“So he scraped the snow away, and while he was thus clearing the ground he found a small golden key.”
“Now he believed that where there was a key, there must also be a lock, so he dug in the ground and found a little iron chest.”
Once in the wintertime when the snow was very deep, a poor boy had to go out and fetch wood on a sled. After he had gathered it together and loaded it, he did not want to go straight home, because he was so frozen, but instead to make a fire and warm himself a little first. So he scraped the snow away, and while he was thus clearing the ground he found a small golden key. Now he believed that where there was a key, there must also be a lock, so he dug in the ground and found a little iron chest. “If only the key fits!” he thought. “Certainly there are valuable things in the chest.” He looked, but there was no keyhole. Finally he found one, but so small that it could scarcely be seen. He tried the key, and fortunately it fitted. Then he turned it once, and now we must wait until he has finished unlocking it and has opened the lid. Then we shall find out what kind of wonderful things there were in the little chest. —Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, “The Golden Key”
010 SECOND BIRTH Shahé Mankerian
12 THE GHOST’S STORY Gordon Brown
07 EDITORS’ LETTER
Lindsay Fowler & Carlea Holl-Jensen
17 THE COLDEST WOMAN STILL ALIVE Maria Mills
18 MEDIUM
Ann DeVilbiss
Table of Contents
20 I FOLLOWED LYDIA INTO THE GREAT THAW Shelby Tuthill
22 AFTERMATH Lisa Baird
24 BEFORE AND AFTER THE BATTLE OF LOS ANGELES Mark Danowsky
40 CONTRIBUTORS
26 SERPENTES LOVE Renjana S.
44 STAFF
38 WHEN TIGERS USED TO SMOKE Jeffrey MacLachlan
Issue 7
2017
Editors'
Note
I
t turns out that dragging yourself out of the grave takes time, and we’re so grateful you stuck with us as The Golden Key has worked over the past several months to slowly, surely bring ourselves back to life. It feels fitting that, although this issue was delayed from our initial schedule, we’re finally starting to publish as the world (in the Northern Hemisphere, at least) is beginning to wake itself from winter’s long, cold sleep. We’re excited about this second chance at life, and invigorated by the possibilities we see ahead of us. We’re also delighted by the work we’ve selected for this issue, each piece a lovely and unsettling take on resurrection. One thing you may notice as you read these pieces: when you come back from the dead, strange things follow. Whether it’s the curious outpouring of detritus from a dead wolf’s stomach, as in Shahé Mankerian’s “Second Birth”, or the revenant spirit of an opera singer in Gordon Brown’s “The Ghost’s Story”, the return has unexpected consequences. Sometimes, resurrection is a fluke, an improbable occurrence beyond belief, as is the case in Maria Mills’ “The Coldest Woman Still Alive”. Other times, as in Ann DeVilbiss’ “Medium”, that journey in and out of death is a ritual entered into again and again. In Shelby Tuthill’s “I Followed Lydia Into the Great Thaw”, this journey is mysterious and charged with dark sensuality. The resurrection in Lisa Baird’s “Aftermath” is hopeful, while it’s humorous in Mark Danowsky’s “Before and After the Battle of Los Angeles”, which sketches the strange second life and adventures of an iconic figure of contemporary American mythology. Though many of the pieces in this issue treat our theme literally, resurrection is not always one of literally death and rebirth. Sometimes it is one of radical transformation, as in Renjana S.’s “Serpentes Love” and Jeffrey MacLachlan’s “When Tigers Used to Smoke”. This is certainly true for The Golden Key, which lives on, but in a different form. This kind of change can be frightening and challenging, but it is also exhilarating. Exhilarating is certainly a good word for the pieces in this issue — they sing out in surprising phrases and open onto stunning views. They are alive to the world’s possibilities, because of — and not despite — the darkness waiting on the other side. We hope you’re as excited as we are for all the wonderful things to come over the next several weeks, as we begin to publish the stories and poems in this issue. We’ll be sharing the first piece from Issue 7: Resurrected Things next week, and every other week subsequently.
— Lindsay Fowler & Carlea Holl-Jensen March 2017
Issue 7
07
08
The Golden Key
Issue 7
09
Second
Birth Shahé Mankerian
When we killed the wolf, the butcher began to carve open the stomach. Inside the fuming belly, we found a sheep, a cock, a hood the color of pomegranates, Parlophone records of Lili Kraus, a Citroën hubcap, Bonaparte’s last letter to Joséphine, a whale bone Meerschaum pipe, a wedding ring on a severed finger, a cape, a map, a pumpernickel bread, the bus bench once occupied by Rosa Parks, a grizzly bear, the doomed temple of Zeus, the empty tomb of Christ, Umm Kulthum, the eye of a tornado, the crescent moon, the pancreas, and the poems that Jacques Prévert never wrote.
10
The Golden Key
Issue 7
11
The
Ghost’s Story Gordon Brown
I thought she’d be fat. I thought there was a rule about these things. You don’t get to sing Wagner unless you’re a rosy giantess. Unless you look like you stepped out of a paint by Rubens. Then and only then could you be worthy of the spear and steer-horn helmet, guiding the souls of the fallen up to Valhalla. But she isn’t. Wasn’t. She’s dead. She’s been that way for a century or so. We had to rifle through mountains of yellowed, mildewed newspapers to find the story. Celebrated Soprano – 23 Others – Drown in Steamer Accident. Vol. XVIII, No. 3543 of The Evening Bulletin. Associated Press Special Cable- if you want to confirm for yourself. There’s a picture of her. A grainy one, more blur and shadow than anything else. A slender woman with hollow cheeks and enormous, moon-colored eyes. A yard of thick, dark hair done up behind her sharp ears. And she’s got one of those high collars that reaches all the way up to her lilting jaw, and her dress would’ve been dark. Blue, maybe. More likely pine needle green. She looked like a ghost even when she was alive, and I wonder if that has something to do with it. You come up with these theories in the long, thin waiting hours. When there’s nothing to do but pace the halls of whatever old house decrepit hotel, empty cliff side road. You think back on old cases. Trying to connect the dots. Trying to find the patterns. All of them were under the age of forty. Or they tended to be. All of them went violently. So long as you don’t count the ones that didn’t. But once they’re gone, they’re gone. If they don’t show up again. There’s an exception to everything. But almost none of them show up until a good forty or fifty years later. After anyone would’ve been someone to them has been put in the ground themselves. That’s the reason we’re only now starting to see the first wave of them with baseball caps, with tattoos, with jeans and t-shirts. The lamplight flickers in the fog. It happens with the older ones. Ghosts, not lamps, I mean. Morse code. I try to fish out my notebook but it’s over by the time I find it. And it might not mean anything anyways. Sometimes a flicker is just a flicker. Sometimes it just gets cold. And sometimes the things watching from the corner of the room aren’t really there. But not this time.
12
The Golden Key
the things wa tch “And sometimes i ng
fro mt
he c orne ro
f th e r
o om
are n’t
al ly th e
e
r
Issue 7
re.”
13
14
The Golden Key
She’s out there in the darkness, rising up from the water. The billowing folds of her dress are heavy from the brine. Barnacles crusting her wrists. Limpets in her hair, loose now, floating up towards the bruised, purple clouds in defiance of gravity. And she still has those wide, moon-colored eyes. I practice my lines in my head again, then step out of the light and into the creeping shadows. Miss Cormack? Miss Ada Cormack? I can see the opaque blur of her figure halt, if only for a second. It shivers, and then it’s gone. She’s behind me now. I don’t know if she’s trying to scare me. Most of them aren’t. Most don’t even know they’re doing it. But if you scream, so will they. The trick is to smell them first. Yes, even they have a smell. Worms, most of them. It’s an ugly thing to say, but it’s the truth. Worms and rotting wood. And nobody tells you this but when it rains the water seeps down through the dirt and pools in the bottom of the coffins. There’s always this festering, earthy stench. Almost always. There’s an exception to everything. She smells like ocean. The open ocean. The kind that few people ever really smell and none will ever be able to describe. And she smells like ice. Like great-grandmother’s perfume. Like one-bourbon-too-many on the rocking deck of a ship, miles out on the water. On a night, just like this. Ease her into it. Ask questions you already know the answers to. You performed as Ortud in Lohengrin, no? And this was at the Sheridan? They had the statues of Melpolmene at the entrance? And one of Apollo? And you recall boarding the Virginia Clemm out of Innsmouth? She tells me “yes” in a gentle whisper that drifts out of her still-shut lips. Do you want to talk about it? She says “thahnk you, but no. I’d rather naht.” And still she does. I lend her my arm and brace myself for the sudden chill. Frozen seafoam creeps out from below her fingertips as they cling to my sleeve. She drifts at my pace as we slide down the oceanfront. She brings it together in pieces. Arthur’s false letter. The lonely pacing along the port side. The sudden, sickening crunch and her tumbling forward. And how her reflection in the water rushed up to meet her. The heavy folds of her dress sucking her in. You can usually get a final gasp of air before you go under. But there’s an exception to everything. She was afraid it would be all just darkness, but the moon was bright that night and filtered through the broken roof of water. Laid out below her, an ancient forest of kelp, stretching out to the horizon. Here, the rippled shells of giant clams. There, schools of barracuda, soaring through the black like the Egyptian’s spears in Aida. Nuzzling her with their curious, wolfish snouts. And somewhere in the deeper distance, the baritone chorus of whales. She knows she’s dead. But admitting you have a problem is the first step in solving it. She asks if “Mistah Arthah Morton” was still married. I said that Mr. Arthur Morton wasn’t anything anymore. “But did he ever leave her?” I said it didn’t really matter. But if it helps to think so, then… “What about Miss Mabel Phillips? Miss Florence Jenkins? Did they put ahngels on Theo Breeland’s headstone, just like he always wahnted?” I remind her that this isn’t about them. She asks if anyone remembers her and as gently as I can, I tell her that no, nobody does. Nobody remembers the wreck of the Virginia Clemm. Nobody remembers the baroque façade of the Sheridan. Precious few even remember Turandot and Puccini, and the ones who still listen only do it to boast about being the last to do so. She pales at this last one. As much as she can, in her current state. Perhaps better to say that her translucency sharpens and lines of frost creep from her lips. Her hand falls away from its perch in the crook of my arm. My skin screams as the blood flows back into it. She drifts out in front of me. Rises up to stare pleadingly into my eyes. She asks if perhaps I will remember her. For a little while, I say. Until I forget. But there’s an exception to everything.
Issue 7
15
Gr e 16
The Golden Key
fi rs f ll i o r w e m c i ase
slu n e h t t,
sh.
The
Coldest Woman Still Alive Maria Mills
You want me to tell you what’s going to happen? Grease ice will form first, then slush. We must be careful not to bury too suddenly those who are very cold. A woman in Norway skiing in the mountains fell deep into a frozen river. Her whole body slid below a sheet of ice for 80 minutes. The water in this frozen river was sure to burn her dead with its cold, and indeed soon she had no pulse, but she came out alive. Though in coma she was floating, hands clasped over her belly, hard in the face.
Issue 7
17
Medium Ann DeVilbiss
A hand, eggshell white, hangs over the chair’s arm in a stillness that draws out the dead. Where before she seemed ordinary, now she flickers as though lit with a faulty bulb. The room perches on the rise of each shallow breath, and she begins to speak. The rough brogue that issues from her delicate throat is not her own. Near the barn, under shallow earth. While she speaks, her body is taut like a marionette. After, it is limp, heavy. She can never remember, her eyes covered by the veil as she throws it open. She cedes her waking hours to the dead.
18
The Golden Key
Issue 7
19
I Followed Lydia into the Great
Abyss
Shelby Tuthill
Her mouth ran with snow
20
The Golden Key
I came upon Lydia in the garden, plucking her one-eyed cat’s glass eyeball from the soil. Flakes from the white winter were burrowing into the ground, into the bloodstream of the earth. Bluebells reflected in her eyes. Twigs snapped beneath her footsteps. I hadn’t seen her since the snow sang whistling hymnals at the mail slot. I hadn’t seen her since the snow. Lydia bent over among the infant crocuses, and I knew her from the golden hair, the cat-like arch in her back, the way she sidestepped the glass of broken green bottles in the woodchips. Her mouth rang with snow. Her words fell gently into the dead grass. I knew she would taste of winter, and I kept my lips to myself, even covered my eyes to keep her blue gaze at bay. I bit my lip and tasted blood instead of winter. It was warmer, and red as a strawberry. Blood dripped from the corner of my mouth and she siphoned it into a vial she kept with her on a necklace beneath her blouse. I cursed her wild, ice-laden eyes for stopping the flow of blood. I thought of plucking a shard of glass from the garden, drawing out iron again just to stop myself craving the taste of winter trapped in the coming of spring. I could be satiated by a mouthful of graying snow, but only for a little while. I knew Lydia, how she tasted of the freshest snow, the kind laid out like a blanket by the last moths of December, snow unstained by blood and tire tracks. I was born on the cursed edge of winter; she was born as the sun drained the ground of frost. It suits her. Get too close to the sun and she will melt you into stained glass. Get too close to the sun and she will love you until she’s burned your eyes. I spent a winter quietly begging for the sun to return and touch my eyes with warmth and wonder (some might call this a prayer). I prayed to the snow, the hard ground, the walls of my bedroom, the crack in the glass of my window which let in snowflakes one at a time. I prayed to my own bloodstream to keep me alive long enough to find her once more in the garden as the birds come north again when the winter falls into rain. I stepped out of my house and ran to the end of the winter where I found her, crawling alongside the great thaw, a rabbit-look in her eyes. There was a dead sparrow on the pavement, and I could have sworn it saw her in its glassy eyes; it shook its damp feathers and emerged from the last of the snow, spreading its small brown wings and taking off, leaving a delicate trail of blood. She moved softly toward me then, as if through a pane of frosted glass. I could see her brand new, unchanged by the darkest winter, pockets full of summer sea glass the color of her eyes after crying out all the snow. Listening to the rhythm of my blood.
Issue 7
21
22
The Golden Key
Aftermath Lisa Baird
She saves spent light bulbs, wraps blown bulbs tenderly in tissue saved from birthday parties, stows them in stacked boxes, carefully labeled as close as she can get to the exact time the tungsten fragmented. She holds a service for each one, wept over the first few dozen, but there are hundreds now. She is old and has done this for a long time. Next spring she will empty the closets, unpack every row in the basement, take shovel to earth along the lane and bury each bulb, grow dark flowers from dead light.
Issue 7
23
Before
and After the Battle of os
L Angeles
Mark Danowsky
Oregon, 1927 A bowler hat is seen in flight Volunteer firefighters snap a photo The hat drifts off into evergreens * In 1952 the hat visits Passaic, New Jersey * 1960: the hat goes on holiday to Italy with two friends * Peru, 1967 A group of tourists claim to see the hat with its partner of many years
24
The Golden Key
Issue 7
25
Serpentes Love Renjana S.
I was given no contract to sign, no disclaimer listin
g t h e dr a wbacks o f b e i ng h u m a n .
No one told me that my tongue would begin to split at the slightest emotional trigger, that my skin would start to wrinkle and fold into small pinches, that I would start to hiss uncontrollably. Keeping the two ends of my tongue together was a conscious effort. Imagine, for example, having to keep two human fingers together for hours and hours at a time.
26
The Golden Key
My first years as a Homo sapiens were spent indoors. I was deathly afraid of going outside, for the sight of a bird crashing into my neighbor’s window or an old woman talking to herself on the bus would cause me to unravel then and there, in plain view of everyone present. But in private, I was addicted to emotion. To learn humanness, I’d watch romance comedies online, read tragic novels and harrowing war memoirs. At the end of Anne Frank I was reduced to a hissing, slithering heap on my apartment floor. It was messy, humiliating, but also extremely exhilarating. There were all sorts of conspiracy theories floating around, the “new sapiens” being one of them. Except we were very much real; as many as 50,000 non-humans were being transformed across the globe each year, according to the New Sapiens Center’s statistics. Scouts went into forests and homes to coax wild animals and pets into transformation. “Don’t you want to experience the full extent of love? Don’t you want to read books by dead Russian authors? Don’t you want to know exactly what these humans think of you? Don’t you want a real family?” they told us, using special headphones and a speaking device to communicate these words, altering them into emotions. When I felt the words, like soft, warm tickles on my skin, I knew exactly what I had been missing all those years moving about on my stomach. I touched myself the first month or so after my defection, dreaming of the timber rattlesnake I was once infatuated with (his skin had the most symmetrical patterns, his hisses most confident and soothing), but my body simply refused to respond. I tossed and turned for a good hour, running my fingers on my legs and lower back, imagining him crawling over me and wrapping his tail around mine. But visualizing his two penises, like the appendages of a mucilaginous alien creature, only made me want to vomit. After a half an hour of tossing and turning and prodding every orifice, I gave up and browsed an online site for a film to watch. I settled on Batman Begins, featuring a dark, anthropoid creature gazing boldly at an army of bats darting into an orange sky. Bruce Wayne, though clearly not a new sapiens as I had hoped, seemed to embody the most fundamental of human desires and pain; I, too, had lost my family and wanted very much to remake myself, to create my own destiny, to be useful for others. To avoid getting too explicit, I’ll simply cut straight to the end: halfway through the rather impressive film, my tongue began to split; my skin began to scale and fold into itself, beginning with the periphery of my fingers and toes; instead of crying in ecstasy the way human females seem to enjoy doing in pornographic films, I began to hiss and hiss. I realized then that Bruce Wayne must have been what they called an “alpha male.” Oh, it was the most humiliating experience. When my tongue and skin were transformed back, I was drenched in sweat and tears. Don’t get me wrong. The sensation was absolutely delicious, but if I were a flagellant I suppose I would have flagellated myself to death from the shame. It took me years before I was able to summon the courage to attempt the real thing. But we’ll get to that later. Suffice it to say, I spent my first few years as a person practicing self-restraint in public and keeping my unseemly emotions private, behind the closed door of my apartment. I would leave home once a week to attend the New Sapiens’ secret meetings. At least there I could talk about all my emotions, the loneliness, the sadness, even homesickness. I wasn’t warned before my transformation that all of these human emotions would be so overwhelming. As a snake, I apparently only experienced the truncated, primitive versions of these emotions. There weren’t words to shape them and somehow having the words made my feelings even worse, or perhaps simply heightened. It seemed that having a way to articulate what was once only a suggestion, a whiff, a hint of its full scope, made me dwell more, and the forming of words and sentences in my mind made the emotions all the more real, all the more important and essential to my being. My responses to love as a snake, in hindsight, were purely physical. Before I went to sleep in the forest where I grew up, my sister would slither toward me; we’d wrap our bodies around each other and become intertwined, our skins grazing at the slightest movement. People say snakes cuddle only to keep warm. But I certainly remember feeling something pleasurable, a gentle burning that seemed to radiate toward my extremities. Perhaps it was love; numerous studies have proven that we reptiles are capable of love, although I am not convinced it’s the kind of love I’d come to experience as a human being, exactly. The secret meetings, held on weekday afternoons at a local bar before it would open, were full of new humans: ex beavers wildly chattering their teeth even when it was warm, former dogs whining like human toddlers with a cold, former cats rubbing their necks against the person next to them. Issue 7
27
We’d arrange our seats in a circle and drink non-alcoholic drinks, tea or coffee, while we talked. The shades would be drawn and only a corner light would be turned on, to limit sensory stimuli. We heard sounds, muffled and distant, as if they were coming from a television in a room upstairs: the soft rattle of a bicycle chain, a human baby cooing, the beeping of a car backing up into a parking spot, the boisterous laugh of a woman comfortable in her skin. There was something comforting about being in the dark and not being able to really make out faces. But still, all the sounds, though muted and far, overwhelmed me. What I really wanted when I was at these meetings was to lock myself in my new soundproof closet, built for me by the New Sapiens Association. “It’s the least we can do,” said our city’s adaptation coordinator when I thanked the association. The discussion leader was a former African grey parrot. She was afraid of heights, convinced she’d forget one day that she could no longer fly, and would simply jump, the rush of soaring, the fast, biting wind below her wings, still fresh in her memory. “My name is Chip, and I was a crow,” someone would say. “My name is Vera, and I was a cat,” another would say. The transformed would occasionally say “am” instead of “was” and the discussion leader would interrupt them: “Was, Linda. You were a golden retriever. Now you are human.” And we’d all clap our hands and holler and say things like, “You’re human now, Linda!” or “Two legs! Hooray!” It’s strange that I was always the only former snake. Perhaps this is what caused my loneliness. The others always had their own cliques—a group of friends who understood each other’s peculiarities. My therapist referred to me by the transformed center told me to get a job, though basic living expenses would be covered by the Association for life. He said working for money would do wonders to my self-esteem and confused identity. No wallowing, he said, you’ve made your bed. I did as he advised as soon as I managed to endure The Notebook without falling apart. I worked at a Chinese restaurant and got paid under the table, as they say. Fascinating, these humans. How they fussed over trivial things, lukewarm tea, overcooked tofu, overpriced lunch, etc. Not many of them would look me in the eye when ordering food, save a few exceptions here and there. I didn’t mind the rudeness. To me eye contact signaled aggression anyway.
an d all clap our h d ’ e And w
s and holler and say things like, “You’re human now, Linda!”
At first I had to wear ear plugs at work and retreat to the restroom every half an hour to recover from the assault of sounds and smells. After almost a year, I was able to dispose of the ear plugs and began to make friends at the restaurant. Jemma and Katherine (I could never pronounce their Chinese names), cousins from the outskirts of Beijing, took me in as if I was a long-lost sister. We often went to the movies together. I of course always suggested action films; drama was certainly out of the question then. I felt most useful when I was with Jemma and Katherine. They always wanted to know what this or that phrase meant. I told them, for example, that making love meant sexual intercourse, with feelings involved. And there was Maria, a runaway from Boston. It was Maria who taught me how to smoke. We would smoke in the parking lot during breaks. She told me about her ex husband, whom she married when she was eighteen, and
28
The Golden Key
or “Two
o legs! Hoor ay!�
Issue 7
29
her eleven-year-old son who was living with her ex in Boston. Once, as she was telling me her life story, Maria began to cry. I panicked and she told me all she needed was hug, so I hugged her. Maria sobbed into my shirt for what felt like an eternity. It felt odd, her tears seeping into the fabric, making my chest moist. I cried, too, because I thought about my family then, and the first few months I spent alone in the apartment, knowing that they must have not understood why I thought being human was better than being with them. Knowing that their sadness could not even come close to mine made me feel somewhat better. When I didn’t feel my tongue resisting, I knew I was ready for the next step. I had worked at the joint for almost two years. It was during one of our smoke breaks that I got to know Henry, a masseuse at the massage parlor next door. At the time, Henry had just been transferred from another branch of Earthly Pleasures. He asked us for a cigarette and joined us for a smoke. Where was I from, he wanted to know, and what ancestry was responsible for my beautiful, round eyes? He told me I moved and walked funny, like a penguin. Maria got very upset at him then, but I was sure Henry didn’t mean it as an insult. “See, she’s laughing. She thinks it’s funny,” Henry said to Maria. Anyway, it was the first time a male human being showed interest, so I went with it and showed him interest, too. We went out on numerous dates: dinners, movies, and even bowling. Whenever I was uncertain whether he was cracking a joke or being serious, I would make sure to laugh, just to be sure. He told me I had a good sense of humor, unlike most of the women he knew. Finally, I was able to muster the courage to go back to his place. I knew what this meant, of course, that we would have sex. I can’t tell you how nervous I was. I didn’t buy condoms beforehand because Maria had told me that Henry would find a supply of condoms at my place off-putting. I told her I didn’t quite understand and listed the possible STDs I would be at risk of contracting. Maria waved her hand dismissively and said, “Men are animals. It doesn’t matter if they’ve got a Ph.D, at the end of the day all they care about is that their women don’t know anything better than theirs,” while pointing at her crotch. Men are animals, I thought—not very scientific, since to my knowledge all humans were animals, women included. Besides, her tone irked me a little bit. What made her think humans were better than the rest of the animal kingdom? And in what way? Yet there I was, wearing a skirt, a pair of stockings, and a polo shirt with the words “Green Jade” embroidered at the front. I had to laugh. Henry and I went back to his place after a fancy dinner at a French restaurant, where he’d ordered mineral water, a portion of escargot to share and nothing else. I couldn’t bring myself to eat much. It was odd poking at the suspiciously tender snails, especially when I was once acquainted with a few of their kind. Once we were in Henry’s living room, I wanted to ask him if he had a condom, but all I managed to come up with were a few restrained hisses. “Oh, I see you’re cold,” Henry said. He sat me down in his couch, put a blanket over my legs, and went to the kitchen to get a bottle of wine. I looked around and took in Henry’s books (several Dan Browns and alphabetized self-helps), his paintings (cheap copies of Rembrandt and Pollock), his doilies (he had lots of them, surprisingly; later I found out they were his mother’s). When Henry came back and gave me my glass of wine, I blurted, “I’ve never had sssex.” “Good one,” he said, laughing. We kissed briefly and he played a foreign film, the language like music to my ears. The wine made me tipsy, which helped. He massaged my feet (heavenly!), he kissed my neck and licked my fingers. I did exactly what he did, because I didn’t yet know of another way to go about it, I suppose (later I tried this on another man and he
30
The Golden Key
quickly made excuses to leave). But Henry seemed pleased enough. After a few minutes of fooling around, he got up and went to his drawer to retrieve a condom. My muscles began to tense, but no danger of my tongue splitting just yet. Henry held the unwrapped condom in his hand and continued to lick me between my legs. I tried to focus on the film’s dialog, repeating complete sentences in my head, but I could feel my mental faculty slipping away as if I was occupying the body of another person. When I was ready to erupt, Henry pulled away and put on his condom. He pressed the tip of his penis against my opening and before he could put it in, the thing happened. The two ends of my tongue began to cleave. I desperately looked for something to cover my face—my hands flailing all over the place—and found a cushion. I pressed my face against it and hissed and hissed and hissed, carefully curling my fingers into the cushion so that Henry wouldn’t be able to see the scales forming at the tip of them. Henry was ecstatic; he interpreted my strange behavior as unrestrained enthusiasm. He roared like a tiger and pushed the pillow into my face until I had to kick his leg to signal for him to let go. As soon as he had pushed his member all the way in, all I could think of was the pain, which was good, because my tongue began to unsplit and happily stayed intact during the intercourse. I suppose that is another way of saying that the actual sex wasn’t any good, but of course I didn’t know this at first, having no prior experience to compare it to. I kept still the whole time, like a log. Thankfully, the affair was short-lived. “Is this blood?” Henry asked as he disposed of the condom, looking perplexed and, frankly, very disappointed. “Was it really your first time?” he demanded. “Yes,” I said, remembering what Maria told me, expecting him to take pride. “I thought you were joking,” he said. The annoyance was unmistakable. What happened next was a catastrophe. Keep in mind that I had only been human for about four years and there were many things about the world I did not yet understand. I was under the impression that the thing Henry and I did meant we were bound by some sort of unspoken pact. What did I know? My only references were romance novels and Hallmark drama. When Henry did not return my calls the next day and the day after, and never again went outside for a smoke with us, I broke down. I felt so hurt. Was I not any good, I thought. Did I smell funky? Or had he felt my scales? “See? What did I tell you?” Maria said. “Men are pigs.” We were in the restaurant bathroom. It was ten thirty at night and the restaurant had closed. I was crying into the sink. Maria patted my back gently. “There’ll be plenty more to break your heart.” “Why would I want that?” Maria tilted her head back and laugh. “I see myself in you. You like pain, the hurt. It makes you feel alive, doesn’t it?” Issue 7
31
I wanted to ask her if she was a new sapiens but decided against it. Instead, I asked for dating advice. I sat on the toilet and listened to her say one absurd thing after another: never admit to a man that you love him until he’s professed his love for you, never call more than once a day, never bring him food or just “pop by” at his workplace, never compare him to other men, never admit to being unhappy, never…the list goes on. There are things that I do not quite get yet about humanity. For example, emotion seems to be a distasteful thing, but only when revealed in public. Too much of it and you might end up at a mental institution. Some display of emotion is acceptable, even desirable, however, if it is meant to communicate sympathy. For example, one might say to a friend, when one sees a homeless person, “Oh, how sad,” but never, “That old lady in pink makes me terrified of growing old.” Having strong emotions about specific, real things seems to put people in an awkward spot, except, of course, when you’re referring to a movie or some other fictional realm. Perhaps this is why Maria would tell me stories about her son but not any of the other waitresses at the restaurant. After Henry, I tried dating other men, and to entirely abandon the idea of “making love.” Maria’s advice worked like magic. Being emotionally unavailable seemed to comfort these men, to lift the burden of
32
The Golden Key
potential attachment from them. My detachment made some of them actually want a relationship. The thing is, being with these men was never satisfying. Besides, I could never warm to the idea of penetration. I can’t quite explain it, but Maria’s idea of seduction, love, and relationship made me think of a snake eating its own tail. I used to walk by a psychiatric hospital on my way to work. The place, situated on a small hill across the Green Valley National Park, is called the Happy Valley Hospital. The hospital is not quite like the mental hospitals you see on television. The patients, all wearing white, seemed quite normal when I’d see them in the vast front yard, reading or chatting. Some of them may have seemed a bit listless, perhaps, but as far as I could tell, no one was talking to himself or chasing orderlies around with a fork like in movies. I first saw Dr. Pavlov, a psychiatrist at the hospital, when I was walking to work. He was walking toward the entrance, wearing a white doctor’s robe. A patient said hello from inside the gate, he said hello, and adjusted the patient’s lopsided pajama pants, stretching his arms into the gap between the metal bars of the gate. I suppose it made sense that of all people, I should fall in love with the arbiter of propriety. But it wasn’t until a bit later that I fell in love with Dr. Pavlov, although I must admit that even then I was struck by his demeanor. I thought it was strange and funny how he stuck his hands into the gate to fix a patient’s pajama pants, as if he was simply wiping his mouth after a meal or picking up something he had dropped. At the time, I had already grown somewhat bitter and disillusioned with the whole human thing. I was almost certain that I had made a mistake. What good were all these feelings I had when I couldn’t share them? So one day, I stepped into the hospital and made an appointment. I was surprised when I saw Dr. Pavlov in his office and realized he was the man I’d seen only a few weeks before. There was a low, steady sort of hum in the room coming from a small refrigerator Dr. Pavlov had next to his bookshelf behind him. He said hello and pointed at the seat across from him. His office felt and looked warm: a lot of wood, antiques, a grandfather’s clock in one corner, a Persian rug, and a simple, five-bulb chandelier with golden brown lampshades. Dr. Pavlov pointed at the chandelier. “That? Nice touch, isn’t it?” “Yes, I said. Very nice. Reminds me of old movies.” Dr. Pavlov smiled. I noticed that he had crow’s feet, very subtle, around his eyes. I later found out he was fortynine, but he seemed much younger then. Even with the soft wrinkles on his face, I thought he looked no more than forty. He was nothing like the bald psychiatrists I’d seen in movies. “I think I might be depressed,” I told him. “Tell me more,” he said, and when I remained quiet, he asked, “Do you feel sad?” “Not just sad. I have all these feelings.” I stopped, failing to find the words. He looked at me, smiling with his eyes. “I have feelings.” “What sort of feelings?” “All of them,” I said. I felt helpless and agitated. It had made so much sense in my head before; I had known exactly what to tell him, and now I couldn’t make sense of any of it. “How is your sleep pattern?” “Oh, it’s all right. I sleep seven hours a day, more or less.” “Have you been sleeping a lot more or a lot less recently?” “Hmm, no. Not at all.” “Do you sometimes feel sad for no reason?” “No. There’s always a reason when I feel sad.” “Tell me about it. Why do you feel sad?” I shifted in my seat, wondering if this was standard procedure for him, if my complaint was nothing special, if many others, human-borns and new sapiens complained to him about having feelings. “I feel sad because I can’t share my feelings,” I said. “Why not?” “Because I am told feelings are inappropriate.” “How so?” Issue 7
33
e edge of h t n o d e v I li
the forest, I told him, on the other side of the State Park.
“Well, you can’t just tell someone you’re sad or that you love them. Maria is convinced people will only run away if you confess to such things.” “And who is Maria?” “A friend of mine.” “You can’t tell men you love them, is that it?” “Yes, I suppose that’s it. But also, friends. You can’t always tell friends you love them when you feel the urge to all of a sudden, you know what I mean?” Dr. Pavlov scribbled something on his notepad and looked at me. “Yes, I know. But perhaps you have friends that you feel a certain level of comfort with?” “But, you see, it’s like a snake eating its own tail.” I frowned as soon as I had said the words. I was sure he would not get it. Dr. Pavlov laughed. “I see. The self-restraint makes it almost circular, doesn’t it? A lose-lose situation?” “Yes,” I said, my heart beating wildly against my chest. “How old are you?” I almost told him I wasn’t sure, catching myself in time. “I’m twenty-four.” “Really? You seem younger. Do you often feel anxious around people?” “Excuse me?” “Do you sometimes dread the company of people? Or get nervous when you have to be among new people, or speak in public?” “No, not really. I just get tired of it.” “Of?” “Of behaving,” I said. “Ah,” he said. “What do you do for entertainment? Do you ever go clubbing, for example, or go see some live music?” “Oh my lord no, too much noise for my taste.” “I see. So what do you do in your spare time?” “I knit. I could knit for hours and hours! I also love playing interactive games. They’re a really good way to learn about human interaction.” Dr. Pavlov smiled and scribbled something on his notepad. “Doctor, do you believe in the New Sapiens?” “Animals transformed into human beings?” He wrinkled his eyebrows. “Yes. I don’t believe it, but a friend told me I behave like one, that I act as if I’ve never had ‘proper’ upbringing,” I quickly said. “She’s convinced she’s met one or two.” “But you don’t believe her?” “No. That’s ridiculous! Animals turning into people. Haha!” “Yes, perhaps it is. There are many of these conspiracy theories around,” he said, nodding his head. “Hm-mm. The reptilians is my favorite. George W. Bush a reptilian. What nonsense!” “Well, tell me about your upbringing,” he said. I lived on the edge of the forest, I told him, on the other side of the State Park. My parents were distant, all they cared about was providing food for me and my sister, and even then not for long. They quickly lost interest and
34
The Golden Key
were often away for long periods of time. I had to start fending for myself when I was very little. I liked living by the forest and often wandered into the woods on my own. I liked the sound of leaves rustling, the damp soil on my skin, the earthy smell of dried foliage and fallen pine cones, I liked watching dandelions florets float in the wind. “And your parents?” “We never spoke. I mean, we don’t speak.” I didn’t tell him of course that when I stumbled upon the scout, a former squirrel, I had said yes without hesitation, feeling what I think now may have been a vague sort of longing, loneliness, and perhaps even a slight urge for vengeance. “You don’t speak to them at all now?” “Never.” “Were they ever harsh with you?” “No, never. They were distant, that’s all.” “I see,” he said. His timer went off; its mechanical sound, the even, discreet beeps startled me. “I’m very sorry. Why don’t we schedule another meeting? Maybe in two weeks?” “Yes, I will.” “Great. Now, just one more question. Do you ever think of suicide? Or have fleeting thoughts of suicide?” “Never,” I said, though I wondered if wanting to simply stop existing amounted to the same thing. “Well, we have excellent group therapy. I really recommend that you join our sessions,” Dr. Pavlov said, getting up and taking several flyers from the bookshelf behind him. I took the flyers, with titles such as Managing Social Anxiety, Recognizing Autism, and Recognizing Depression. “It seems to me that you need someone to talk to. I would like very much to hear more about your childhood, but this is unfortunately not my territory, so why don’t I make you an appointment with our group therapist and you can continue seeing me once a week. We may decide later that a psychologist would be a better fit for you. Would you like that?” he said. “Very much, yes.” “And it’s quite all right to have feelings. Why don’t you keep a journal and write everything you feel for now?” “Yes. That sounds like a good idea,” I said. “Perfect.” “Thank you, Doctor.” I stood up and we shook hands. When I glanced down at his notepad, I saw the words Avoids eye contact. High-functioning A? written on it. I walked home feeling relieved. High-functioning A. Top mark! Never mind the question mark, signifying at least some doubt. I felt as if a huge burden had been lifted from my shoulders. Finally. Someone I could talk to, someone who understood. I saw Dr. Pavlov on a regular basis. I became addicted to him, to his lulling voice, to his silences as he listened to me, to his knowing nods, his readiness to laugh at my jokes. The more I saw him, the more human I felt. How foolish of me, not understanding the difference between professional commitment and actual caring—not to say that he hadn’t cared about me at all; even now I’m still convinced he cared very much. The group therapy, on the other hand, wasn’t very helpful. Other participants spoke of problems that were alien to me: a dying mother, an abusive father, fear of people, self-harm. I couldn’t relate to them. Whenever it was my turn to speak, I would simply smile and say, “Maybe next week.” When the therapist finally approached me Issue 7
35
after a session to recommend one-on-one sessions with a psychologist, I told him I was already seeing one. All I wanted was to see Dr. Pavlov. I don’t remember how long I went to see the doctor, how many months. But I was certain then that what we had transcended professional relationship. He was the only person I could learn to look in the eye for one hour straight. And the way he would smile with such tenderness as he listened to my confessions…as if he understood me perfectly and felt the same way. Jemma said I looked radiant, that I had grown beautiful, more confident. For my birthday, the sisters gave me a make-up set. I would spend hours at night watching make-up tutorials online and practicing in front of the bathroom mirror. I gave up knitting and computer games entirely. I would put on full “natural” make-up and wear short dresses to the hospital, convinced that it was simply a matter of time before Dr. Pavlov would profess his love for me. “Wow, you’ve certainly transformed,” he said one day, toward the end of our session. “I feel so much better now, Doctor. Thank you.” He said he was proud of me, that he had not expected me to perform so well so quickly. “You’re a remarkable woman. You’ve been through so much, yet you’re still so positive, so willing to think the best of people.” I’m not sure what emboldened me, but I slipped off my right heel and touched my bare foot to his ankle. He immediately pulled away, but I felt no fear. I tried again, this time running my big toe gently up and down his calf. “Hey,” he said, getting up abruptly, looking flustered, his forehead moist with sweat. “This is not a good idea.” “Why not?” “You’re a very beautiful girl,” he stuttered, wiping his forehead with facial tissue. I saw the thing between his legs begin to swell up. “I’m very sorry. You should leave.” He went to the door, opened it, and gestured for me to leave, keeping his gaze fixed at the floor. I did as I was told. It was all very confusing. Why had he let me run my toe up and down his leg if he hadn’t wanted me? I was disappointed but was still certain he would one day let his guard down, once he saw that we were meant for each other. Despite the somewhat humiliating setback, I came home feeling optimistic and happy. The next morning, I received an email from Dr. Pavlov, saying that it would perhaps be best for me to see his colleague instead, a woman who was very competent and experienced. He had already scheduled a session for me. Signed, “Best wishes.” I printed the email and stapled it on a page in my journal, next to a picture I had drawn of the forest I grew up in. I stared at the arrangement for a few minutes and began to cry for the first time in months. It must have been minutes—it felt like minutes—before I felt an odd sort of tremor coming from my stomach, like an army of ants
an d h i s s e I hissed
d into the empty room until I fi nally returned to my human state.
was running amok all over my insides. I tried to get up, but my feet gave away. I collapsed and must have lost consciousness for quite some time. When I woke up, I was on the floor, covered in scales, my tongue split. I wanted to scream but couldn’t. I wanted to close my eyes but couldn’t—my lids were apparently gone. I hissed and hissed into the empty room until I finally returned to my human state. It was a terrifying incident. I could not leave my apartment for weeks after, until one day Maria came by to tell me I had been fired. “My God. What happened to you?” she said as soon as I opened the door. Maria went into my bathroom and filled my bathtub with warm water and bath bubbles. “Take a bath,” she said. “You smell like a dead rat.” I undressed and slipped into the bathtub. Maria sat on the floor by my side, running her fingers through my hair. I felt nothing then. Not sad, not heartbroken. Just worn and empty. After I was done bathing, Maria wiped me dry with a towel and handed me a pair of pajamas. We watched a horror film together while drinking warm ginger tea, laughing at the film’s horrible visual effects. Once in a while
36
The Golden Key
she would stroke my hair and kiss my cheek. “Thank you, Maria,” I whispered to her. “For what?” she said. Just like that, she began to sob. We cried and laughed together. We laughed so hard our abdomens started to hurt. At around seven she had to return home to her son. “My aunt who works at a school library says they need an extra hand. Give me your resume tomorrow and I will make sure you get the job, all right?” “Thank you.” “Don’t be silly. That’s what friends do.” Lying in bed that night, I thought back to what the new sapiens discussion leader said: “When you’re feeling out of place, when you’re feeling sad, learn. Learn as much as you can about humanity. This is the only way we can save our kind, our less fortunate peers who are unable to speak for themselves.” Apparently what I felt toward Dr. Pavlov is called “transference” and was a sign that the therapy was, in fact, working. When sexual feelings are involved, the phenomenon is called “erotic transference.” I spent weeks reading up on it online, to better understand myself. I read patient testimonies, Quora threads, psychology studies, until the paralyzing shame was finally replaced with the urge to laugh at myself. Had I become a typical human being, after all? The following month I began working at a middle school library only four blocks away from my apartment. I’m happy to report that my life has been somewhat normal since then. I’ve been in and out of relationships, some of them more serious than others. I’d like to think that I’m somewhat acclimated to humanness and am quite capable of having realistic expectations of men. I even believe that I am more well-adjusted than most human-borns. Even Maria, whom I still keep in touch with, says I am the most independent woman she knows. I have gone back to my birthplace several times since then, to see if perhaps I’d feel happier there, more at home—not that I’m miserable, because I’m not, really. But you know what they say, home is home, and there’s no place like it. I have not been able to make myself enter the forest. I’d walk along the edge of the woods, bringing with me breadcrumbs to feed the pigeons. I’d lean on the steel fence circling the park, close my eyes so I can better listen to the still familiar sounds and smell the forest. Sometimes, when there’s no one around, I’d spread breadcrumbs around my feet and give the pigeons waddling around my feet my words of wisdom: “Dear pigeons,” I’d whisper, “Just remember. When those scouts come for you, just say no. All right? Just shake your head, like this. And do yourself a favor and cover your ears. Look, this planet is doomed anyway. Not like the new sapiens’ climate change mitigation and animal rights movements are really making a difference.” The poor pigeons, they’re not at all into eye contact. Still, I hope they receive my message, somehow, even if the words don’t make any sense. They should be able to see that I was once one of them, sort of, and that being a member of the only bipedal primate species, I am clearly out of place here on the sidewalk. But we’ll see. Perhaps someday I’ll be walking down the street on my way to work at the school and I’ll see a man or a woman walking in my direction, waddling, making odd neck twitches. She’ll see me and her face will light up in recognition. Maybe we’ll go for coffee and commiserate. Who knows.
Issue 7
37
38
The Golden Key
When
Tigers
Used to Smoke Jeffrey MacLachlan
When tigers used to smoke, there were houses where death didn’t come. When night fell, fog poured in from the woods, and the decrepit inhaled sweet purple steam. Cheeks smoothed as if exiting a long spa, and posture restored itself to former glory. The newly young dropped to their knees and coughed up their older selves. The newly young returned to their homes and lived another eighty years while the steam beckoned the older selves to the woods with a whistling pointer finger. At a clearing was a series of glass chambers. Inside, sudden flashes of light revealed tiger grimaces, tiger snarls, resigned exhalations of opium smoke. The older selves shrieked into the ground and blossomed as silent woodland fog.
Issue 7
39
Contributors
40
The Golden Key
LISA BAIRD is a writer, a community acupuncturist and a queer white settler living on Attawandaron/Attawandaronk/Neutral territory (Guelph, Ontario). Her work appears in Arc Poetry Magazine, Rattle, Winter Tangerine Review, The Remedy: Queer and Trans Voices on Health and Health Care, and elsewhere. Visit her online at www. lisabaird.ca. When asked which dead celebrity Lisa would resurrect for a day, she says: “If I could resurrect a dead celebrity for a day, it would be Dr Richard Teh-Fu Tan–he was an acupuncturist and teacher primarily, but also very much a celebrity–so I could tell him what his teaching has meant for me and my community, and hear some more terribly inappropriate jokes.”
GORDON BROWN grew up in the deserts of Syria and now lives in the deserts of Nevada. Since his arrival in the New World he has had work published in Danse Macabre and has forthcoming work in The Airgonaut, NoD, and Burning Water Magazine. He spends his time looking after his cats, of which he has none. What has he lost that he’d most like to be reunited with? “Without a doubt, the sound of a donkey cart, clopping down the street outside my window, on a quiet afternoon in Damascus before the war.”
MARK DANOWSKY’S poetry has appeared in About Place, Eye to the Telescope, Right Hand Pointing, Star*Line, and elsewhere. Mark received 2013 Dwarf Stars and 2016 Rhysling Award nominations. Originally from the Philadelphia area, Mark currently resides in North-Central West Virginia. He is Managing Editor for the Schuylkill Valley Journal. Asked which dead celebrity he would resurrect for a day, Mark says, “I believe I’ve, at least in part, already covered my answer in the form of a poem.” In 2016, Eye to the Telescope published Mark’s poem, “Holo Debate,” in which Ralph Waldo Emerson is, in a sense, resurrected.
ANN DeViLBISS has a BA in English from Indiana University. Her work has appeared in Crab Orchard Review, Day One, and elsewhere, and is forthcoming in Pangyrus. She is the recipient of an Emerging Artist Award from the Kentucky Arts Council, the state arts agency, which is supported by state tax dollars and federal funding from the National Endowment for the Arts. She lives in Louisville, KY. If she could, which dead celebrity would Ann resurrect for a day? “If I could resurrect any dead celebrity, I’d bring back Marlene Dietrich and have her tell me all her secrets.”
PHILIP KING lives with his partner, cat, and two plants in Portland, Oregon. He is in the process of editing his first novel and creating his first graphic novel, and his work has been featured in the Portland State University Vanguard, Pathos Literary Magazine, Annex Zine, and Literary Brushstrokes. He has displayed work at the Saatchi Gallery in London, England, the Todd Art Gallery in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, and in Portland at the AB Gallery, the MK Gallery, the Sugar Cube, St. Johns Racquet Center, the Littman Gallery, Synesthesia Festival, NextNorthwest, Splendorporium, and the Holocene. He received a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Art Practices from Portland State University in 2016. Issue 7
41
JEFFREY H. MACLACHLAN also has recent work in New Ohio Review, Eleven Eleven, The William & Mary Review, among others. He teaches literature at Georgia College & State University. He can be followed on Twitter @jeffmack. When asked which dead celebrity he would resurrect for a day, Jeffrey says, “My historical crush is Zelda Fitzgerald. Her life’s tragic finale means she’s earned a pleasurable evening in the City. I would love to discover what Zelda thinks about our century’s gentrified neoliberal paradise of New York City. I bet she’d love taking selfies at a mixology bar.”
SHAHÉ MANKERIAN’S manuscript, History of Forgetfulness, has been a finalist at four prestigious competitions: the 2013 Crab Orchard Series in Poetry Open Competition, the Bibby First Book Competition, the Quercus Review Press (Fall Poetry Book Award), and the 2014 White Pine Press Poetry Prize. His poems have appeared in Mizna. What has he lost that he’d most like to be reunited with? “I lost my father in 1993. I would love to reunite with him for just a few hours. So much has changed since he left. The last significant thing he did was buy me a typewriter so I can write. Twenty plus years later, I have so much to show him. I have poems, a lovely wife, a daughter that laughs just like him. I lead a school of scholars. Dad, I became a principal. When you left, we had barely inaugurated Clinton as president. If we do reunite, you might be disappointed to see a moron for a president.”
MARIA ROSA MILLS is a Seattle-based writer with work previously in American Chordata, Heartland Review, and Event Horizon. Her prior academic and research background–in marine biology and biomechanics–lends a scientific persuasion to her writing. She’s currently an MFA candidate for poetry at the University of Washington. What has she lost that she’d most like to be reunited with? “While living out in Spokane, WA I had a great mattress– wide, low to the ground, exactly the right firmness, and it belonged once to my friend’s grandmother so it had an heirloom-like air to it. When I moved to Seattle it wouldn’t fit in my car, so I had to leave it, but I didn’t own a bed out here for several weeks, out of respect.”
RENJANA S. lives on a tropical island with her pets and the occasional snake. She writes for a current affairs magazine and is now working on her first novel. When asked which dead celebrity she would resurrect for a day, Renjana says, “I’d love to have Bach resurrected for a day, just to hear him play the Goldberg Variations on a contemporary piano.”
SHELBY TUTHILL is a psychology student at Kalamazoo College in Michigan. Her creative nonfiction pieces have been published at Human Parts, a subset of medium.com, and she is thrilled to have her first published poem right here. She learned about sestinas last year and hasn’t stopped writing them since. What has she lost that she’d most like to be reunited with? “At the moment, I would most like to be reunited with my wallet, which is likely buried in the snow somewhere between my house and my favorite brunch spot. No matter how I retrace my steps, it won’t resurface.”
42
The Golden Key
Staff EDITORS
Lindsay Fowler Carlea Holl-Jensen COVER ART & ILLUSTRATIONS
Philip King DESIGN
LiAnn Yim CO-FOUNDERS & EDITORS EMERITA
Susan Anspach Carlea Holl-Jensen LiAnn Yim
MASTHEAD ILLUSTRATIONS
Libby Burns WEB DESIGN
Lang Born COLOPHON
Built in Adobe InDesign. Fonts used: Archer, Mermaid, and Articulat.