy. I tried to kill my mother when I was fourteen. I pulled a knife on her and tried to stab her. She never told anyone, instead she moved me away to live with my uncle. She said that he would be able to defend himself better than her. I didn’t think that was crazy, to try to hurt my mother, anyone else would have done the same if they had to live with her and put up with all of her shit. Living with my uncle was hard. I never felt loved. I also didn’t have a woman to talk to about personal problems. I ran away when I was sixteen and began prostituting. I had a child when I was seventeen; I gave him up for adoption. I couldn’t take care of him at that time. When I was nineteen I thought that I was having a nervous breakdown. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I went to the emergency room and 25
it was suggested that I see a psychiatrist. That doctor diagnosed me with schizophrenia. I refused to listen to the doctor’s suggestions or take any medications. I could not believe that I was crazy. I was just a kid that had a rough life and wasn’t mature enough to live life the way it was intended. When I got older, I stopped prostituting. I also stopped using illegal drugs that had come along with the business. I went through many jobs and different residences. It wasn’t until October nineteenth, two thousand and four that I realized that there is something wrong with me and that doctor was right. A month before that dreadful day I came in contact with Beverly Mitchell. She was at a grocery store. She was around my age it seemed. She had run into a friend at the store and I eased dropped on the conversation. I heard her friend call her Beverly, which is my name, as well. They talked about the most delightful things. Beverly seemed to be well off financially by the looks of her clothing. I became very fond of her and jealous. She seemed to have the life that should have been intended for me. I followed Beverly for two weeks everyday. I found out where she worked, where her daughters lived, what she liked to do for fun, where her boyfriend stays, and her favorite grocery and clothing stores. I became obsessed. 26
At the end of the two weeks, Beverly went on vacation. I sat in my car and watched as she loaded her luggage up in her car and took off. I felt like this was my chance. I had to see more, more of the woman who I admired. I wanted to see her home on the inside without having to peak into a window. I ran in the back yard and grabbed a shovel out of the shed. I proceeded back to the front of the home and broke in. It was the middle of the day, but I didn’t care. I had an adrenaline rush. It was just as I had imagined. Her home was beautiful. It smelled so good and the décor was nice, but I would have decorated differently. I spent the night there that night. At first, I had intended to leave in good time, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. After squatting there a few nights, I began to believe that I was, Beverly Mitchell. Every once in a while, I would briefly remember who I was, although I didn’t want to. At that time I would do things so that I could keep my new home. I switched the utilities into my name, moved my washer, dryer, and dog in, and started redecorating. I even stole some of her jewelry. Everything was perfect until Bev came home on the night of the nineteenth. She called the police before she came in. if she would have just came in before calling the police, I would have gotten my gun out of my car and shot her. Then, her home and her life would have been mine forever.
27
This Is a...
DeAnna Pretty-Jones
How I feel Don’t know how I feel Except that there is excitement in my chest And at night I find it hard to rest Before thinking of What it would be like Or what it might…. Or what would happen if…. And all that kind of shit And damn Like if you was my man Right Would I survive 16 hundred and 40 Nights And you know all the things said Are they just the wonderings of your thought filled head Or can I take them words as bond Imagine what if You’re the one And it’s beginning to sound as if I’m All ready gone Weak and needy Don’t want to want you Near me I want you to hear me I don’t know how I feel That’s real Cause what if at the end of these years I’m in a different place And you can’t remember my face And just in case What if you find you need space How do I know That you won’t want me to wait Some more 28
Cause when you come home You might need time alone To explore or revisit What you left behind and All this time I’m thinking you are mine And I am yours And it’s not realistic To think society won’t dis this A relationship between the dean And the misfit Would you be okay With me bringing in more pay What about the strength it would take To see me leave everyday While you wait It takes patience and understanding This world is demanding How I feel Is like this Who am I to care about a dis What love requires Is the ability to sustain And if our hearts come to meet At the same resting place I would be more than happy To fill our space With what ever you need With what ever it takes Cause we search our whole lives For Gods gifts That somehow because of I don’t know We seem to miss I don’t want to miss you Instead I need your opinion on issues This life is difficult to get through So if you plan on walking I’m going with you. 29
Caught Michelle Lawrence I hear voices coming from behind the door. One sounds female, while the other is male. Laughing. Oh, God. What am I doing here? I stare at the door; it's closed, maybe locked. If I leave now, he won't know I've been here. The parking lot was virtually empty; I guess the neighbors are all out, it is Friday night, after all. No one will see me. I'll leave this envelope at the door and go. I should just leave now. My heart is pounding so hard it makes my whole body move with its thumping. The sound of voices suddenly stops, and I hear the sound of a doorknob turning. Oh, no. Must leave...NOW. The whoosh of an opening door sends a burst of air past my face. I've turned now, towards the stairs, the building's entrance door is at the top. I take a few steps, trying not to look so obvious. Maybe he won't recognize me from behind, maybe he hasn't seen me! For a moment I believe that--I'm no one, just some
woman coming out of your neighbor's apartment. You don't know me, I'm not here for you. I didn't drive for over an hour, cursing the whole way, pounding at the power button on the radio, music too loud, unable to turn around, wanting to give you this and wanting so badly to look into your eyes just one last time. "Sarah? Wait! W-What are you doing here?" I stop, frozen. Caught. Oh, God, oh God. I can't turn around. I can't! I'll just keep going; act like I didn't hear him. Like I don't know him. A simple mistake, heh heh. It wasn't me, not me at all. I have no idea what you are talking about. No, that wasn't 30
me in your hallway. Why would I, a busy, very important person, come to see you? I'm not breathing. I feel a little faint. Sweat starts tickling my armpits. Damn it. I hope it doesn't show; I'd like to come off as a lady for once in my life. Like a spider in a web, I'm stuck. "Turn around. I know it's you." One hand resting on the banister (those steps lead to the door...is it too late to
keep walking? Anonymity is at the top, through the door), I turn. The blood has drained from my head; things are a little blurry. He's standing in his doorway, keys in his hand. I'm staring at his shoes. I can't look up. Don't look up! I hear him sigh. Is it an impatient sigh? I can't tell. What happened to that female voice I heard? Oh, God, if there is a woman in there I'll just pass out right here. My hands are shaking. So are my knees. My eyes travel up. Yep. He knows it's me all right. There's no getting out of it now. It's tempting to try to convince him he's dreaming. Why did I come here? He's looking at me. I can't read him, I look into his eyes and see nothing. He backs up, pivoting his lean body to allow me to pass. "Come in." I keep standing there, my feet rooted in place like the roots of a sapling. Or, more to the point, my feet are encased in a block of hard cement, ready to be tossed over the nearest bridge. A picture of myself sinking down to the bottom of the river; every ex I've ever had is the on bridge. They're all laughing at my fate. It plays behind my eyes like a bad movie. I'm lost in it for a moment. "I said, come in." "Ok." 31
I don't know where to put my hands. I'm fiddling, first crossing my arms in front of me, then putting my hands in my pockets, then clasping them behind me. The thick manila envelope is tucked under my arm. His eyes flick to it, then look me up and down. "You look great," he says, though I don't quite believe that. He makes some comment about my shoes. They are fabulous, I think to myself. We're standing in the entryway to his apartment. I notice that he looks like he wants to hug me. That look disappears as fast as it appeared. "So," he sighs, clearly uncomfortable. "I'm sorry," I say, "I didn't come here to bother you." "No worries." Why does he always say that? I know I'm bugging him, I know he doesn't want me here. "Uh, I was just visiting a friend close by and thought I'd stop by to give you this," I take the envelope out from under my arm. "It's just some writing I had been doing; I thought you might like to take a look." I quickly add, "Oh, I should have just popped in into the mail." God, that sounds so stupid. "Um, I'll just leave it here and you can read it later or something." I hand the envelope to him. He turns it over, then moves to put it on his coffee table, unopened. Why did I do this? He doesn't want to read it. I turn towards his door, I want get out of here before he says anything else and I lose it! The lump in my throat is already so big that I can't breathe well, and my eyes are starting to well up. "Where's your daughter?" he asks. I let out my breath. 32
"She's at her dad's this weekend," I say quietly. "Oh, yeah, it's one of those weekends. Are you going to visit Hollie?" he continues. "Yes," I reply. At first I marvel that he can figure that out, but then remember she is the only person I know in the area, other than him, and that he knows it. My eyes dart to his face, the floor, his living room. His laptop is on the end table, the screen closed. I realize there isn't a woman in here, unless she's in the bathroom. Or the bedroom. At that thought my stomach lurches. My mouth dry, I ask, "I heard voices--I've come at a bad time." "No, no," he replies, "That must have been the TV. You know, I only have a few minutes, I'm supposed to meet some friends at the bar." He looks as nervous as I feel. The room feels stuffy; there isn't enough air to support the both of us. "How about a glass of water?" he asks, resigned to the fact that I am here, standing in his apartment. He's too polite to tell me to just get out. "Ok," I say, my voice coming out cracked and squeaky. God, I sound like a teenaged boy. While he busies himself getting the water, my eyes travel to the wall. He's added a new print to his sketches of New Orleans. "You have a new sketch," I say, clearing my throat with a decidedly less-than-ladylike-noise. "Yeah," he says from inside the tiny kitchen. I step lightly into the living room. I look up to see him watching me through the little window cut into the wall. "I spent the long weekend there. This time I knew not to talk to anyone asking 33
about my shoes." I smiled, remembering the night I came here for dinner, when he told me about a Cajun betting that he could tell where he got his shoes. The answer had been “on your feet.� What a sucker, I think to myself, and roll my eyes. "I saw that," he says, a smile playing on his lips. I perch on the edge of the sofa cushion. I can't help but think about the last time I was here. He had cooked me dinner that night, a steak, medium-well. Green beans that came from a can. I had been appalled; I made a mental note to buy him a steamer A.S.A.P., but somehow he made them taste good. Some sort of potatoes in a corn-meal coating. Chocolate mousse in champagne flutes. Two large goblets of red wine, both of which had gone straight to my head. Kissing on the couch. Annoying him when I laughed at "The Matrix." Leaving late, smelling him all around me on the long drive home. Wishing he'd call to tell me to turn around. Longing. Lost in my memory, I realize he's staring at me. Pressing a glass of water into my hand, he sits next to me. I notice that he sits on the far end. I clear my throat again and ask, "So...how are you?" He says something about being glad the school year is almost over, and talks of his students, meetings, his obligations. I don't hear much of it; I'm lost. I'm watching his eyes, trying to peer inside. Mmmm. They're looking particularly green today. I'm close enough that I can smell him; Lord, he smells good. He's stopped talking, and is watching me with a curious expression. "You must think I'm an idiot," I blurt out. "I know you're not an idiot, I've always told you that you were very smart." 34
I rolled my eyes, looking away from him. "I saw that," he says again, referring to my less-than-covert display of attitude. I stare at the remote on the coffee table; it's green power button is glowing even though the TV is off. It's now or never. "I've been trying," I blurt out. He looks at me, wary curiosity wrinkling his brow. "I just.....I just can't stop. Thinking about you, I mean." I stare at the glass in my hands, put it down and start twisting the silver ring on my middle finger. "Every man I meet--I end up comparing to you. I know you don't care. You think I'm crazy," I notice he looks down at his glass, studying the contents. His eyes don't lift to mine. I suppose that confirms my suspicions. "I shouldn't have said that, I can't keep anything in," I say, mentally kicking myself. "I told you once you weren't a verbal vault." he confirms. A sudden burst of impatience threatens to overwhelm me. I suck in my breath and continue. "You admitted you were shutting down because you were scared. My pride told me to let you go ahead and do it; that you were just a man and it didn't matter. That there would be a new one just around the corner. I met others, good men, strong men...but they didn't get inside me the way you did." My voice is thick, and I realize I'm speaking fast. I'm in the danger zone here, and I know it. He's fidgeting, his fingers pulling at a lose thread on the edge of his sleeve. I know I am making him uncomfortable; he's regretting asking me in; he wants me to leave and not come back.
35
"You won't look at me?" I ask. He snorts, an eyebrow raises. "I don't have to." I put my water glass down on a coaster and switch my seat from the couch to the coffee table. I'm directly in front of him, our knees are touching. He shifts back, and finally his eyes raise to mine. "I can't, Sarah." I watch him for a moment before I speak. "Can't what," I ask, "Admit that you were falling in love with me?" His head pulls sharply back, and though he doesn't answer my question, the red creeping up to his face from the soft place at the base of his throat is enough for me. I long to kiss it. He watches, a frown pulling at his mouth, as I roughly take the glass from his hand and place it on the table next to me. Water splashes on to the table; I quickly wipe it away with my hand. I glance at the envelope, wondering what he'll think of the contents. When I grasp his knee; he doesn't move away, but I feel the muscles in his leg stiffen under my touch. "Look," he says, clearly wanting this conversation to end. "My friends are waiting. I really don't want to talk about this now." He makes a move to get up, but I put my other hand on his other knee, and firmly press him down. "No, you look," I say. "You started something here. You can not tell me that you feel nothing, that you've forgotten my very existence. I know....I know, that you felt something for me. That you still do!" My face is burning; my hands are grasping his knees, forcing him to stay put. I can't cry now, I'm tough, and he has got to see that he can't screw around with me. I shut my eyes and will the tears away; he can't see that I have those feelings. I take a deep breath and muster up all the strength I can. 36
He's looking at me, but he is guarded. He wants to run from me, I know. It makes me angry, and I can't decide whether I want to kiss him or force him into submission. I choose a combination of the two, and climb into his lap. My face close to his, my knees straddling his legs, I look into his eyes. His hands rest on either side of him, palms down on the seat of the couch. I can feel his breathing; he takes a long breath in. Ha, I think, fighting a triumphant smile, he's taking in my perfume. The jasmine that drives him crazy. I still have power here. "No, you don't," he says.
Oh, God, did I say that out loud? "Whatever," I retort, faking bravado. I lick my lips and press them to his. He doesn't push me away, but neither does he yield. I keep trying, my tongue darting out to touch his closed lips. I open my eyes and find him looking at me. "I'm very persistent," I murmur. He opens his mouth to say something, and I take that opportunity to get my tongue inside. He's holding back from me; his lips are open, my tongue passes his, but he isn't reciprocating. I stop long enough to say, "I know you think you are in control here, but you're not." I swoop lower to kiss his neck, then work back up to his lips again. He's still reserved, even as I run my hand down his arm, and lace his fingers between mine. The fingers of my other hand slide up and into his hair, pressing his head to mine. He won't get away this time, I think. I don't care if he feels threatened, I don't care that he wants to be anywhere but here. But...he must want to be here, or he would have told me to stop, wouldn't he? I feel his fingers tighten in my grip. 37
I can't tell if he's trying to get it loose or whether he is finally feeling the effects of my kiss. Then I feel movement next to me. It's his other hand. Lightly, so lightly, I feel his fingertips on my bare thigh. I kiss him again, and feel his tongue move across mine...there he is! A small sigh escapes my lips; I press closer to him. I feel his hand on my leg now, moving up the back of my thigh. A shiver runs through me as I realize he's dangerously close to moving it up and under my skirt. “Your skin is so soft," he whispers. "Thank you," I whisper back, pleased that he notices. I keep kissing him, and I feel him kissing me back now. It's still reserved, but then again, his kisses were always a little bit reserved. Like if he fully let go, he wouldn't be able to stop. I never have wanted him to stop, and I really don't want him to now. I've let go of his hand now, and use both of mine to grasp his face, keeping him near me. His left hand snakes up and under my hair, his right is wrapped around the back of my leg. I'm relishing the kisses; I've gone too long without. I've missed being this close to him, feeling him around me. I tried to forget him, honestly I did. I cried for three straight weeks. Every song on the radio was a reminder of what I had lost. And I hadn't even known that I had any real feelings for him. I was stupid and too full of pride. "You're giving him too much power!" Hollie had said. " You're exerting all of this energy on him, and he hasn't had to do a thing! It's like you're on a see-saw, and you're at the bottom; he's on the top, not having to pump because you're doing all the work! Stop, and he'll come back; he'll sense that he's no longer in control...if it's meant to be." 38
I slept a lot, drank too much red wine; his favorite. The weekends without my daughter drug so slowly. I felt guilty each time I stopped thinking of her to think of him. I even put my match.com profile back up, thinking that since I met him so easily that I could surely meet someone just as great again. Even so, every day I'd get...this feeling of him. I couldn't shake him. The feelings would come at the strangest times, like when I was folding towels, or listening to a lecture. I'd wonder if my professors could see it on my face; the feeling that I had just been thoroughly kissed. I would smell him, like he was right next to me. Men seemed to like my online dating profile; I got 300 hits on one weekend. I emailed with a few; innuendo passing back and forth through the web. I cried when one asked why I was single. I didn't have an answer to that question. My heart screamed, They're not him! They can never be him! They don't make me feel the way he does! The connection between us, despite the distance, despite his running, felt so strong. It's what led me here, to his apartment. Just to see him again, to see if he still felt that connection, too. Bliss. Kissing this man is just bliss. Oh, God, his hand is still on the back of my leg, that beautiful hand, stroking my skin. His fingertips are pressing into my scalp, still wrapped up in my hair. I had noticed those hands on our first date, wrapped around a cup of bitter Starbucks; black, some Brazilian blend, with two packets of equal. Imagining him conducting with those hands; touching me with them. Bliss. Oh, God, kissing him is so blissful that my body is humming! Wait a minute; that's not me....it's him. No..it's not him, exactly..oh, it feels like a......! 39
"Ummmm, hold on...that's my phone," he says. My eyes go from dreamy to instantly wide. He shifts me to his right while he unhooks his cell phone from his belt. Annoyed, I think, why do men wear their phones on their belts? Strange. He answers his phone, and I hear a female voice on the other end. Oh, it's a "church friend," I think bitterly. She's asking him where he is, telling him that they've been waiting. Must be at the bar. "I've..uhhh....had my hands full. I'm running late," he tells her, his eyes looking straight into mine. I keep my leg draped over his lap, clearly staking my territory. "I'll keep your hands full," I whisper, smiling. Gently, quietly, I kiss his neck. I'm not sure if he likes it, but I do. He finishes the call and puts the phone on the coffee table. I see him looking at the envelope. "So, what's in the envelope?" he asks, reaching over my outstretched leg, picking it up and working the clasp. He slips a thick sheaf of paper out of it, and looks at the black type. "'Caught'", he reads. "Is this something you wrote?" he asks. I pull in my breath and move over a little, taking my leg off of him and straightening my posture. "Yes, but really, you don't have to read it now; it's not important." I answer, smoothing my skirt. "No, no, I want to," he replies. Oh, no. I don't know if I can handle his reading this in front of me. I pick up my water glass and take a sip; the condensation drips onto the exposed skin of my knee. I can't look at him. I hear him turning a page, and curiosity gets the better of me. He's frowning, his eyes moving quickly, left to right, as 40
he reads each line of type. He's flushed, the red creeps up to his cheeks. Uh, oh, he must be at the scene where I tell him I know he loved me.... He lets out a little laugh as he continues to read, and then looks over at me. I'm looking at him out of the corner of my eye as he asks, "You cried for three weeks? I made you cry?" His face darkens as I give a little shrug. This is embarrassing, I think to myself. He's still looking at me, waiting for me to explain. I chew my lip. "I knew from the moment I met you that I was to learn something from you," I finally say. "It felt so right, being with you. I didn't expect it to end so quickly....it made me angry. I had learned so much from knowing you, I told you that you had opened up doors in me that I had locked years ago. I didn't know it at the time, but I think I was led to you as inspiration." Well, that was cryptic...and silly. He nods, and continues to read. I sit quietly, wondering if he'll notice the photocopy of a check on the back of the last page. He doesn't. "Can I keep this?" He asks when he is through. I nod. "Of course." I take his hand; he doesn't resist. I turn it over and press my lips to his open palm. I stop at Starbucks on my way north. A tall Brazil Ipanema Bourbon coffee, a few packets of equal sprinkled into it. The man behind the counter looks at me quizzically, and says, "There's a man who comes here every Saturday in his pajamas to order that. He's so cute; I flirt with him every time but he never takes me up on it." He sighs dramatically, and hands me the cup. I add a bag of the beans to my order. 41
The sun is setting as I exit onto the highway. It's beautiful; red streaks the sky. I sip my hot coffee and open the moon roof. The sounds of the road are loud, so I press "power" and turn up the music on the radio. The drive is long, but I don't mind. I pass signs for Newport, and think that maybe I'll come back again someday. I almost spill my coffee as a semi blares its horn at me. I laugh as I look down, realizing my skirt has ridden up and the driver could see through the moon roof. The smell of the strong coffee and the hug that he gave me as I left tickles my nose. I hear the familiar bass of Paul Simon and turn up the radio even louder. I put my coffee down to sing along, belting it out with passion.
The first thing I remember When you came into my life I said I’m gonna get that girl no matter what I do Well I guess I’d been in love before And once or twice been on the floor But I never loved no one The way I loved you And it was late in the evening And all the music seeping thorough
42
Genesis to Revelations Susan Gillette
It begins with a look, a glance across a room... Did he notice? A second look, and our eyes meet... Heart pounding out of my chest He smiles Heat enveloping me I smile Knees shaking, fingers trembling... I walk away I'll think of him all day and smile It ends with a look, a glance over my shoulder... My pain reflects in his eyes I walk away, dying to run back Don't stop, there is nothing left to say Heart pounding out of my chest Tears stream down my face... Shoulders shaking I can't breathe I'll try to forget him I'll fail
43
44
The Natures of Evil
Ryan Magee
Robalanthe, It has indeed been a while since we last corresponded, though I am in understanding, as I know well that your duties to the Governor must certainly be taxing you to your limit - - though I hope not beyond. I was thinking back to the 8th of December, in the 468th Year After the New Dawning, and a conversation we had as to the nature of evil in our world. If my precise dating of our conversation does not jog your memory, then think back to the stir our talk caused in front of the Font with Rubald and his theologian rabble. I recalled our discussion after an arduous session cataloging the archives of Cathedus Schola ire. Among the dust and the moldering heaps of texts I discovered a pile of worn parchments, transcribed by the hand of Aldurus, High Prelate of Tempuros himself from what he says was an original copy of a text that details the Genesis of the Elder Days until the terrible time that the darkest fireside tales name the Dead War. Unfortunately the parchments were damaged, as many treasures lost in the archives were, during the flood of 423. With large sections of writing unreadable and sometimes entire pages destroyed I can only offer you a personally arranged transcript in which I have tried to return sense to the excerpts. What I have come up with has surprised me, and I hold great hope that it will hold at least some answers to many of the questions that came up in our discussion of old. Read on and let us see where it will lead us. Fruen Almason Accolade of the 3rd Accession
Keeper of the Tomes In the beginning there was no Void, only form, the Allmatter of the Universe, composed of everything, being everything all at the same time. Then the Allmatter cracked and the Universe shattered into darkness, and, with the fragments of the Allmatter hanging still in the sky - - revealed to us as tiny pinpricks of light only when our sun is at rest, and we call these lights Stars. From the Allmatter came all of the elements that we know, all of the aspects of the Universe now separate, though they once were one, unified. During the Shattering so too were the deities formed, Gods and Goddesses whose office was to maintain the aspects of the Universe. These deities were named the Aenariel and it was by Their hands that our world was constructed, formed in the Void that rests between the remaining fragments of the Allmatter‌ The Aenariel created our world as Their garden...and one of Their number raised the first races, the Elders, in a grand experiment in populating the Universe. Thus She became Lyss, Goddess of Life, and so two did the other Aenariel offer their services to their 45
creation...yet it was the Dark One, Naezrath, whose gift to the first races was mortality, and thus his office became that of God of Death… …the beginning of the Experiment saw only Chaos, the deities falling to squabbling as to how Their varied duties applied to the fledgling races. The Elders suffered greatly in this time of conflict and Naezrath’s office was overworked, though the Master of the Slaughter found Himself overjoyed. On advice from Hoeris, God of Inspiration, Naezrath raised two kingdoms in the Heavens: Steingaard, Bastion of the Afterlife, where those considered a Chosen of a deity existed in Grace, and Fallnegaard, Keep of the Damned, where those who forsake the deities were in their turn forsaken. Fallnegaard, perched over a fiery abyss… was a tower made from a cracked mountain whose black rock was riddled through with a dark warren of caves like the tunnelwork of gigantic worms. Here did Naezrath dwell, and He took often to strolling the grounds of His demesne, His formidable, arcing horns tearing great wounds into the rocky ceiling while the black, sulfurous clouds that were exuded from the fires that made up His body choked the warrens with foulness… He subjected the Damned to His dark whims and He grew slothful and complacent in the pleasures He took at His duties… When in time the conflict over the Experiment was brought to resolution and the Aenariel divided Their ranks into agents of Order and Chaos, there was a great peace over the land and the Natural Order was allowed to develop… Only once was the truce among the Aenariel jeopardized, and that when the God of Death, who Himself was of the side of Chaos though He swore allegiance to none, decided to chose a bride. He chose for Himself Naltiya… who was the most beauteous mortal of that Age... though Naezrath offered her immortality for her hand she declined… she was already a Chosen of Myrtle, God of Solace… But Naezrath would not be denied. Without illness or accident or injury He bestowed Death unto her… and she wept as He carried her nigh to the heart of His kingdom in Fallnegaard. Naezrath proved His will over the wishes of the other Aenariel, denying both the years Eon, Goddess of Fate, had allotted for Naltiya as well as any acts which that fairest mortal was to accomplish… and the Chaos Lord of Murder and Blight also denied Myrtle’s right for His chosen to reside in Steingaard... When she was in His domain He forced her to be His bride . . . He allowed her to keep the raiment of her mortal shell and so her flesh was preserved even after Death. . The other deities, though enraged, could do nothing that would not again jeopardize the Natural Order, which Naezrath had bent but had not gone far enough to have broken… As His wife, He forced Naltiya to bear a part of His divine essence, which in nine 46
hundred years and a day manifested itself into Naezrath’s son, Vicshus. Though of partly mortal constitution the demi-god matured in less than a day and took his place as the second most powerful Lord over the dual kingdoms of Steingaard and Fallnegaard… Vicshus was fast to learn the operations of Death… he quickly began to question the way in which his Father was managing His office… The demi-god saw Death as more than just the natural, unavoidable end of life for the mortal races. He saw it as a passing over from the keeping of the other deities into the sole dominion of the God of Death. …and so Vicshus challenged his Father while He sat on His very Throne making sport with the latest Damned to grace the halls of Fallnegaard, stripping the man of his Ego, his flesh, and rendering him a mere soul to be lost within the nightmarish warrens. Vischus stood tall in the dark armor of his station and his black eyes seemed to pulsate with the inner darkness of his being… the defiant whelp of a God made slight enough as to challenge the Dark Chaos Lord as to the true power behind His office. “Of what matter, Father,” cried he, “is it to punish these lowly mortals?” “They are my pleasure,” said He, “and their torture is my right.” “They are castoffs, set aside by the other Lords and Ladies of Heaven,” cried the son and the clenching of his fists was like the clapping of thunder. “But the most virtuous Aenariel deny you the torture of Their Chosen, who most deserve to serve as sources of your pleasure. But though the fires of His body raged greater, Naezrath only laughed, slapping His great black-clawed hands and shaking the bones that made up His Throne. “I have more than enough work in the torture I must allot to the Damned, and their suffering is sufficient pleasure for me. “But is it not also true that the foulest of the Aenariel rarely bother to have Their Chosen sent to Steingaard, and so you have the worst and most brutal of the world’s kings and warriors languishing in your home? Would that you collect these Damned, what army then would you have to challenge the mortal world?” But at these words Naezrath leaned dangerously close to His son and His fiery lips pulled back to revel His sharp teeth, setting upon His face a dagger-filled sneer. “You would preach Order in my house?” “I would preach power,” retorted the son. “What mortal army could face your might, commanding an army of the dead, who cannot die anew?” “And why would I care to invade the mortal world?” And Vischus’ answer came without delay and his voice had the strength of a titan behind it. “To conquer!”
47
“But what need have I to expand my holdings? What pleasures can killing gain me when I can delight so in those who have been already killed?” But Vicshus would not relent in his argument and so Naezrath indulged the fires within his half-mortal son and offered him three chances to prove that the way in which He managed the affairs of Death were wrong. But there was a cost placed on Vicshus’ shoulders that he must prove beyond doubt his case or the God of Death, his Father, would reclaim the divine essence He had bestowed on His son. At that the son threw down his gauntlet and stormed from his Father’s holdings and traveled to the far side of Fallnegaard, away from the unholy fires of the pit whose light was as great as the sun and which cast a shadow of the Keep of the Damned that was deeper than any on the mortal world… There in the darkest depths dwelled Meinvara, Goddess of Shadow and of Secrecy… who Herself had the form of shadow but with depth, and to attempt to pass through Her was to feel the absolute coldness of the Void… Meinvara took Her own delight in the screams from Fallnegaard as well as in the solitude of the shadows… She wept for joy at the Damned’s misery and despair as well as for Her own… With Her did Vicshus plot through the night… and in the morrow did he come before Naezrath on His Throne. “What have you to say, my son?” said the Father as He leaned forward in His seat. His red-eyed gaze held all of the hunger of a man lost in the desert who comes upon a glade of palm and water. “I have naught to say without first to show,” came the no-less-eager reply. And with a clap of his hands did Meinvara enter the room and in Her tow was Naltiya, his mother and wife of Him. Naezrath merely sat and watched. “Though all must die in turn, even gods,” said Vicshus, “not all must lose the trappings of their flesh, which as my mother’s beauty shows need not decay and waste but which may be kept to give the dead a vessel with which to exist in the mortal world as more than ghostly spirit.” Naezrath again laughed and with a swipe of one mighty hand He rendered Naltiya’s mortal form asunder and left her soul naked and afraid. “Beauty to me is the destruction of beauty,” the God of Death said, “and thus do I intend to make all mortals beautiful when they in their turn grace my doorstep. “You have proven to me nothing but my own argument.” And Vischus did not weep for his mother but with a glare as if she had betrayed him he waved his fist and scattered her whimpering soul to the flow of the fiery winds coming from Naezrath. 48
“Useless?” cried He. “What spoiling, what carnage, what rapture these insane souls provide us as a show. Robbed of their bodies and even robbed of their minds they can still Now it was Vicshus who laughed, loud and powerfully enough to halt his Father’s murderous advance. The demi-god gave out one last cry, one that rang with the range and clarity of a trumpet call summoning the hounds to the hunt. Immediately screams of purest rage came up around Fallnegaard and the souls of the Damned came streaming forward from the warrens. They crashed against Naezrath like an ocean wave, their ghostly fingers clawing at the source of their eternal agony. But the Designer of Downfalls was a full Aenariel and His might could hardly be scratched by their pitiful attempts. The fires coming from His body swept away any who came too close while the great length of His mighty arms allowed every swipe of His clawed hands to shred scores of the Damned to flailing pieces. Though the ranks of the Damned seemed endless, so too was the God’s power and fury. Their attack however was not the true source of danger, for while Naezrath was distracted His son crept up behind Him and thrust both hands into the fires of His body. Though Vicshus held only a portion of divinity it was the same as Naezrath’s and so he was able to draw his Father’s essence into himself… How Naezrath howled, His razor teeth gnashing and His great homed head rolling back. But thrash as He might the Killer of Killers could not throw off His son… and Vicshus grew stronger while his Father grew weaker… With the stolen essence of the Father the Son laughed as He flexed His newly powered body. “Thus do my enemies die,” Vicshus, God of Death, said. Then to the Goddess Meinvara He added, “Thus will all my enemies die. My army of the Damned shall never be conquered and with each new mortal we slaughter we will gain in numbers while the other Aenariel watch Their children wither and perish from the mortal world forever.” Then He kicked the body of His Father… Neazrath was smoldering, little more than a skeleton the color of burnt charcoal. But His Father did not die… for deities can never truly die though they may fade… Vicshus allowed His Father to retain a component of His divinity and so the old God of Death became the God of Undeath, and though Naezrath had lost nearly all of His mind He was capable of His new duties as Herdsman of the Damned and gatherer of Vicshus’ planned army. Chuckling darkly, the new God of Death strode from the room followed shortly after by the shambling form of the broken Naezrath. Meinvara, Goddess of Shadow and of Secrecy, stood alone in the shade of the Throne, cradling in Her dark hands a mass of energy that She formed into a ball. She held the item aloft, studying carefully the small portion of divinity She had managed, unbeknownst to the new God, to steal before He had fully acclimated to His new form. “‘We will gain in numbers,”’ she repeated softly. Pulling a similar orb the darkness that made up Her body She brought the two together essences, melding them and shaping them until she had formed a tiny, newborn being which she cradled to her shadowy breasts.
49
“My son,” she whispered to the tiny, gray hued face that looked up at her with eyes whose irises were as gray as his skin. “Son of Shadow and of Death.” The Goddess stood still for a portion of Eternity, staring into the intent eyes of the child. Though she considered the folly of Her actions after having witnessed the havoc a son can bring on a father she quickly dismissed any doubts with a burst of insane, gleeful laughter. Let this newborn, this gray child, do what he must. For whatever mischief or marvels this newly formed life might wreck in his days, to Vicshus or to Herself, to the mortal world or to the kingdom of Fallnegaard, she simply did not care. Not beyond the promise of the Chaos the child would sow, all to Her own delight. …and thus are the natures of Evil… Evil complacent, Evil ambitious, Evil uncaring, Evil in waiting…
50
Wonder
Nicole Scraer
I wonder who I am tonight. My face is not my own, my mind an empty remembrance, and my soul desperate, craving the familiar, but long past love of a friend. I wonder where I am. The sky is sable, the air dead, and the ground beneath my weary feet, untouched by the moist grass, of a comfortable spring meadow. I wonder how I arrived here. By salted tears, and a grievous heart, my spirit must have brought me, far into a dismal state, where solitude is a common empathy. I wonder what I’m looking for. I have roamed this place, this desolate path, and still I find nothing of consequence, no allusion to the purpose, of this seemingly vain and perpetual quest. I wonder when this journey will end. My feet cannot move, and my lungs cannot breathe, yet my body is still being driven, tortured by some unknown force, that refuses to let me rest. And I wonder why I’m not dying. an it be that anguish, in it’s most puissant form, will ultimately heal the spirit, and make strong one’s ability to endure the loss, of that which is most significant to us? Yes.
51
Figure Eight
Michelle Lawrence
I have been A saffron-yellow circle Coming back around To the beginning Time and time again I used to be A flat, black line I couldn’t move Forward or backward I just was I want to be The reds, oranges, yellows and blues Of fire Flickering Stretching Rising Into the night sky I am the figure eight Deep red Connecting the Past to the present Remembering Pausing in the middle But never stopping. 52
Inspiration Nicole Scraer
Today begins, with careful steps, a new path for my feet to walk. My spirit, hungry from solitude, has been fed with ambition, And my soul, once cut by love’s stainless blade, has again been sealed by the same. No more will salted tears, of pains past, find purpose in my eyes, Or will desperate cries, of repressed sorrow, be born from my lips. For this day, my heart has been lifted, and my body tilled with peace.
53
Ecstasy Susan Gillette
It shouldn't have happened. A night like this... It shouldn't have happened... But it did. A stolen kiss A hand out of place Can you see the guilt upon my face? In the heat of the moment... A passion unleashed I forgot how it felt to feel so free... But, there is a ring on my finger, That your blue eyes can't erase There is a picture in my heart of the look on his face... Don't look at me Let me go I am not yours So, now you know And you can't look at me... Don't follow my trail of tears Don't try to be my friend Your blue eyes started all of this You are the crown jewel in my tiara of sins... You melted my defenses from within The touch of your skin, the taste of you Surely, the world spun around us two The paradox that something so wrong, could feel so right is not lost on me I have been down this road before... Don't look at me I am unclean I must go home, but I am afraid He can smell fear, he will know Why do you look at me so? Your eyes scorch my soul I pray that he never knows It shouldn't have happened... Such ecstasy only angels should know 54
FORTS John Tassoni “What is it that unsettles and thus terrifies? It shows itself and hides itself in the way in which everything presences, namely, in the fact that despite all conquest of distances the nearness of things remains absent.” Martin Heidegger
The Tootsie House It wasn’t even a house. It was a twelve-by-five patch of lumpy grass lodged between the cemetery fence and a brick wall. The wall belonged to a garage, a garage around which we had never witnessed any activity--no car, no door ajar, no old guy with a butcher knife, nothing. No weeds even existed in the narrow dirt slits between the garage’s foundation and its asphalt driveway. Nothing invited us. We called it “the tootsie house” because the first day we claimed it as our fort we also found there a stack of magazines and one page of one of them featured side-by-side, before and after shots of a woman with bared breasts. In the first picture, the woman frowned, puckers and lines arraying her stomach and thighs. In the second photo, less dim than the first, she smiled, her legs smooth like glass and her stomach sucked into her ribcage. In both pictures her breasts curled up gently at the nipples and expelled what little light the photographer needed. Bryon kept swiping at the print like he was trying to knock away gnats. Neither of us could read yet: We knew only the source of light, one woman, two pictures, four breasts. Eventually, Bryon ripped the page in two so we could each hold our own set of tootsies. We lay flat on our backs, our heads and tips of our shoulders curled against the wall for support, and at some point, apparently, our silent study of the photos and the never ending summer air lulled us to sleep. He had the tootsie lady beneath his chin when I shook him, afraid we’d slept passed our 55
dinner hours. Bryon woke with alarm and snatched my picture from me. “What are you doing?” I asked. I reached for his lady as compensation, but he yanked it over his head, out of my reach. “Hold on. Hold on,” he said, “Watch.” He grabbed one of the magazines off the ground and shoved our pictures between two of its pages. “What are you doing?” I asked. “Just wait,” he said. “Just wait.” Then he curled the magazine and started working it into the space between the garage’s drainpipe and the cylinder at its base. The painted bricks had left pink swipes along the collar of his crew cut and white t-shirt. “What are you doing?” I kept asking, but he just rocked his shoulders and bumped his hip against the magazine, adjusting its angle until it nearly disappeared into the slot. The next day when Bryon said he wanted to go to “the tootsie house” I knew exactly what he meant. We ran the length of our alleyway and we freed the magazine encasing the tootsie lady, and after trading photos so that we’d each have a different picture than the day before, we again fell asleep gazing at the breasts lighting the safety of our new fort. Over the next few weeks, the pages of our protective magazine were alternately wet or crispy, and negotiating the photos’ freedom grew more difficult. With each visit additional pieces of the casing came off in our hands, and one day the magazine refused completely to dislodge. The first time this happened, Bryon and I sat cross-legged on patches of grass and tossed pebbles at the wall as if at some point it might occur to the lady to free herself. The second time this happened, I begged Bryon to rip the drain from the wall, but he explained this would only make the magazine tumble into the cylinder, plummeting the tootsie lady into some sewer abyss. One day, the magazine managed to shift so much that neither of us could even touch it, let alone grip it with our fingers. We opined that someone else might be using our fort, and that 56
night I dreamed of a shadowy man in a black suit and fedora—the proverbial stranger--using long, fat, dirty fingers to shove the magazine deep into the cylinder, beyond our reach. Bryon and I spent the next two afternoons lying on our stomachs, staking out our fort from the cemetery, and after that we only passed the tootsie house on our way home from climbing mausoleums at the cemetery’s north end or from racing up and down elevators in the hospital across the street. During these passages, even after the magazine was surely gone, each of us would invariably glance down at the space between the drainpipe and the base and know something was there. The Bush Our fort was a leafy maze of switches, arching two feet above our heads. In the middle of that bush we could whisper to each other, and no matter how slow our lips moved or how much our lungs ached with the effort to speak silence, we could still hear each other. We’d tell each other what we saw, gasp for air between words, feel a touch of cold between breaths no matter how much summer sun had found its way through the branches. The cold emanated from the clear, cylindrical pebbles lining the roots. On the day we discovered “the bush,” we splashed each other with stones for hours and then carted out sand buckets full of them for further inspection. The coiled, plastic handle of Bryon’s plastic bucket gave way within a few feet of the bush, the stones sounding a panic as they sprayed onto the asphalt. We waited until every last one of them had stilled and then Bryon grabbed my bucket inside the rim to take weight off, and he and I, bucket between us, limped the rest of the way to my basement. There, we shoved the stash of cold, clear, cylindrical stones far back beneath the sink and forgot about them. Next, we wore bathing suits and combat boots and thrashed around inside the fort like 57
professional wrestlers. While the branches conspired against me, entangling my arms like ring ropes, Bryon tossed up stones into my face and I screamed, pretending he was throwing salt in my eyes; he was Tora Tonika and I Chief Jay Strongbow, doomed to suffer the indulgences of his will to power. When the branches gave way, freeing my arms, I attempted a war dance, shuffling around on my knees like the angry Indian I was, only the stones bit into my kneecaps and my war cries cluttered with “Oooches” and Bryon laughed. When, in retaliation, I threw myself onto his shoulders, he spun me onto my back, and my legs slung a tide of pebbles beyond the confines of our fort, down the grassy knoll, onto the alley’s apron. Later, I remember two or three stones clinging to the side of his thigh as we sat crosslegged, catching our breath, and Bryon reached around to dislodge a pebble from my shoulder blade. The Swamp The swamp lay just beyond the open field in the cemetery. I hadn’t even looked twice at it until the day some big kid pulled out these long furry poles from his school bag and laid them before Bryon and me and called them his “pride and joy.” “Damn!” Bryon said. “Giant punks.” “Yeah, they’re punks,” said the kid. “But you got to let them dry out first, or they just stink. Right now, they’re still just cattails.” Within an hour, Bryon and I had run through enough of the swamp to establish avenues of crushed stalks to take us from cattail to cattail. Sometimes, though, even with our careful mapping, we’d end up separated, identified only by the shimmy of tall stalks here and there in the distance and once in a while a cry of “badness” that would bring either Bryon or me to the sight of a buried tire or melted bottle, the rotted plank of a coffin or a nest of yellow jackets. 58
One day we found some hypodermic needles, another day some teenager drinking a beer. But nothing was so valuable as cattails, which we bundled in our t-shirts and scuttled to our homes and set out on the ledges of our bedroom windows. One day I went into the swamp alone. I didn’t venture from the routes Bryon and I had established, but I walked more quickly then usual, hungry to spy some odd cattail that Bryon, in his gluttony, had missed. At one point, I stopped to listen, imagining I might hear the fat fur of punk brush against the sharp thistle of leaves. I held my ears against the shimmy, the shear shimmy of stalks and listened through them until a new sound was evident. I put my hands up to my face to squelch any air that might escape it and to stretch my eyes so that no part of my flesh could obscure my vision. Then I let my ears steer my head. Right in front of me, set in the highest reaches of a stalk, a praying mantis perched gobbling a cicada between its forearms like a turquoise corncob. And in that very second I discerned the mantis’s green stalk body from its green stalk perch and distinguished its gobbling from the hiss of swaying stalks, the mantis stopped eating to cock its pyramid head in my direction and I screamed. I ran in a circle, at first readying to plow a new path and in that same instant imagining the whole sway of stalks in front of me transformed into mantises. There could be no more telling stalk from ravenous mantis, nor mantis from stalk: stalk-mantises surrounded me. Finally, with nowhere to turn, head buried between my elbows, I dove into the mesh of stalks in front of me. Tripping over tangled brush, a rusted tricycle, losing my shoe in a sudden hole of mud, swiping imagined mantises from the back of my neck, I screamed to the swamp’s outer edge and dove to the safety of asphalt road, rolling to the other side of it as if I were trying to extinguish myself on fire. 59
As I came to rest, another set of screams shook my being. I put my hands on my mouth, wondering whether I’d begun to wail independent of myself. When I found my own mouth closed, I knew the screams to be Bryon’s, Byron screaming from the other side of the swamp. I shouted his name, “Bryon?!”—framing my call through cupped palms. Not daring to enter again the thicket of stalks, I sprinted along the swamp’s outskirts, calling “Bryon? Bryon! Bryon?” into unstopping screams. I circled the whole swamp before I realized his screams had circled me, so I doubled back, and in that moment I doubled back I collided with Bryon headlong. I hit the ground next to his electrified body screaming. Flashes of black spiders punctuated his jeans and white t-shirt in a thousand places, crisscrossed his body with unspeakable intent. Bryon’s hands drummed his chest and groin and shoulders and thighs, drummed with a helpless pace that could not for all his strength drum out his screaming. My body fled him. I sat up on my knees, and in that instant of repulsion, Bryon’s hand clutched my shirtsleeve, and the moment he clutched my sleeve I started pelting him with slaps and punches. I wanted him off of me; I wanted the spiders off of him. With both arms moving as fast as they could move my hands pelted him, slapped his face, punched his stomach, smacked his groin, his knees, his sneakers, and Bryon screamed. I smacked at him until my heaving ribs felt as though they’d squash my lungs, until my windmill arms flopped at him like empty sleeves, until Bryon rolled away from me unto his side and sucked into his throat spotty, breathy noises that wouldn’t let me know if he were laughing or still crying. Middle of Nowhere, a Room Full of Strangers He plops down on the one chair and unfolds the map that seems folded in a thousand different directions, the map that takes him years to unfold until its edges sag in flaky, oblivious 60
chunks beyond the borders of my kitchen table. He leans his face into one section of the map and without looking up he asks me, “What have you got figured so far?” He’s got all of his weight onto both elbows. With the index and middle finger of one hand he rims the scabby circle that marks the bullet’s path between his eyes. I watch him study the map and rim his wound, study and rim, study and rim, and when he starts cramming his fingers in and out of the hole itself I ask him, “Do you have to do that?” At this, he looks at me, chin against his chest, eyes full of white intensity: “Do you want me to help you or not?” “I do,” I say. “I’m sorry.” “Okay, then.” To make a point, he sticks both of the aforementioned fingers into his mouth and pulls them slowly out, as if savoring the juices. They make a popping noise as they exit his lips. “Ah,” he says, his breath clouding in front of him. I whisper, “That’s a bit over the top, don’t you think, Bryon? Gross-out, teeny bopper bullshit.” I grab an ice cube out of my vodka tonic and make like I’m going to toss it into the hole in his forehead. Without even blinking and without taking his eyes off me, he hammers his other forefinger onto the map: “Oh, and this isn’t?—‘crisscrossed his body with unspeakable intent’?; ‘his screams had circled me’?” “It’s what happened,” I say. “It’s what you say,” Bryon tells me, “but it’s not what happened.” “It is what happened,” I insist. “I beat those spiders off of you.” “It was bees,” says Bryon, “and we went there together and you left me there alone.” “It was spiders,” I say, “and I probably saved your life. You broke out in boils 61
afterwards. Don’t you remember?” “I remember they were bees,” says he, “and the only thing they didn’t sting was my dick.” “They were spiders,” I say, “and they would’ve eaten your dick if I weren’t there to beat them off.” I think he’s ignoring me now. Again, he’s peering into the map, staring down some secret code he swears is at work. He looks at me again: “I don’t see any parts here where you’re jerking off tiny little spider dicks.” “Very funny,” I say. I fake a punch, go to shove him but he leans away from me, forms a peace sign with the fingers he had had just seconds earlier shoved into his mind. “You’ll miss me,” he says. “I know.” “In the middle of nowhere, a room full of strangers, and you’re going to miss me.” “I do,” I tell him. “Isn’t that what this is? You here?” “Who can tell?” Bryon shrugs. “You got no chronology.” I’m ready to ask him what the fuck he’s talking about when I see he’s using his finger to box the compass on the map. I tell him, “Tell me.” He strikes his finger north: “You go—Tootsie House.” Strikes east: “The Bush.” Strikes south and then west: “Swamp, Sticker House.” It should go: Sticker House, Bush, Swamp, Curly Tree. That’s the way it happened.” “It didn’t happen that way,” I tell him. “It’s happening according to place, not time. The curly tree happened farther away. We’re not kids there. This is about being kids, the places that show that. Kids, Bryon. I don’t know why they or I or we have to figure anything.” 62
“You leave too much out, miss too much, invent too much,” Bryon says. He’s pointing all over the map now like he’s pecking letters on a keyboard, typing with one finger a novel approaching deadline. “There’s The Fence, The Stones, The Sewer. And what about The Corner? They all came next.” “It’s about comes where, not comes next,” I say. “That’s why The Tootsie House comes North.” “I don’t even remember the Tootsie House,” says Bryon. “I mean, I remember the place called the Tootsie House, but I don’t remember us naming it or any of the other shit you say. I remember smoking some joints up there later on, but no tootsie lady or us spying on the place from the cemetery.” He’s swirling his fingers up into his head again, got one leg curled beneath his rump on the chair. I box my own compass: “Tootsie House, Bush, Swamp, Sticker Porch. That’s what I know.” “I’m not even sure about The Bush, that it even goes here,” says Bryon. “I only know The Sticker House. That was the best fort of all.” “You’ve got to be kidding,” I tell him. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he says. “Remember those crack whores out front?” “Shit,” I say, “I hated that fort. We had to sneak up on it every time. I still have nightmares about it.” I bottom out my drink, peer down at the avenue through my window. “Nightmares like what?” Bryon says. He takes the leg out from below him, crosses it over his knee. His arms fold across his big beer belly. “Well,” I say, “there’s the one where my dead friend spreads out a map on my kitchen table and keeps asking me if I got it all figured yet.” Bryon just looks at me. One example is not enough to convince him anymore; he’s 63
Bryon just looks at me. One example is not enough to convince him anymore; he’s waiting for more proof, waiting for truth as a matter of course. Bryon has all night. “Okay. There’s the other one where I’m ready to go to sleep, but I have to cross some huge cavern.” I’m pouring myself another drink. “I mean, even going to my bedroom means lurking around for a while, waiting for the right moment, and then hoping I have enough strength to make the leap across the crevice, into my bed. Most of the time, in those dreams, I just say ‘Fuck it’ and decide not to sleep instead. Sometimes, I really do go days without sleeping just so I don’t have to get to this point in my dreams, this point where I have to say ‘Fuck it’ so that I don’t even have to dream about not sleeping in my own dreams.” At this, Bryon crinkles what’s left of his brow. “John,” he says, “you got issues.” Sticker Porch Going there meant walking up the busy Edgemont Avenue and then turning down the narrow corridor between two houses where people lived. Sometimes people were sitting on the stoops in front of these houses and we had to keep on walking and make sure we didn’t even look down the corridor where the porch would be. When no one was out front, we would run down the corridor, but the whole time it was hard to believe someone in one of the houses couldn’t see us from one of the windows that lined the hall. Windows lined the walls of the buildings at our feet and at our heads, and above our heads, two more stories of windows looked down upon us. Windows watched our every move. We went down the corridor the first time because no one was on the stoop and we couldn’t imagine what might be at the end of it. At the end of it was a short, metal gate that creaked when we stood on it and leapt to reach the top of a white, wooden wall. We’d pull ourselves onto the wall and then climb down its beams the rest of the way to get to the back 64
patio that we would come to call “the sticker porch.” Next to running down the corridor full of eyes, the leap to the wall is what I hated most. At first I could get most of my arms on top of it, which made pulling myself up not so hard, but each time we leapt after that, less and less of me was making it. Toward the end, I was barely getting enough of my fingers on top to hold my weight, and Bryon would have to stay on top so he could press weight on my fingers and then tug up on my shirt to make sure I didn’t fall back onto the gate. Bryon had to spend more and more time each morning convincing me go to the porch, and each time I went I had less and less strength to get there. One time, in the midst of these negotiations, I told him about a dream I had had where a cop caught us back there and Bryon stuck out his hand to shake with the cop’s, trying to charm him into letting us go. Bryon told me he had had the exact same dream, only he had taken his pen knife and shoved it up the cop’s ass. Being there on the porch was fine, though. By the third or fourth day, we had already started decorating. We’d buy stickers at the candy store across the street and stick them up and down the posts of the porch and in circling designs all around the concrete floor. These were gruesome cartoon stickers, a tarantula boy holding his stomach as he spewed vomit, an eggplant baby with eyes hanging out of its head and shit leaking from its diaper. Bryon and I would sit back on the porch swing, chew the gum that had come with the packets of stickers, and ponder different portions of the porch that might benefit from our designs. We were decorating the porch swing itself on the day I heard dirt cracking beneath footsteps and peaked over the wall to see a bony, tattooed man headed toward the gate. As the gate creaked, Bryon and I leapt like synchronized swimmers onto the wall at the porch’s opposite end and let ourselves spill onto the uncertainty of the other side.
65
As our feet hit, though, Bryon broke left, toward the cemetery fence, and I broke right, toward the avenue. I ran up the corridor and slid beneath a bush at the front of the house, sure I’d hide fast enough to escape the stranger, who’d run past me if he were in pursuit and give me time to double back after Bryon. I curled myself into a ball, hid my face in my hands. But nothing chased me. The man had not taken the corridor, so I took the chance of peeking toward the porch. There is when I saw Bryon’s outstretched arms spread along the spokes of the cemetery fence and the hands of the tattooed man cupped on Bryon’s waist. His ribbed, ink-speckled back to me, I couldn’t tell if the man was pulling Bryon from the fence or pushing him through it. I couldn’t tell if Bryon was laughing or screaming. I couldn’t even tell how long I just lay there and watched them, but I knew as soon as I saw them that we could in all our lives never go back there.
66
67
ILLUMINATI is the Creative Arts Publication of Miami University Middletown. We exist to give force to your expressions and to provide an equal and open forum for the creative energies of the community. The mission of Illuminati is to promote and foster the creative arts at Miami University Middletown. We encourage creativity and recognize the literary and artistic endeavors of all students, staff, and faculty, as well as present an open access forum for the cultural voice of the Miami University Middletown community. Illuminati strives to expose the campus population to diverse peer-written materials and give way to a greater appreciation for the fine arts. Illuminati accepts submissions from all students, staff and faculty of Miami University Middletown, as well as from those individuals in the greater community who are similarly dedicated to the pursuits of Truth, Freedom and beauty. All types of creative writings and artwork are eligible for publication and we encourage photography of three-dimensional creations and unique life moments that can’t otherwise be set to print. Email your submissions to illuminati@muohio.edu or stop by our office in the Hawk Haven Commons. 68
Acknowledgments
THE STAFF OF ILLUMINATI would like to thank everyone who submitted their creative works for this issue. Without your creative endeavors we would not exist. We would also like to thank the Miami Middletown Student Government, MUM Communications Board and the Budget Review Committee for providing the resources that have enabled us to bring Illuminati back to campus, Jim Sliger, Carol Caudill, Jan Toennison and James Ewers for guidance and support, as well as Brad Farr for much-needed computer assistance. We would also like to thank former Illuminati editor-in-chief Britton Stockstill for wisdom, advice, support and humor. Special thanks to our esteemed faculty advisor, Dr. Eric Melbye, for his enthusiasm, patience and unwavering encouragement. With your continued support, Illuminati is reemerging as a publication that represents not only our students, but the campus and community as a whole. 69
70