Pandemic Magazine

Pandemic Magazine

everything comes in pairs • fall 2008

Diana Damewood Harmoni Owens Rebekah Cansler Josh Hoffman Samantha Webster Elizabeth Yates Alexander O’ Neill Anne Smoral Samantha Webster

Welcome to the first issue of Pandemic Magazine!

We are an up-and-coming literary-arts magazine that is beginning online with hopes of someday becoming a real boy! I mean...magazine. We are here to showcase the artwork and writings of up-and-coming creative minds, and we will be publishing an issue quarterly.

We would love to have your submissions for inclusion in future issues, so please refer to the submission page at the end of the magazine, and please be our MySpace friend and send us messages and comments! We love new friends!

Enjoy!

Sam & Liz

http://www.myspace.com/pandemicmag

Disarm - Diana Damewood

What’s The Problem - Diana Damewood

Lonely February - Harmoni Owens

Boston Fathead - Harmoni Owens

Nina Beth pulled herself up from the last rung in the cellar ladder, using her apron to carry several potatoes. She set them on the rough-hewn table in the center of the stone floor. Ovens were already heating in preparation for the Coeur Peau−gourmet prepared fish wrapped in potato skins. It was a dish developed by the Druids of the world, originally used as one of their ceremonial meals but instead of fish wrapped in potato skins they used heart of an animal wrapped in human flesh.

“Wash these potatoes before we bake them. After they are finished, we’ll scrape out the insides,” Nina Beth told her companion.

The girl beside her couldn’t be more than thirteen. She was a new member of the elf slave community. Frightened of what was to come, she moved like a scared rabbit. Two potatoes had already been dropped on the floor while transporting the vegetables from the table to the water basin.

“I’m Nina Beth.”

The girl braved a smile. “Haavi.”

“How long have you been here?” It was a common question among the elf slaves though it really wasn’t a question of much importance

“Three days.”

Nina Beth opened her mouth to say she didn’t know how old she was when she had been captured but it suddenly seemed trivial. For all she knew, she could be royalty. “What happened?”

Haavi’s eyes darted to the main entrance door.

“We’re doing our job. Don’t worry.”

Nina Beth continued to scrub the potato in her hand but her companion’s movements had ceased. Haavi stayed motionless for minutes. The only sound was the occasional drip of water from their wet hands.

“Midweek night, I was taken. A sprite man slipped through my open window and gagged me. I fought. It wasn’t enough. I’ve been held in a cell since then.”

Some elves were slaves to the sprite people. Many elves never knew their families. It was just a way of life in the world. Good against evil: no one really ever questioned the system structure. “And today was your first time free?”

Haavi nodded. “I was ordered to bathe—the water was very cold—and then brought here. I had a little brother on the way.” Her voice cracked. “My mother was due anytime now.”

Nina Beth tried to act normal but a lump lodged itself in her throat.

She tried to think of something normal to say. “I don’t know where you will live, but unless you are brought to the queen’s castle again, don’t expect another bath for quite some time.”

Nina Beth - Rebekah Cansler

Haavi again began to wash the same potato she had been working on since Nina Beth came up from the cellar. “And you? How long have you been here?”

“My life.”

Nina Beth’s breath caught at the sudden intensity of the kick. She stepped off the bottom rung of the ladder and hid herself in the cellar. A lie had brought her here. There wasn’t really a need for milk. But she wouldn’t mind another trip into the dark abyss to replace the bottle. It would give her another moment of silence.

She dropped to the floor and buried her face in the folds of her skirt.

Almost eight months had passed but she was still fairly small. It was the only reason her life still had some normalcy to it.

The baby kicked again.

“Zjnea Duraa, goddess of all gods, what am I to do? There will be no father. I am a slave. A baby shouldn’t work in the fields beside its mother.

What am I to do?” Nina Beth listened, knowing the high being could hear her but she wasn’t likely to get an answer.

“I can’t raise this child. I know nothing. I have no mother here to guide me.” Nina Beth bit her lip and dared to breathe the words hidden deep within her heart, “I’m not sure I want this child.

“The queen may take my child. My soul will be tormented yet again. I do not know if I can bear such a thing for a second time.” Nina Beth shivered.

A chill seeped through the thin fabric of her dress. Life had ended.

The baby kicked again.

Nina Beth grabbed a silver tray that held bowls of apple soup. It was the third course in Queen Spaara of Quotance’s birthday banquet. The queen gave herself a party every year and invited the nobles of the Kingdom of Quotance as well as the royalty and nobles of the Land of Laadatae—the elven kingdom.

Nina Beth placed a bowl of soup in front of the queen first. She could feel the eyes of the queen on the belt of her dress. It was tighter than normal because of her condition.

To the right of the queen sat the king of Laadatae; to the queen’s left, his wife. Nina Beth knew the history of the two Kingdoms and that when Spaara was in line for the throne of Quotance, she asked the prince—now king—of Laadatae to marry her. He had turned her down for the woman on Spaara’s right, Queen Lauren.

Spaara seemed to watch her every move. Nina Beth had avoided

being in the room for the earlier part of the meal, using the new servant girl as an excuse to stay in the kitchen. As she set a bowl in front of a nobleman’s wife, she forced her mind to the woman in front of her. Half the people in this room were of the same race as her. They were no better, nor any worse. But yet they sat at this lavishly decorated table, listened to a musician play the harp, and ate a delicious meal while she served them.

The last bowl clanked on the wooden table loudly. She glanced down the row of people and was drawn into the queen’s gaze. Something in the queen’s eyes put fear in Nina Beth’s heart. But what would the queen have against her? After all, unlike Thio, there was no relation by marriage…

Thio had hopelessly given her heart to a man. Queen Spaara’s cousin.

It all began when they met at the queen’s birthday party two years ago. Thio had been serving when she caught Miossec’s eye. Thio was a gorgeous elf, blessed with fair hair, green eyes and a figure that would attract any man. And Miossec had captured Thio’s attention. He married her soon after their first encounter. Queen Spaara was livid upon learning of their secret wedding.

Miossec and Thio seemed to love each other but in a rage three months later, Miossec beat Thio. She endured the occasional beatings, believing it would pass but it never did. And they had a lasting effect on the child that grew within her. Thio’s baby was born two months premature, extremely small, and deformed slightly. The baby was missing his index finger on his right hand. Queen Spaara went on a rampage and annulled her cousin’s marriage, taking the baby away from Thio.

Two days later, Queen Spaara called Thio into her bedchamber to talk. Thio screamed accusations blaming the queen for the ruined marraige.

The argument turned to physical violence when Thio clawed Spaara’s face and the queen didn’t even move except for the forceful slap she delivered with great precision.

Queen Spaara’s evil smile stayed pasted to her lips as she calmly clapped her hands and in came two male servants carrying a plain wooden box. Her baby’s coffin. They roughly dropped it in front of Thio and backed away. Inside was Thio’s son, stiff from hours of lifelessness and missing all nine of his fingers…

Nina Beth bumped into Haavi bringing her back to the present.

“Excuse me.”

Haavi’s eyes reflected fear. “Where do I put the bread again?”

“Offer it to the queen first and then place three loaves evenly spaced on the rest of the table.”

Haavi nodded and turned to do her job.

Something snagged Nina Beth’s dress. She looked over her shoulder and saw the claw-like fingernails of the Queen Spaara holding on to the hem of her dress.

“Ladies and gentlemen may I have your attention?” The harpist aske.

“The next composition is in honor of the king and queen of Laadatae.”

They clapped, drowning out the queen’s words to Nina Beth.

“The child is royalty to me. She is mine.” The queen’s voice rasped in a low command.

Nina Beth burst into the kitchen trying to catch the breath that had been robbed from her. What did the queen want with the child she carried? She was no one.

Tears pooled in her eyes as she remembered. She wanted to hate her child but even after the circumstances of its conception, she couldn’t. It was a part of her. It was the role of that horrible man that she wanted to forget.

The night in the field. She should have gone in sooner. The trees in the background already convered her working figure. The sun’s last rays spilled over the mountains in the west. The outline of the town was only visible by the sacrificial fire being made. It was then that her life changed. Dark hair, dark complexion, and black clothes. No face. She had never seen his face.

Haavi entered the kitchen. “Did you know the queen of Laadatae was almost a sacrifice of the Druids’ years ago?”

Large rough hands. The tight grip had left dark bruises.

“Did you know that Laadate has no heir? The king and queen’s twins died and the first born child was kidnapped then murdered?”

Forced to the ground. The stench of sweat mixed with blood.

“I was told the story beind the dish, Coeur Peau. Is it true that the Druids ate such a thing?”

There was a sudden kick from the life that was in her stomach.

“Nina Beth? Are you listening to me?”

Nina Beth shook her head free of the images. “Of course.”

“Then is it true?”

“What?”

Haavi huffed. “The Coeur Peau story? Is it true?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“What was the matter?”

“Nina Beth shook her head once more. Dwelling on such thoughts would not change her fate.” Nothing. It was nothing at all.”

Later that night, Nina Beth was ready to retire to her own little cabin.

It was four hours past the mid night. She had seen that the royal kitchen was put back in order and every dish that had been used for the celebration was clean. The nobles at the party had either passed out from too much liquor or they had been given a room. The only ones to depart after the banquet were the king and queen of Laadatae. Nina Beth didn’t blame them.

As she opened the back kitchen door to throw out the wastewater, Nina Beth caught a whiff of a familiar odor. She paused and sniffed again, trying to place the smell. At the same time, she heard a low moan, maybe a chant. Nina Beth tossed the water into the yard, blocking the sounds momentarily. A night breeze brushed her skin. The wind smelled of damp earth.

And blood.

Stepping out into the night, she saw a small blaze in the distance.

Curious, she closed the door behind her. The fire was about a mile in the distance and as she moved closer, the slower she walked. She knew what was out there. It was the Druids’ sacrificial fire. Sometimes the sacrificial killings were public in the town square of Quotance and other times, the Druids kept to themselves and the inhabitants of Quotance would not see their black, dark, robed figures for months.

A raspy voice screamed.

Nina Beth jerked to a stop as ice chilled her veins. Curiosity was no longer enough to propel her forward. Her hand went to her protruding stomach hidden in the folds of her skirt. Searing pain overtook her body. Magic singed the air. The smell of blood became the dominant odor.

Nina Beth’s mind warred within her. She knew what was out there and she needed to turn around. But the other half of her heard this enchanting voice in her head, seducing her to come forward.

When she could make out figures, Nina Beth stopped. There were no trees, no rocks, only a field and nothing to hide her from the eyes of the Druids.

For that is what was before her. They were dressed in ceremonial black robes with blood colored pendants hanging from gold chains. Something inside of Nina Beth told her the color of their pendants was from the clear vial encasing human blood. All figures were veiled, hidden behind the hoods of their robes, except for one.

“Spaara,” Nina Beth whispered. Another pain tore through her body.

She watched as the other twelve Druids gathered around the queen. A small opening was left for Nina Beth to see as they took Spaara’s left hand, drawing the tip of a knife across her flesh. Spaara flinched once. Next, they took that same bloody knife and applied it to her neck. Red poured from the wound. The chanting had not stopped once and Spaara looked as if she had lost all feeling.

Nina Beth felt a strong power overtake her. It made her walk forward toward the circle of evil even though another disturbing sight caught her attention. The Druids were forcing Spaara to eat something. As she stood there, recognition dawned in her mind. Extremely small, rigid and rotted, a Druid forced nine fingers into her mouth.

Her baby kicked ferociously inside her almost begging to be set free.

“Come.” The voice echoed across the field.

Nina Beth’s breath quickened. She clenched her fists, trying to resist.

The pain was overwhelming.

“Come.”

When she came within ten feet of the circle, a bony darted from beneath a robed sleeve and grabbed her wrist.

“No!”

“Come.” The voice was intoxicating and despite the obvious danger, she couldn’t resist. Everything faded to black before she came to her senses minutes later. The magic that brought her here was now gone. The air was only stained with evilness.

“Queen Spaara, why?” Nina Beth lay naked very close to the fire.

She was held in place by large rocks on her wrists. Her feet had been tied together and anchored down with another large rock.

The queen’s eyes were no longer human. Her once beautiful pale violet eyes were now jet-black. In her hand was the same knife with which she had been cut. She held it over Nina Beth. A single drop of the queen’s blood landed on Nina Beth’s pregnant stomach and everything was suddenly clear.

“No! Spaara no!” Nina Beth screamed in fear.

But Spaara wasn’t in the world of the living. She kneeled beside Nina Beth, pressing the blade into Nina Beth’s skin just below the navel. The queen pressed a little more until Nina Beth’s blood mixed with that of Spaara’s already on the knife.

“She is mine!” With that, Spaara slashed into Nina Beth’s flesh from her navel to the end of her pregnant belly.

Nina Beth screamed from the pain. It was so intense; black spots appeared in her vision. Just before she was ready to pass out, there was a sensation of pressure.

Spaara held a bloody mass in her hands, turning her back to the ceremony and ready to leave. “Sew her up.”

The baby no longer kicked inside her. The infant now wailed into the night air.

Jail I never liked the visits But blood is thicker than water He spoke of being caged like an animal Breaking free Yeah, more power to you And at the tip of my tongue I almost added Your die has already been cast The grass is always green on the other side And youth is wasted on the young But I will let him stew in his own juices Acting big and tough Scared of out his wits I knew this would fix his wagon This life is not so bad, when you consider the alternative Face the music baby bro Or the bad is going to get worse And let me warn you Waking up on the wrong side of the be is not an excuse

When It Rains - Rebekah Cansler

Underground Cities - Josh Hoffman

Still On My String - Josh Hoffman

Paperdoll - Samantha Webster

If I Were A Lime... - Samantha Webster

Cutting Strings You say it is for the best But when cut The ends come undone Like a restless brain. twisting. turning.

Around objects Lost balance It catches itself just to lose balance again. this time.

All the kings horses crash tumble tumble crashing crashing down.

Frayed Ends - Elizabeth Yates

i don’t think i’ve ever seen a lonely boy quite so lonely. the poor thing keeps himself up all night. every night. thinking of the secrets he must keep. wishing there was someone. someone who knew what he was talking about when his thoughts became to in-depth. that lonely boy will always be lonely just because he never lets anyone in. they can only get so close and the destruction begins. he has always hidden behind his words. that’s what he knows best. whispering something that doesn’t make sense somehow makes everyone take a few steps back. and they will shake their heads as they walk away and he knows he can breathe again for his secrets are still safe and he is alone. i don’t think i’ve ever seen a lonely boy quite so lonely.

There Is No Such Thing As The Lonely, Just The Damned - Elizabeth Yates

Ice Cream #5 - Alexander O’ Neill

Nikko - Alexander O’ Neill

Lithium - Anne Smoral

Manic Depression - Anne Smoral

It was a dreary day, but everyday for the past few years of her life had been dreary, no matter how bright the sun was shining or how sweet the air smelt. Loneliness had its price and someone so unwilling, and even worse, unworthy of its harmful and destructive ways was paying it. She wasn’t that smiling little girl in the pictures anymore, with her Mickey Mouse shirt and hot pink tutu, striking a pose only a model twice her age should have been conscious of. Growing up had hardened her, even when she put up the strongest fight she could muster, and at this point, she could muster little more than a whimper. She settled. She hunkered down into this life that she was handed and drew her last remaining spirited breaths. She was losing herself and her ambition.

She’d not always felt this way; college was when it truly began to show through. Growing up in a small, southern town had left her limited in her social life and she had been left to identify with bands with whom she danced along to, and artists with whom she envied. Some might have claimed it was a fantastical world she placed herself in, but it was her reality. She didn’t believe that she was honestly connected to these people, but she imagined worlds in which she was. In the end, she knew where she stood, and she didn’t like it.

Her shoes were endlessly sunken into a big pile of shit, her head and heart kicking back in the clouds. Oh how she had wished that the rest of her could have joined them.

Once a month, without fail, she would hop into her sticker-covered car and burn through her gas fund to travel the state in search of a live music event. It didn’t matter if it were a bunch of old men blowing into saxophones, hillbillies strumming their fiddles, or a bunch of angry kids screaming about how much their life sucked, she found solace in having someone else’s artistic expression shared with her. Something she rarely found at home in that little southern town. That prison. Any education she had received was merely, to her, something to keep her occupied during the day so she wouldn’t sink into her couch, watching Sally Jesse Raphael and eating potato chips, doomed to end up like the majority of people that she shared chicken-shit laced air with. The school cared nothing about you if you weren’t on their beloved football team. The rest were forced into oblivion; sent off to smoke pot and drink themselves into a stupor on the back of a pick-up truck in a field, or to runaway. That’s what she had done, even if it was mental ninety-five percent of the time, and only physical five. She had to escape and that was the method in which she had to abide, until it was her true time to leave. To rid herself of the negative and create the person she had been internally building all of those years.

She thought that once she got away that it would be easier. Easier to

make friends, express herself, find true love…all things that she had never felt possible before. ……….

It was a dreary day, but everyday for the past few years of his life had been dreary, no matter how bright the sun was shining or how sweet the air smelt. Loneliness had its price and someone so unwilling, and even worse, unworthy of its harmful and destructive ways was paying it. This was supposed to be every young guy’s dream, yet he felt like he was in hell most of the time. This wasn’t how he imagined it, and he knew that it was affecting the only relationships he had. One (lack of) relationship complicating the many great relationships he had accomplished. He had hundreds of doting fans and girls throwing themselves at him, something that he had never had when he felt it counted most. This was his life now, and he wasn’t happy.

He had always been the outcast, the band geek, the kid whose face was shoved into lockers having demands whispered into their ears. He had done everyone’s homework, moved his elbow a little to the left during every test, and covered for everyone who didn’t want to get in trouble. Now those were the kids looking up to him, dreaming of one day being in his position, sitting in their rooms, black eyes and acoustic guitars, pouring out their angst in the blood from their fingers striking the chords. That had been him only a few years earlier, but now his blood was dried up and he was just callused and hard now.

This was his passion, yet he had no one to share the exhilaration with. Loneliness was killing his ability to be passionate about what he loved all because there wasn’t someone he loved waiting for his phone call every night while he was away.

He had been so convincing, hiding it all behind a beer soaked mask for so long. His agony was oblivious to everyone around him, even himself, but the booze had become ineffective. It no longer hardened his heart and numbed his brain; it just made him puke his guts out the next day in an unfamiliar parking lot in an unfamiliar city. Sitting in smoked out vans with whatever bands he was on the road with at the time, it wasn’t how it used to be. The haze couldn’t hide the fact that he wasn’t there anymore.

He lugged his keyboard case to the back of the trailer, frequently being stopped in the 200 short feet from the back of the club to the van by girls in tight, ripped up shirts with his band’s logo on their chests, cooing and begging for a little attention. All he could think about was the fact that they had torn his artwork into pieces just to boost their egos and push their

How To Construct A Relationship - Samantha Webster

sexuality out on unsuspecting victims. If he had known that his art would be treated so abominably and with such ill taste, he wouldn’t have even bothered. He would have just put out the bands sweaty, hole-ridden t-shirts out for them to vie over. He’d had enough of their type, more than he’d like to admit, so with every “casual” rub of his arm, or pat on his much lower back, he shuddered and vomited up excuses to escape their lustful eyes.

That empty hotel bed that he often dreaded was beginning to sound quite enticing. At least he wouldn’t wake up beside someone he didn’t know, and frankly, didn’t care to. He wouldn’t have to pretend like he cared and out of kindness, invite them to the next night’s show, knowing that it was two states away and they would never show. His pillow made much better company, even if it was still inadequate. ……….

She strolled down the wide aisles, shelves looming above her with boxes sitting what she considered dangerously close to the edge. Rows and rows of limbs and torsos were to her left, heads and wigs to her right.

Computer screens glowed every ten feet or so, creating little workstations for construction convenience. The place had seemed so much warmer in the ad, but now she just felt odd, and cold, in this huge warehouse of body parts and computer chips. This was supposed to be the answer to her problem, and she was determined to remain optimistic.

She wasn’t entirely sure how this was supposed to work. She guessed that was why they had those large bins stuffed with pamphlets at the entrance, and thought that maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to pass it by. A step-by-step would have been helpful right about now. Arms, legs, noses, hands, and feet were all swirling through her head in a big jumble of unassembled body parts and she wondered if starting with the facial hair would be a bad starting point. If one thing was for sure, she knew that she wanted facial hair. In her youth, body hair in any capacity had grossed her out, but the older she became, the more she appreciated a good full beard, well-groomed mustache, or set of muttonchops. She chalked it up to the fact that she was tired of boys; it was time for her to find a man. A real, Fu Manchu wearing man. Flannel and all. He was starting to sound like a lumberjack, and her optimism felt a blow to its gut, but she couldn’t help her insatiable appetite for someone strong and burly, someone whose arms she could fold herself into. She wanted to crawl into his chest and make a fort in his heart, like the forts she had built out of quilts and barstools when she was younger.

The computer screen cast an eerie blue light on her face as she stumbled up to the nearest station. One would think that with the technology of building a human being that they could at least upgrade their computer system to something a little less 1994. And maybe offer some sort of seating option.

Concocting the perfect mate didn’t seem like a very speedy process and she assumed she’d be standing there for quite a while. She was glad she had worn her Converse.

……….

Scratching at his beard, he wandered around like a lost little boy in a larger than life candy store, overwhelmed and drooling over all the ideas and plans lurking in the back of his brain. This place was like a labyrinth, only there was no glittery glam rock god taunting him, unless you counted his conscious, which he often personified by envisioning some 80s hair band lead singer waggling his finger at him, telling him to rethink whatever idiotic thing he was about to do. If anyone knew when something was going to be a mistake, he’d imagine that the rock deities would be pretty high on that list. He wished Roger Daltrey would saunter up beside him and help him out a little. It seemed like he would know what kind of girl to work towards. He was sure that good old Roger would have this all figured out in a snap, and he would just sit back and give the thumbs up.

He had acquired an arm somewhere along the way, and was walking around, clueless, twirling this limb like a drumstick. People were staring and he’d just hold the hand up to his forehead and give a little salute with a smile.

He wondered if you could just purchase pieces, because that arm would make an awesome backscratcher. He imagined taking the arm with him to bars and getting his buddies in trouble by using it to lift up girl’s skirts and then point to his friend when the girl turned around, startled and pissed. His friend’s would get over it. Getting drinks thrown in their faces wasn’t new to them, and it was all in good fun.

The body parts were dwindling down and he was approaching an aisle of computer stations that were glowing with a bright blue screen covered in blocky white text. Despite their desperate need of updating, he walked over to the closest one and starting poking at the screen, not really seeing any other way of inputting information or controlling the program. Poke, after poke, after poke, the screen didn’t budge and all he had was smudgy fingerprints overlaying the outdated typeface that was welcoming him to the EZ Build System.

Feeling a presence near him, he turned around to see a girl standing a

few feet away at her own station, trying to hide her fascination with his baffled state. He gave her a wave with the arm.

“There’s a keypad on the side.” She reached up and twisted her hair back out of her face and walked over to show him. She put her hand under the corner of the screen and a small touchpad shot out of the side of the machine.

He nodded and mumbled a thanks, a little intimidated by her unconventional, natural beauty and embarrassed by his stupidity. She smirked at him, pointed to her own computer, and left him to work on his own creation, giving him a good luck over her shoulder as she returned to hers. He sniffed the air, taking in the faint smell of cake batter and paint that she left behind, and preceded with the task at hand. ……….

Laughter filled her gut as she stood over her computer, but she stifled it, not wanting to seem like an insensitive asshole to him. He was just so adorably clueless as to how to use the equipment, which in her mind was probably a good sign. If he had been an expert, she would wonder why he had needed to create so many perfect partners. Though as much as she enjoyed her spontaneous helpfulness bringing her into contact with such a uniquely beautiful man, she began to regret it, thinking that she may have come across too knowledgeable of the system. Hopefully the stereotypes were true, and he was not overanalyzing her good deed and flirtation the way she was.

She suddenly felt nervous and self-conscious, standing so close to this guy she had randomly flirted with. That wasn’t the type of person she was.

She didn’t do that type of thing. She was the girl that sat back, shy, waiting for love to fall in her lap. She looked and never touched, which was a lot of her problem, but somehow this solution seemed to be more reasonable than gaining a little courage. That had also been a lot of why she seemed to stay in dead-end relationships for so long. She had often deemed herself too nice, not wanting to hurt the others feelings, but she had come to realize that it was more so a fact that she feared confrontation and initiating conversation when it could easily become awkward and uncomfortable. And she often found that her words came out both awkward and uncomfortable. Which all came full-circle back to why she wasn’t that type of girl. The type that could just go up to the handsome guy and leave him entranced and caught on her lingering scent.

Somehow in the amount of time that she had spent worrying about whether the stranger with the extra arm was secretly watching her from behind, she had completed her program and the printer spat out a receipt that she had to turn into the front desk. She ripped it against the jagged edge and turned

around to see that her stranger was no longer there. The arm lay abandoned on the shelf above the computer screen. She walked over and grazed it as she headed to the front of the warehouse. ……….

He could use that arm right now. They were sitting at the back booth of the bar; she was jammed between his best friend and himself in an attempt to hide the fact that springs were beginning to sprout from her and it was eerily reminiscent of arm pit hair and her left arm was being held on by a piece of Orbit gum. She had begun smoking earlier that evening, only he was the one with the cigarette and the smoke was coming from her knee. It had only been six months since he had first assembled her, and she was already an old hag, falling apart with the slightest touch. He had seriously considered reporting this, forcing a safety recall, and hopefully a little cash in pocket for himself. After putting up with this debacle, some money to pay up his bar tab would be nice.

He’d tried having her tag along to shows, but the noise always seemed to make something backfire. She had to stay in the backstage area because she’d get to jostled in the crowd and lose a finger or ear, and the company had an insane replacement part plan. Once he had set her up near the speakers and something rewired in her head causing her to throw some unsuspecting sap into a mosh pit. It hadn’t been a pretty picture, and it had also been the last time she was allowed to accompany him to his job.

His intentions of finding his soul mate seemed to be a wash. This whole plan of building the perfect woman was a lie. This woman was no better than any of the others, if not worse. At least all of the groupies and meaningless flings stayed in one piece. Physically, anyway. He’d encountered some doozies, like the one girl that claimed she was actually Bob Dylan’s illegitimate daughter and that she was the muse for many a popular rock song. Or the one that made it a point to sleep with every guy in every band she saw, take a Polaroid of them asleep in bed the next morning in Mickey Mouse ears, and then string them together to make avant-garde purses. Even they didn’t measure up to his so-called “perfect love” who at this point did not have enough pieces left of her to be considered a whole person. He wasn’t quite sure why he had even kept her this long, but every time he pondered it, he just remembered watching the girl that smelled like cake and paint walk across the parking lot to her car.

The bar was getting full. A bunch of college kids had apparently piled in after a game, hoping to drown their sorrows in beer from the looks of

their faces and lack of whoo hooo’s and hell yeah’s being emitted from their crowd. He didn’t know how the hell he was getting this thing out of here, but he knew that after a few rounds, no one would even be able to notice that she was losing body parts at a rapid pace. He just wanted to get her home and back to the warehouse. He really should have taken that arm. ……….

She had been contemplating this for weeks, but she wasn’t sure why it had taken so long to convince herself it was the right thing to do. The tape made an awful screeching sound as she pulled it taut around the box, making sure to secure him inside. All she needed now was him rebooting and trying to bust through the beaten up cardboard. She had to use her 8-yearold Christmas tree box in lieu of his original box that she had scraped in her optimism. It was a bit shorter than he was, so a little creativity had been needed to stuff his broken down body inside, but she had done it. Now she was just hoping that he didn’t suddenly revive while crammed awkwardly inside, realizing that she had not actually flipped his off switch.

Though she did appreciate the company he gave her, he had also stirred up a lot of old memories and feelings that she wasn’t so happy about.

He was supposed to rid her of her past mistakes and relationships, but he seemed to just bring them all back into her thoughts. They would be sitting around her apartment, contently discussing current events and watching old cult films from the sixties, when something would go awry, like an eye would pop out or a bit of oil would leak from his bellybutton, and she couldn’t help but think of her exes. No matter how odd or disgusting any one of them had been, she never would have had a problem like that with them. Every time something oozed or came loose, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt for not giving the guy who wore nothing but Nickelback t-shirts a solid chance.

What made matters worse was the fact that she had so many stimulating conversations with him, but the stains he was making and the vases he had broken were piling up. She just couldn’t bear to damage proof her apartment with plastic covers like some old Jewish woman in Brooklyn, and she missed being able to buy beautiful handmade ceramics to fill her shelves. It weighed on her conscious that she was so willing to get rid of someone who actually got her for once, who actually supported her completely even when she had some ridiculous idea that she became obsessed with, all because his joints pinched her skin when they tried to touch. Soon people would begin to wonder why she was still wearing long sleeves in the beautiful sunny weather and get the wrong idea. She knew that he had to

return him, and return to the lonely, desperate state that had driven her to him in the first place. ……….

It had been five years since they had rid themselves of what had been nothing more than a robot filled with predetermined conversations and emotions, cheaply tacked together with pins and coated in a pungent latex coating. They both often brought up that day that they so fondly remembered, when they had both been returning their “true loves” to their point of origin.

She had been dragging a Christmas tree box on a plank of wood with all sorts of ribbon tying it down. He had the remainder of the body thrown over his shoulder, all of her loose and broken parts in a grocery bag in his free hand. They arrived at the warehouse within moments of each other, but due to the bright sun overhead and their urgency to rid themselves of their mistakes, did not see one another as they both tried to enter. His pants legs had become tangled in her homemade cart causing him to crash on top of her Christmas tree box, tearing the seams open and sending body parts out onto the pavement. Apologies came spouting from both of their mouths as they clamored about trying to pick up random pieces of metal and plastic. He bent over, picking up the head that had rolled to the tire of a parked car. He was shocked to recognize the face. Even with the beard covered in bits of gravel and abrasions on the cheeks from the asphalt, he could see that the face was his. He brushed some of the gravel from the facial hair and started towards the girl that was busy staring at his own robots head. As he neared her, she turned around to face him, holding the girl’s head in her hands and giving that same smirk that she had when she first explained to him how to use the machine. He could even smell that same weird mixture of cake batter and paint, this time with a little bit of oil mixed in.

They had never realized what they had done. It was that day in the parking lot, squinting in the bright sun that they became aware of what a huge impact their brief meeting had in their lives. Her lingering scent and quirky beauty had influenced him to fashion his robot after this girl that he didn’t even know, and apparently his adorable ignorance had charmed her into creating his replica as well.

Now, five years later, they dove past the abandoned shopping center with the warehouse, boarded up and covered in graffiti. They turned to each other, smiling, as the lullaby he had recorded eased their daughter to sleep in the backseat.

She looked down at the crumbled scrap of paper in her hand.

1230AM245BTH. Chills ran down her spine; she shivered and tugged on the sleeves of her sweater, sticking the paper in the back pocket of her jeans.

The brick of the building she rested against was damp and brittle, tiny pieces flaking off at her slight touch as she traced her finger over a stencil that had been left behind by some local artist. This never would have been here a couple of months ago, she thought as she smoothed her thumb over the cheek of the flat, graphic man with rust-colored gravel skin. The mood of this usually cheery town had changed drastically since he had gone missing. Of course, one couldn’t stay in a blissful state of mind upon seeing his mother tearing through the streets at all hours of the day and night frantically searching and stumbling, heartbroken and desperate, through the center of town. After a long while, she’d fall helplessly, face down on the soft grass in the square, sobbing violently. No one could bring themselves to witness this painful event.

Everyone avoided town.

She stood there, back pressed against the wall of the grocery, the brick picking at the threads in her sweater, staring at the phone booth not three feet in front of her. The light from the street lamp illuminated the inside, but a small square taped to the side cast left a dark void in the yellow glass.

The wind swept into the half open door, flittering the shape and creating a soft tapping sound, like impatient fingernails against an empty wine glass. It was taunting her, calling to her, telling her that she needed it. She brushed her hand across her ear, wiping away the residual whisper left behind by the wind escaping from the booth. There was nothing keeping her from moving, but she could not seem to pick her feet up from the pavement. It was as though all of her insides had bottomed out and had anchored her to the concrete below.

Shallow breaths echoed through the empty pit of her body as she watched the square flip, flap, flip, flap against the glass, beckoning for her to rip it down.

A fire shot through her insides and she pounced towards the partially open door, throwing her open palm against the pane of glass, begging for the tapping to stop. Her fingers slid down over the glossy surface of a Polaroid and she began to furiously pick at the scotch tape adhering it to the glass.

She could not yet make out what the image was of; it was still developing, still fresh from its camera shell. Swirls of yellow, orange, and white were transforming into a picture before her eyes. She had never been so attentive to the process before, but now, more than ever, she hungrily anticipated what was lying beneath that foggy, ghosted out film. Each second that revealed more, her stomach twisted up in an even tighter knot. Her shallow breaths became even shallower. Goddamn moon! She cursed the night for making an

Polaroid - Samantha Webster

already slow process that much slower. Whoever left this for me wants me to suffer. She knew that whatever she was about to see was not going to make her life any easier.

There it was, everything she least expected, most desired, and oddly enough, feared right that in her pale, cold hands. The stage in the picture was lit brighter than the town she was standing in at that moment.

Dead center was a stool and perched upon the stool was someone that she had longed to see so much that it had began to make her physically ill.

The face was not clear, but the long hair and thick beard hiding it where unmistakable. She knew that white t-shirt and the arms full of tattoos, strumming at an old handmade mandolin. The clearer it got, the more she could feel the vomit rising in her throat. She brought the Polaroid to her lips, closed her eyes, and sprinted towards the opposite side of town.

The cold air scraped her esophagus and pierced her lungs as she bolted through the streets. Her flip flops had disappeared somewhere back on 26th. The rough gravel road was stabbing her naked feet, but the pain was masked by the hope and dread soaking her insides. Her destination was nearing. That rundown old bar on the corner of Mason that welcomed any and every musician willing to play to very few drunken old bastards that just liked to hoot and holler, cursing and throwing their beer caps and darts at each other, laughing toothless laughs, just for a moment to create a little music. He had loved that place, despite the negative energy locked inside.

He always blocked it out and just played his heart out, singing with his pained and somber voice. He was there, not missing. He had been there the whole time, hiding from life, and learning the way of the world from the old bastards at the bar. The photo proved it.

She could hear the subtle strumming of a guitar as she leapt over a pothole in the road. Landing inches from the door, she burst through like police on a raid, which made all three patrons jump and turn from their beers. Her eyes searched forcefully around the tiny hole-in-the-wall, but he wasn’t there.

“Where is he? WHERE? He was here! I know it, I’ve seen the photo, just tell me!” The words didn’t feel like they were hers. Her voice was aching and sounded like a hysterical woman. Everyone just turned their faces back to the tables and continued to drown themselves in their half empty glasses.

She ran back into the street, forgetting the pothole and twisting her foot inside. She didn’t even notice the blood flowing from her heel as she ran towards the neighborhood. She’ll have the answer! Maybe he went back to her!

Surely he would want to see her…ease her mind…ease my mind…She clutched the

Polaroid to her chest as her feet pounded over the damp lawn. It was a labyrinth running through the various flower beds and garden gnomes, but she made her way flawlessly to the front steps, throwing her fists against the yellow door, violently pounding until her hands were numb.

The small woman with curlers in her hair and robe pulled taut to her droopy and sagging body appeared in the doorway. The forlorn look on the older woman’s face was enough to tell her that she wasn’t getting what she expected. His mother shushed her heavy rushed sentences which were nothing but breathless strings of incomprehensible syllables, and put her arm around the girl, leading her into the warm house.

He’s not here…how…where is he? All she could think to do was push the Polaroid into the hands of his mother. It was almost stuck to her chest from where she had been running all through town holding it close to her heart. The older woman stared down at the photo, stroking the figure on the stage, and let a tear trickle down her wrinkled cheek. See! There’s hope! Why are you crying? Her voice was no longer leaving her vocal chords, and all she could do was watch with an uncertain and hopeful gaze as his mother reached beside her chair and pulled out a paper and sorrowfully placed it in her hands. His mother’s face reflected the intense gnawing of doubt that was attacking the girl’s gut. She reluctantly began to read the piece of newsprint that had been given to her.

March 30, 2008 – Police are believed to have found the body of a local missing man and are working with various teams and the family in order to positively identify the young man. The body washed ashore in the marina late Friday night and appears to have been in the water for up to two months.

Extensive research and facial reconstruction will need to be done to conclude the cause of death and absolute identification, but dental records seem to have confirmed…

They were never going to find him. He was lost inside that Polaroid, drinking beers with the bastards, and singing those warbling tunes that rose from his belly. He didn’t want to be found. This isn’t him.

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subject: Whatever you want to make it

Diana Damewood is a graphic artist and small furry rodent enthusiastic. She is currently living in Boston. http://glitterlung.deviantart.com/ - website The name is Harmani Owens. Born September 18th 1986. Started painting in October 2007 after a mild depression.

Striking lightning and thunder together in creativity. Blending cute, yet boldy creepy methods, I try to provoke the viewer to think outside this world. http://www.myspace.com/harmaniart Josh Hoffman is doing what he loves, photography. He lives in the New York area, offering photography for live bands, models, and clothing companies. http://flickr.com/photos/joshhoffman/ Anne Smoral was trained as an illustrator at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. She also took on some graphic design courses and intend to pursue that as a steady job, preferably in the fashion design industry. In May 2008, She graduated from Pratt.On occasion she enjoys writing prose and poetry. So far she has began my career as a freelance artist. http://homepage.mac.com/asmoral Rebekah Cansler is currently living in Winston-Salem, NC. She is a senior at the Univerisity of North Carolina at Greensboro. After college she hopes to start a family in the triad area and continue her writing.

Elizabeth Yates lives in Greensboro until she graduates and begins her career as a nomadic writer. She’s acting as coeditor of this magazine, in hopes that it’ll become a success. http://www.elizabethlyates.com Samantha Webster is co-editor of this magazine and Lead Designer of Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine. She has insane, romantic, optimistic hopes for her future which will hopefully involve lots of (successful) writing, jewelry making, and a hairy man that likes to make music.

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