8. Bohemia - December 2012 by Bohemia

Central Texas Art and Literary Journal

December

BOHEMIA

2012 15.US

s n o m e D & Angels Featuring Rome Goth Steampunk Voodoo Daddies Cathedrals &

twisted love stories Boho Beats: Aservant Moniker & Vagrant December 2012â&#x20AC;˘ bohemia â&#x20AC;˘ 1

Stellar

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Bohemia December 2012 Volume 2, Number 5 ISSN No. 2162-8653

Editor In Chief Amanda Hixson Assistant Editor Jim McKeown

Staff photographers D Battle II, Pat Jones, William Roisendubh,

and Cynthia Wheeler

The BoHo crew also includes Poetry Acquisition many talentsd bloggers, regular contributors, contract models, Mandy Bray and friends who lend their talents frequently. Fashion Editor Serena Teakell Contact Bohemia through www.bohemia-journal.com Staff Writers Avery Jackson, Isis Lee, Gary Lee Webb Illustrations and Art Acquisition Steffany Bankenbusch, Courtney Woodliff

BOHEMIA Central Texas Art and Literary Journal

TO BATTLE FOR THE DAWN AND LIGHT Editor In Chief by Isis Lee

Amanda Hixson

Assistant Editor

From what was spawned in through creation All forces pulled through chaos be, Fiction Acquisition Doyle The rise of will compelled byEricvirtues Both dark and dealt to cure our needs, Aquisition And through the clash ofPoetry good and evil Mandy Bray The fight will triumph consumes the rights Of truth come bound inPhotography to persuasion Editor Battles urge both sides to rise. Cynthia Wheeler Jim McKeown

Fashion Editor Our wills are stirred into directing The swell of love that holdsSerena aliveTeakell To push within the self-obsessing Beauty Editor Amy Cook Will come to push through softest kind. Coveruphold credit: glory Those winged graced beauties Missy Balusek, Amy Cook, Serena Teakell, While demons curse the break of light photo by Cynthia Wheeler for Cynthia Wheeler Photography To cast out shadows corrupting youth in Waco. ____________________ In through deception delivers truth, Bohemia: Waco’s Art & Literary Journal That moves us on while we possess (Waco, TX) The urge to not give up that fight, Volume 2, Number 3 To end the curse that comesAutumn to plague 2012 man Haunted by the endless cries, ISSN No. 2162-8653 Of prayers that holdPrinted hopebythrough dark shadows Waco Printing Company We find a sense that drives delight To balance out our doomed corruption Contact Bohemia through As angels fall into the night. www.bohemia-journal.com December 2012• bohemia • 3

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DEVOLUTION by Ronja Vieth

Yes, God knows that I’m no angel any more than I was the first time as the eye in your storm, spinning in confusion, doubt spat me out then picked me back up after riding the Milky Way for one night on black sheets in your apartment – we both clung on: to stars in each other’s eyes, the chemistry between bodies not touching – With bruises shining stellar and ruffled wings I entered thinking we would grow like the tree we had climbed that day, branch out and reach for the sky. Yet pelted by the gravel from which you tried to save me, my wings failed to soothe your troubled soul, my luminosity no lubricant for you, as I flew the straits of Europe; five weeks with stumps for wings I scoured the old world to find myself, follow my star, hum with the galaxy winds rushing past your skies, to shine – Above: Serena Teakell and Rebecca Kieran Cover, pgs 3, 5, 22-23, 27-29 is BoHo Threads Hair & Make-Up by Rebecca Kieran, concept and fashioning by Serena Teakell with photography by Pat Jones Photography

we sparkled for another week, touched brightness, before tears reflected fears – Now I fathom I’ve flown with phantom wings, diffused the light of a dying star. December 2012• bohemia • 5

THE QUEEN’S NIGHTMARE by Larissa Nash

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Nightmare: operatic note like a scream; one name scrawled on walls and in hands, underneath the skin. I can hear a voice: there is a brunette with ruby lips; she lives in the museum beside a painted mirror. (We live underwater, where everything singes as it should.) One note, like a scream.

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Her dark and broken demon Lies before her, Damned by Blair Bacon

Her dark and broken demon Lies before her, Damned Tears swell in her bloodshot eyes Threatening to fall She closes them to remember He found her in the dark Where she had been abandoned By those before him The faintest of light She found inside him Brought her to her knees There he held her Wrapped up in his wings He saved her In the moment she felt least mendable And in the instant when fate had left him banned from his glory Shamed in his moment of greatness For he had once been Angelic and beautiful But now he was scarred with his hatred and wrath Still...in her eyes he was beautiful She looks at her Azrial Seeming so close to fading The tears that once were fighting to escape Now stream down her cheeks Filled with her love for this broken soul

Photo is a collaboration between D’Heirus And Theresa Lollis of Ti-Kay Elle Photography.

Falling onto his forehead Like little kisses begging to save him She lays her head on his chest Ready to lie there until she too is gone And when she is close to her last breath She feels his hand rise to her hair To smooth it away from her tear stained cheeks This poem mysteriously appeared under one of our keyboards at the Bohemia office about a year ago. It was the impetus for this issue.

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St Paul’s Episcopal Church in Waco, Texas

he oft asked question, “Why does man create?” will elicited as many opinions as there are hammers and chisels to score stone or computers to enter key strokes. Perhaps one simple answer could be, “to express their inner most thoughts and feelings.” If we ask the Google-Gods to define “Angels and Demons” we will find about 42 million responses, enough to scare or soothe the savage beast in any creative person. And, no doubt, that is why there is a proliferation of religious icons created by people who are expressing their innermost thoughts and feeling for timeless centuries especially as stained glass windows in churches and cathedrals 8 • bohemia • December 2012

Story and photos by Randy Schorman

throughout the world – and Waco is rich in this art form. We date the origin of Waco from March 1, 1849. We date the first Episcopal church service in Waco at 1855, the appointment of the first Bishop in Texas at 1859, the first Episcopal Church building 1869 in Waco, located at 4th and Webster. But this story is not about beginnings or buildings; it is about the angels and demons buildings can bring to our lives. In 1878 a new Episcopal church was constructed at the corner of 5th and Columbus. The original building was then sold to the Waco school system. When the “new church” was opened, 8 stained glass

windows were installed, each finely detailed with religious icons. In a way, the angels in the windows, in the form of countless icons, help remind us of the angels and demons outside. The three altar windows are especially significant. The church archive holds a copy of a publication titled The Church Bell with an article written by the rector, Reverend William D. Sartwelle dated September 1879 (rector 187788). He describes the windows; “Three memorial windows have already been erected, not less pleasing in their design than teachable in their emblems.” The Rose window was also installed

Above: close-up of the paint on St. Paul’s book – “T” in upper left – faded “r” then “i” then a distinct “L” then a fairly distinct “Y” It’s interesting – there also seems to be the start of another word vertically DOWN the spine. The scratch marks may be artifacts in the glass. “No, we do not intend to remove the letters,” says Schorman.

when the 1878 church opened and was also described by Reverend Sartwelle; “The designer of this window is worthy of all emulation, in the churchly spirit presented. Such an objective study as this, veiled under exquisite design in color and shade, cannot but prove a silent teacher for all the years and tells the people that ‘stained glass’ in not alone for ornament but instructs in the sublimest [sic] mysteries of the faith.” In the 1940s, a program was started to replace all the windows in the Nave with memorial windows depicting the Life of Christ. Now there are 40 stained glass windows throughout the church. Those windows are still at St. Paul’s and hold a fascinating ghost story still unsolved. The three altar windows previously mentioned hold a demon mystery unsolved to this day. The three altar

windows depict St, John, Jesus, and St. Paul. St. Paul is holding a blue book in his hand and it did not have a cover title. In 1951, ladies of the church decided the windows needed cleaning, securing ladders and setting to work. Much to their chagrin, they discovered that sometime in the past, someone had used yellow house paint and given St. Paul’s book a title, and not a very complimentary title at that – “Trilby.” Research at the time discovered what we can confirm today: 1) the scoundrel with the paint brush was never identified; 2) the name is the title of a novel, Trilby, was written by George du Maurier. It was first serialized in Harper’s Monthly in 1894; published in book form in 1895, sold 200,000 copies in the United States alone, and was based on life in 1850 Bohemian Paris. Trilby could sing but was tone deaf unless under the hypnotic spell of Svengali,

a Jewish rogue and musician, both are the lesser characters in the book but they have taken on a life of their own. This Trilby/Svengali relationship has become present in current psychology because it illustrates one person’s domination over another. In fact, it is the basis of the highly popular Phantom of the Opera musical production. To create, to study, to learn – all “teachable moments” we gain from Angels and Demons – wherever we look – with our eyes and minds ever vigilant for opportunity. Phantom of the Opera musical production. To create, to study, to learn – all “teachable moments” we gain from Angels and Demons – wherever we look – with our eyes and minds ever vigilant for opportunity. ***

December 2012• bohemia • 9

Bessie’s Creek Story and photography by Christopher Woods

hey are angels in white robes coming down the bluff to the water to be baptized. Born again. They are all aglow in the early morning light as they descend, youngsters holding their noses before the plunge, teenagers forced by their parents, old-timers with wretched lives now at last seeking salvation - all aglow as they sink into the alive and glistening water that flows downstream from the chemical factory.

someone to look after the small boy who has already disappeared beneath the surface, who floats with a blue face at the bottom of the polluted creek.

to his knees. He knows he will die soon, but at least he will be safe from prosecution when the angels begin to fall ill and die their own horrible deaths.

“Save the boy,” he yells, and a few splash around in a feeble attempt to locate the lost boy. They are most interested in their own salvation, though, and the boy is quickly forgotten. May he find heaven, the Reverend thinks to himself.

“You are all soldiers in the army of Jesus Christ now,” he bellows, somehow finding a strength of some kind inside himself. “Go now, and spread the Gospel until your last day.”

The Reverend stands on a rock ledge over the water, scratching the boils on his skin. The boils are hidden by his own long black robes. He fears infection, and that he has let the boils, now bleeding freely, to go without treatment for too long.

The deacons dunk the angels in the water one by one. They come back to the surface quickly, coughing and wheezing. The yellow color of the water coats their white angel gowns and their skin. But God is the goal so no one says anything.

His vision is fading, quickly. He finds he must make a great effort to watch the yellowed angels climbing out of the chemical waste. They are all exuberant, dizzy with religion, as they claw their way up the muddy creek bank.

It is almost over. What he feared He begins the baptism ritual as the His boils are merciless, and the most has not happened. He feared angels wade in the water. He asks pain almost brings the Reverend that Bessie’s body would rise from 10 • bohemia • December 2012

the dark depth of the creek. Maybe an angel’s fluttering foot would dislodge her from her watery grave that the Reverend made with stones and rope after he raped and strangled her. She had come on to him too strongly and demanded that she keep their baby. She already had children and a husband, but she was intent on the true salvation the Reverend might offer. And the harlot had gotten herself pregnant. He told her he would save her, in moonlight. He took her down the bluff, he in his black robes and she in her angel gown. There were stars drifting above them as he guided her into the fluid darkness. It did not go unnoticed that the creek was glowing in the darkness. The glow came from the evening shift

at the plant upstream. The glow flowed downstream until it disappeared into the ground water, into the town, into glasses of water the townspeople drank. But the cancers they would develop take time, and he knew that Bessie would be showing sooner. So he strangled her in her white angel gown, then weighed down the body with heavy stones.

The angels move up the bluff and back to the road. They climb inside their cars and drive away. The Reverend stays in his place on the rock ledge, now unable to move. The boils have overtaken his brain. So quickly, so quickly.

He is so enraptured by his own dying that he does not notice Bessie rising from the depths, how she floats in the air toward him, how Maybe she would go to heaven. she grabs him by the neck and pulls Maybe not. He didn’t care. And him back into the water. Into salvahe did not know if he believed in tion. heaven anyway. Down in the yellow depth of the Now on the bank, the yellow angels creek, they float through dead fish are joyous, passionate about being in a slow toxic current, no longer fresh soldiers in the army of Jesus. able to see but to feel the hand of They will wander back to the town the drowned blue faced boy, who hall where the celebration will be guides them on and on and on. held, with many casseroles prepared for the occasion. *** December 2012• bohemia • 11

In the dazethe world wrecked. Only the Club kids were left.

Savages salvaging Salvation

Pgs 12-17, Photography by William Roisendubh, BoHo team (from left) Thomas Miller, Savannah Loftin, D Battle II, and Isis Lee (team director, make-up and costuming direction).

Tinker, Taylor, Angel, Demon By Musae P Adumbratus

not until her mother died. Up until then Lana considered her feelings first, toning down a lot.

“I should have waited,” she murmurs to herself, When she died, Lana was reborn, finally being able to knowing that no matter the danger, she would still have taken the risk. When she left it was snowing softly, but now it is really coming down and the wind has picked up so much that she can barely make out the road. She needs to get to Lanè, her sister. Her twin sister, who until earlier has not spoken to her in over a year. Her sister who when she learned that she was a Wiccan practicing Goth, disowned her. She always wore black, but she never went all the way, 12 • bohemia • December 2012

express herself, and practice her craft in the open. At last, she could breath. Only then did she have the courage to dress up for her mother’s funeral. Lanè did not take kindly to her coming to the funeral in a black lace skirt going down to her feet, but cut open in front to reveal black leather boots up to her thighs, a black lace blouse with a corset, and a black umbrella. She was thrown out of the family, but when Lanè called and she heard the panic in her voice, she had to go. She cannot see anything in front of her, and then she hit

She beckons with a bell

I hear her curt and call.

Angelic Cause

tall and lean, but not skinny. She felt the muscles of his arms and shoulders when she helped him up, definably not skinny, just lean.

something.

“You are hurt,” he mumbles.

She woke and felt the cold in her bones, a chill not just coming from the snow falling in through the broken window alone.

“So are you,” she says, looking at his leg, clearly broken. “Your car?” he asks.

“Lana,” he asks.

Her head is bleeding; she discovers when she gently fingers the cut.

She looks back; the car will not get them anywhere.

She realises that she has been staring, and blushes blood red.

“Oh no, I hit something,” she suddenly realises.

He stumbles up, “I saw a cabin, near the road.”

“I want to look at your head,” he replies, moving forward.

She stumbles out of her car. In the car someone is lying, the snow already starting to cover him. She rushes forward, and turns him over.

Lana hesitates, but she has little choice.

His fingers gently touch her head. She watches as he tears a piece of his

He is gorgeous. She is just about to listen for a heartbeat, when his eyes open- blue as the sky, with long black lashes framing them. “Are you okay?” He smiles and Lana can feel her stomach clinch. His smile almost makes her feel like the sun is shining.

She helps the stranger up, and together they venture into the forest. The cabin is nearer to the road than she expected, but she can see nobody has lived there for some time. It is dirty inside, but all the windows are whole, and there is a fireplace, and a pile of wood next to it. “My name is Ethan,” he introduces before limping to the fireplace. “Lana.” She watches him start a fire. He is

December 2012• bohemia • 13

Demonic Incline Together we Belong.

There are others.

But are they pretty?

shirt and binds her head. “What about your leg?” He shakes his head, “Don’t worry, I cannot set it here, so we will just have to wait till we get to a hospital.” Lana has never set a broken bone, and she strongly believes she will do more harm than good. “Does it hurt?” she asks moving closer to the fire, and him. “No, a little, but it is tolerable.” She smiles, and before long, they are talking about her life, her family. She tells him things she never told anybody else. They talk about movies, and books. He listens to her eager defence of all things Wiccan and Gothic. He laughs at her silly stories. She listens to his opinions on the world, politics and life. She smiles at his dry sense of humour. Much later, she finds herself lying on the dirty rug, and the last thing she 14 • bohemia • December 2012

sees is his beautiful blue eyes before falling asleep.

“Lana,” the man whispers, “you are not safe with him.”

She wakes suddenly, confused, and then the memories flood back.

Lana frowns. She feels safe with Ethan.

A crash draws her attention, and then she freezes. Ethan is fighting with another man, but what confuses her are the wings.

“Lana, he is a demon, and he tricked you into driving in this blizzard.”

She touches her head, suspecting concussion.

“It was not your sister who called; it was him.”

Ethan is not limping, at all.

Lana listens for truth, confused.

Only then, does she notice the swords, and starts screaming.

Ethan is moving to the door, still facing the other man, his sword pointed to him.

The two men, winged creatures, freeze and stare towards her. Without thinking, Lana runs forward, and hides behind Ethan. The other man looks confused and even angry. “Get away from her,” he growls. Ethan only laughs, ignoring him. Their swords are raised in a stalemate.

Ethan remains silent.

“Lana,” he whispers, “do you want to stay with him?” Lana shakes her head. “Do you want to come with me?” She nods and moves under his arm, leaning against his chest. He pulls her close. The other man looks back in confusion, his wings moving restlessly be-

Conflict.

hind him. He lowers his sword. Ethan lowers his own sword, and putts it away in a sheave behind his back so Lana cannot see. He pulls her against him, holding her tight with both arms. His huge wings slowly start moving and Lana gasps as her feet leave the ground. “Lana,” the man calls after them, “I was telling the truth; he is a demon.” Lana smiles and wraps her arms around Ethan’s neck. “I know,” she whispers. ***

The Monster By Frank Jaworski

he rain fell cold and hard, and lightning streaked through the sky. Anna was not deterred; she was going to get Johann’s body back. He would finally rest. Anna went to the gallows before dawn that morning to break the law,

to take down the body of her only son, Johann, and bury him in the churchyard. She knew it meant defying both civil and church authorities, but she didn‘t care. Her son had paid the final price for his terribly misspent life, and now she would ensure he would lie in the same ground as the rest of her family. But when she crept up the hill just outside of the city gates, she knew even before she saw that something was wrong. Something she heard, perhaps the sound of the iron chains clanking unfettered in the wind. She reached the hilltop and there, by the storm’s flash, she saw. Johann was gone. Yesterday at sunset he’d been hanged from this gibbet, with the strongest chains because he was such a big man they thought the ropes might not hold. He had stared at her mute as they pulled the sack over his head, but they both knew that she could not rescue him this time. Begging the mayor’s pardon had saved Johann before but he would not be forgiven murder.

The chain had gone round his thick neck, the team of horses strained at the pulley, and Johann only kicked and flailed for a few moments. The chain was chocked to the upright, the mayor and the executioner left without looking at Anna, and the gawkers drifted away. Last to leave was Anna, standing in the gathering dark with tears streaming down her cheeks. Johann was not just dead; as he’d committed a mortal sin he‘d not been shriven, and his bones would not be buried in hallowed ground. His soul would be lost. She returned to her small room in the parish hall, where she had lived since her husband’s death. The church had taken her in as a lay sister, to tend the church gardens. She could not sleep but sat up with her rosary in her hands, thinking of Johann. An hour into her vigil Father Heinrich knocked at her door. “Anna, may I enter? I’ve come to see how you are bearing up.” His eyes were filled with concern.

December 2012• bohemia • 15

She stood as he entered and he motioned her to sit, and sat across from her. “Father Heinrich, I will get through this. I have my rosary and my prayers. But they cannot save Johann.” Tears leaked from her eyes, though she fought them. “I could not save him.” The cleric leaned forward and placed his hands on hers. “Anna, I know you are heartbroken, but maybe in God’s plan there is still a place for Johann, some Divine mercy he might find.” Heinrich glanced at the open doorway to make sure no one overheard him. “And I have been praying, too, on his behalf, though the bishop would flay me if he knew.” Anna looked at him in surprise. He continued, “If anyone could understand your pain as a mother, it is our blessed Virgin Mary.” Anna gripped her confessor’s hands. “Thank you, Father. I thank you with all of my heart. And Father, my mind will not let me sleep tonight, so if you see me up walking the halls or out in the churchyard, please leave

me to my prayers.” “Of course, my child.” He gave her a small smile of encouragement. He left without knowing she had just decided on her plan. She would take the donkey from the church stable with her to the gallows, let down the chain holding Johann and have the beast drag him back to the churchyard. There was a deep ditch in the back of the yard that Anna had been filling with dirt taken from leveling other parts of the grounds, planning to plant roses there. Johann would be dragged into the ditch and covered up before dawn, and so would be buried in hallowed ground. Anna would defy her church for what she felt was a higher truth. But now, the plan was for naught. In the rain and the wind, the chains rang softly, unburdened. Anna sat on the wet ground, dumfounded. Johann’s body held nothing for robbers, but some corpses were taken for anatomy instruction or for experiments. Her son used that way? Never!

Resolution.

Anna realized if there was any sign of where Johann’s body had been taken it would be soon erased by the rain, so she stood up, squared her shoulders and searched the ground under the gallows. They had not even tried to hide their trail. Many footprints showed where they had struggled with Johann’s weight, and the ruts of wagon wheels started where the footprints stopped. Without a lantern, following wagon tracks by the occasional lightning flash she set out to bring her son back. In a few minutes her worst fear was confirmed; the trail left the road and turned uphill toward the castle, toward that bastard Frankenstein’s place. She paused again to gather herself, thinking of the rumors she had heard, that he desecrated the bodies of dead animals and thought that he could usurp God himself and grant life to the dead. No matter what happened, Anna knew that God and right were on her side. The rain which had been slowing, stopped and the half moon edged out from behind clouds. The path was clear; she began to run. But again she was too late. Though she ran all the way through the gate and the big wooden door, and quickly followed the light of bracketed candles down to the basement, when she got there it was over. There were three men standing in the huge room: the man she recognized from his trips to the village - Dr. Frankenstein, his nameless assistant and Anna’s son Johann. Her son was bruised around the neck from the chain, and wavered like he might collapse, but nevertheless he lived. Frankenstein spoke first. “Why are you in my house?”

16 • bohemia • December 2012

we shall rule. Anna turned away from Johann with difficulty; it was hard to take her eyes off of him. “I am this man’s mother and you had no right to take him. I am here to take him back where he belongs.” She stepped toward Johann. The dull light in Johann’s eyes brightened. She could see that he recognized her, though he seemed confused. Frankenstein moved to step between them. “That time is past; he belongs here now.” He glared down with a superior air. Anna scowled up at the doctor. “Stupid man, I am his mother.” She reached out to a floor stand that held several oil lamps to light the laboratory. With a heave she threw it over on Frankenstein, sending him to the floor shrieking, in flames. She turned to the assistant, “Tend to your master.” Anna took her son by the hand, ”Come along, Johann.”

to retrieve it. He cradled it in his arms. He never saw the blade of the shovel coming.

The path back down didn’t seem as long. Anna felt a calm surety that she was doing the right thing. The clouds had all blown away and the clear moonlight showed her the trusting childlike face of Johann whenever she looked up at him. He did not speak, and seemed to trust her implicitly, as when he was a child. When they reached the churchyard she led him to the ditch in back. “Johann, come see what I brought you. Look, down in the ditch.” Anna had brought from her room a childhood toy of Johann’s that she‘d kept all these years, a carved wooden horse that she had laid in the ditch to bury with him. Now Johann’s eyes widened as he saw his old toy, and he half climbed half tumbled into the hole

Anna swung the shovel again, hard, and this time Johann went down to stay. He fell neatly into the ditch, all limbs inside. Anna thought grimly that it was the first time he had ever done anything perfectly in his life. She talked to Johann as she began to rapidly backfill the ditch. “You know you couldn’t come back. It’s not only that it’s against God’s law, but they would just hang you again, and I’m not going through that twice.” She worked hard for almost an hour, then as the eastern sky began to lighten she smoothed the dirt and put her shovel away. She knelt to pray briefly just as the morning bells began to ring in the church tower. Then she stood, dusted off her skirt and headed inside to wash up and get ready for the day.

December 2012• bohemia • 17

***

Arch, Vault, and Buttress Exploring Gothic Architecture

by Gary Lee Webb

hurches used to be large fortress style buildings, but at the beginning of the 12th Century something wonderful happened. Abbot Sugar, a friend of Kings Louis VI and VII of France, received royal permission to rebuild the Church of St. Denis. His masons used the best engineering techniques of the time, and Gothic architecture was born. Churches (and other buildings) became light and airy, designed to draw the parishioners attention up, towards heaven. Gothic architecture is a style of architecture that flourished in Europe from the 12th through 16th centuries. It was revived in the mid-18th Century in England and has often been used since. Gothic architecture pretty much got its start when Abbot Sugar decided to rebuild the Church of St. Denis in 1137. His work was considered a major improvement and was widely copied and improved on. His masons used the pointed arch, the ribbed vault, and flying buttresses to great effect, and these became the defining features of Gothic architecture. The Gothic style emphasizes verticality and light, and the castle-like churches of the early Middle Ages were replaced by the new uplifting churches of the latter Middle Ages. Gothic architecture can also be used for buildings other than churches, as demonstrated by a town hall in Wroclaw, Poland. Gothic architecture has been used in many castles, palaces, town halls, guild halls, universities, and private dwellings. The pointed arch is often repeated in a single opening to provide a layered effect, drawing the eye upward (drawing the eye heavenward is a recurrent theme in Gothic

18 • bohemia • December 2012

architecture) . This is called “blind arcading” and is very common. Doorways, windows, arcades and galleries all have pointed arches in Gothic buildings. Gothic vaulting above spaces both large and small is usually supported by richly moulded ribs. In addition, the doorways, windows, and other arcaded openings in a Gothic structure are often augmented by side statuary and other ornamentation, as seen in this Italian church door. The feature most obvious in Gothic churches is their extreme height, both exterior and interior. Until recent times, it was the church which soared above a city. The highest spire in England was the Salisbury Cathedral, with a single enormous tower capping the crossing of the nave (the long aisle from the entrance to the altar) and the transept (a crossing-aisle, forming a cross). The highest spire in the world is the Ulm Minster, at 520’ tall. On the other hand, French and Spanish churches generally have two towers, as exemplified by Notre Dame. Who does not know about Notre Dame in Paris ? It is a beautiful example, and you do not have to be a hunchback to appreciate it. As previously mentioned, the interior heights are also extreme. In England, the height was often double the width of the room. The Cologne Cathedral has the highest ratio, the height of the vault is 3.6 times the width of the room. The

Church Door in Florence, Italy. Photo courtesy of Patricia Quick.

highest vault was in Beauvais Cathedral: the ceiling soars 157 feet above the congregation. The high ceilings above the rooms were supported by ribbed vaults, providing strength without adding much weight. The use of ribbing also allowed tall windows, providing both verticality and light. Another new technique which kept Gothic buildings from looking like fortresses was the use of flying buttresses. A flying buttress is a second wall (or pieces of wall) separate from the main wall, allowing two thin walls instead of one thick wall. This permits light to pass easily through windows. The flying buttress has two key components: a massive vertical masonry block separate from the primary building (the buttress) and one or more arches bridging the gap between building and buttress. During the mediaeval period it was typical to use two arches to support the building wall: one half-way up to relieve stress in the middle and one

near the top to help bear the load of the ceiling. A modern example of a flying buttress is the Washington National Cathedral. During the Gothic period, a number of the world’s greatest church buildings were built. One of the most impressive is not even a cathedral. The Ulm Minster is only a Lutheran church; Ulm never had their own bishop. Yet it was one of the longest to build, and remains the world’s tallest church. The foundation stone was laid in 1377; it was finally completed in May 1890. At that point, it was no longer the world’s tallest structure (the Washington Monument and

Eiffel Tower had already been finished). For eleven years, it did hold the record as the tallest building. As technology improved, Gothic architecture was eventually replaced by neo-classical Renaissance architecture in the 16th century and the more experimental Baroque architecture in the 17th century. It was not even until the latter period, that the term “Gothic” began to be used. Prior to the Baroque period, it was simply known as “Frankish”. The term “Gothic” was used as a pejorative to suggest the superiority of the new Baroque architecture. But that did not last, and since the 19th century a number of new buildings have been built as Gothic. ***

Interior of the Cologne Cathedral. Photo by Thomas Robbin.

ART FORUM OF WACO

Lease our galleries for parties, events, conferences, and meetings. Select studios available for lease

1826 Morrow Waco, Texas 76708 Cell: 254-227-9953 Office: 254-235-1875 Open Tuesday-Saturday 9:30am – 6 pm December 2012• bohemia • 19

Sons of Grigori, support the intermingling of man and angel, a movement in opposition to God. You are ugly and dark and much too human. You counter, reinforming her of her blind faith in a system long empty of meaning. That the time is now to move forward, into a future God certainly had planned before the universe’s birth. She steps towards you, fists gripped tight by her sides, spit flying from her pale lips; you step towards her, reach out and grab her arms to shake some sense of reality into her narrow perceptions. And then the universe tilts—that must have been it—because both of you take one more step and your chests bump and your lips crush together. Your mind blanks, though you’re certain in some hidden portion of your brain that you should pull away, stop this ridiculous act, but you ignore it and realize the universe at this angle isn’t quite so black and white… And that hate has lost its sense of rightness. ~~~

Infallible Universe Order

by Meridian MacLellan Illustration by Bethany Sellers

ou hate Mejit. You hate her seraphim lineage, her destiny, her smug arrogance and that accursed white-blond hair. You hate that she never receives her due reprimand; everyone surrenders to her smallest desire. You hate her mentor, the Augur Uriel—long missing on his voyage to re-find God. This angel, who is fated to restart the cycle again, you hate her. 20 • bohemia • December 2012

You find a certain sense of rightness in that hate; the order of the universe is infallible. ~~~ And, as fits with infallible universal order, all moments of significance in your life begin with an argument. Her words beat against you: empty, hollow noise. You’re unfair and favor the

Mejit comes to you nightly, hidden behind curtains drawn against the night’s stars like watchful judges. You think she might be afraid of the world, afraid of a destiny that consumed her future and destroyed her choices. She is warm and smooth and you can’t help but caress and taste and worship. Devotion to the absent God never brought such joy. She never speaks to you of the future, only murmurs prayers and promises against your own wanting flesh—soft, sweet dreams of eternity that you know she has no power to pledge. Her skin is flawless and shows none of the scars you know she’s suffered as the daughter of a discordant prophecy. Those she keeps close, hidden away, internal and imprinted on her soul. You map them in the night, as if you could find a way to unlock her sorrow and help it evaporate away. Together you sleep. Some nights you’re pulled from your slumber by

muffled sobs. Her sobs. And you hear her murmur about the horror and the solitude and her utter hopelessness. Of her duty to champion this relentless war. You hold her tighter and kiss away her tears. Promises, she whispers, I want to give you promises. Only later, years later, when you have time to consider her every sigh and moan and gasp and have grown weary of your own self-hatred, do you realize she escaped in you. ~~~ The skies are no longer blue. Obscuring smoke and anger smother the battlefield as you watch the fires spread. The champion for the seraphim and that of the grigori burn and spark and are consumed by their desire to finish this ultimate, deadly act. You watch as Mejit, Michael’s Sword of Light held defiantly above her head, rains her holy spirit upon her adversary. It rips through the grigori like a monstrous beast, implanted and now seeking birth through blood and pain. The grigori falls. You gasp. She has won. And you continue to watch as moments later, mere seconds, Mejit glances over her shoulder, clad in red velvet, and her gaze meets yours, its intensity unnerving. She’s oblivious to the grigori’s final, desperate act before the champion’s body paints the field. Mejit only smiles at you. It’s small and full of sorrow, and she neglects to notice the grigori’s fading spirit raging for her, eager to feast on her bones. And then she too falls. You can never shrug off the feeling that that single moment of unawareness was so careless, it must have been planned. ~~~ You are by her side, holding her, gripping her as she bleeds blood and spirit onto her red velvet, into the churned

earth. Her eyes glassy, her body still, you wail into the wicked night as the flames burn higher, charring away the softer portions of your soul. In the distance, the seraphim cheer. ~~~ Muted. Your days become muted. Years pass and pass and slip through your tenuous being. The universe crawls forth from natal waters; a new God is born. It is a struggle to care. Of your part, you have nothing but memories, ghosts and empty moments to remind you that you had once lived… had once loved. Snapshots of another life. A grigori like you can find love only once, and your time has come and passed on silent wings, almost without notice, and now its absence leaves a hole in you that threatens to bleed you dry. With the perpetual rising of the moon, fuller and fuller each night only to pass into nothingness, you question, Was it all worth it? ~~~ Some human, supposedly wise, had said that time heals all wounds. That human lied. Time is a curse, near eternal in this emerging dawn. It does nothing for that hollow place within you. It does nothing for the fog and haze that surround your every waking moment, nor does it protect you from her dancing grins and light that haunt your dreams. Liars. They are all liars. ~~~ The ephemeral years, empty years, are nothing. Wishes and fading dreams. Now you lay in final respite, the chapel humming with the murmur of seraphim and grigori alike, standing vigil as your ancient, failing body breathes its last. Who they are… it doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s nearly over and you can finally rest. Finally end this farce of a life you’ve been slugging through since the day she

pierced the veil. And as you look up into the faces of the children of God, you see a flash of white-blond. Your heart beats strongly for a moment. Another flash of moon paleness and you finally see her. Mejit. Mejit. So young, so vibrant, camouflaged amongst the old and sorrowful. Standing in the crowd, she waits for you. Her eyes bright with a shadow of a smile ghosting across those soft lips. She lingers amidst the mourners, and why they aren’t staring at her instead of you, you can’t be sure. Wearing the same red gown, she looks not a day older than when you held her in your arms as her life drained away. She looks at you, her features soft, her hair a curtain around her face, and those eyes, they burn with something alive, and you smile. Mejit, you say, your voice cracking with disuse, parched with age and regret. She still smiles, softly, kindly, and a tear slowly slides down your wrinkled cheek, sliding over history and dusty memories and leaving all behind with your forgotten past. Her lips move, as if in slow motion. The gathering’s murmurs block out any noise she might have made, yet you still understand her words. I miss you. I’ve waited. And you realize, perhaps time isn’t your enemy. Time has not touched her. You wonder at how she waited for you, all these endless years of an angel, and now stands at the edge of the crowd. Still waiting. One breath. You sigh. Another, and slowly your chest stops rising. Your heart ceases beating. Time stops, freezing the moment like a snapshot. And all is silent.

*** December 2012• bohemia • 21

THE MAN IN THE MOON by Steve De France

I stand looking into nothing. I don’t know why or for what reason but I suddenly recall a childhood memory---a dream, or perhaps both.

I am watching the moon when I bump into a man with just a mouth I can’t be sure---maybe it is now a dream. in the middle of his face. This mouth---grins---and asks for a light. A dream of such pure white snow it clings like a freezing shroud Is this some kind of a joke? I ask. to the windward side of a young girl’s face. He twists and opens his ancient mouth into the shape of a waiting grave. Passing me on the street she smiles so sweet a smile---its memory & sweetness has lasted all of my days. “Have you a light?” the mouth demands. My hand, under a broken street lamp, trembles & the flame—ethereal---surges. Just before everything goes dark something funny happens to the moon. It tilts at a crazy angle as the universe pours through a rip in the sky.

22 • bohemia • December 2012

From left to right: Joseph Mabbitt, Autumn Mercy Rapson, and Paul Mabbitt

hell

by Larissa Nash

In a past life, I might have been Nancy, but I fear I am Sylvia. We ghosts string together cries for help—a jasmine tiara, early-white and heavy, never moon-innocent, as daisies. Look at us; no, don’t. What can I do to catch your attention? I fear the oven; I know how she felt—the heat and hiss of gas; the lull of faraway waves. I worry about the cat. I open and close the oven door, but she is not trapped. I am.

December 2012• bohemia • 23

Photos by Karen Johnson

The Basilica du Sacre Coeur de Montmartre. The Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Jesus of Paris. — at Sacre-coeur a Montmartre.

The Awakening

by Gary Lee Webb

omething had changed. Where was he? Who was he? He knew he was flying over a dark, barren, rocky expanse, only lit by the occasional jet of sulfurous flame. Sulfur … he knew the hot air reeked of sulfur and brimstone, even though he seemed to have no nose, no body. Just a disembodied spirit, trapped in a ferocious dry gale, surrounded by the screams and moans … moans not of the wind but of the damned. Why was he now aware? He vaguely remembered screaming his name, over and over, trying desperately to 24 • bohemia • December 2012

Saint Gatien’s Cathedral (1170-1547). The flying buttress is a defining feature of Gothic architecture. The strength they offered made the walls of stained glass possible. — in Tours, Centre.

hold onto his name, to remember his name, until he forgot it. Could he remember it now? No, try as he might, he could not remember even one sound of his name. Gehenna had eaten it all. Gehenna? He somehow knew that “Gehenna” was the name of this place. You would think that with all of the spirits screaming their names, this dark sulfurous desert would be called Pandemonium, but apparently it was not. It was Gehenna, but how he knew that he knew not. Pandemonium. Perhaps that was a joke. Humor was important for sanity, he knew. Funny? Probably not. What do you want from a newly awakened dead guy? Funny could come later.

A sudden jet of fire ahead: it would be searing! Could he avoid it? He threw his will to the right. Somehow he shifted direction. He was gaining control, even though that made no sense for a disembodied spirit. Why should it be hard to turn? Yet it was! He practiced dodging the fires. Why should he care? He had no body to burn. Yet when he got too close to the fires, they did burn. Avoid the fires. He began to see the devils, waiting with their pitchforks. A spirit would get too close, blown into range by the Gehenna wind, and the fork would plunge in. The devil would hurl the hapless soul towards a nearby fire. He remembered … yes, he remembered how those tines would hurt.

could finally see the garish rocks, orange and puce, maroon streaked with the brown of old blood, or umber splattered with something ochre. Worse, he could see the red-brown devils being ripped asunder by the variegated demons trying to press forward. All to reach …

Photos by Karen Johnson

Gargoyle at Tours cathedral. Dogs, a common native, symbolize loyalty and faithfulness. The practical use was to divert water away from the mortar. — at Cathédrale Saint-Gatien de Tours. One more torment for the damned. He decided to rise, get a better vanAvoid the devils as well ! tage point. Here and there, he could see ruined gigantic, grotesque, gothic Why was he becoming aware? He monuments. Fortunately the demons still did not know, but as his vision were not headed for a structure, but improved, he could see masses of towards a distant glow. demons. They seemed to be headed, more or less, in one direction. Why? It seemed an eternity, but eventually Curiousity filled him. He resolved the horde of demons were packed in, to look. It was good to have a pur- shoving, clawing, biting, and pumpose, again. Something better than meling each other, trying to advance aimlessly wandering over this barren forward. The spirit was glad he was plane of stone and fire. He turned not in that brawl; although, now and to follow the seething mass of mis- then he needed to dodge aside, as shapen creatures, which he somehow winged demons raced past him. Forknew to be demons. They stank even tunately, they seemed too intent on worse than the fire and brimstone, a their goal to notice him. smell combining the worst of rotten meat, fresh offal, and the stench of a Ahead, he could see a blinding white recently abandoned hen house after light, illuminating the horrific nature the eggs have exploded. of this land and its inhabitants. He

The cacophony of battle reached his ears, long before he could see it. He flew higher to get a better vantage point. Doing so, he could finally see the defenders. Angels -- angels here in Gehenna, forming a circle around the rift. Now that he was no longer trying to stare through the blinding rift, he could that there were more angels coming through the rift, bodies blindingly white. They had silver-bladed swords and were standing wing-tip to wing-tip, slicing at the demons hurling themselves toward the ring of angels. Inside the ring, he could see larger angels, six wings instead of two. Somehow he knew that they were seraphs … no, seraphim. The seraphim were directing the angels who came through the rift to this or that point in the ring that appeared weakest. The seraphim were not shouting their orders, but singing them, with voices which somehow wondrously cut through the screams and growls of the demonic horde. Occasionally, a demon would get a grasp on an angelic leg or arm and pull one of the defenders out of position before the angels managed to slice the demon to ribbons, and then the hapless angel would be pulled deeper and deeper into the mob to be torn to bits. But for the most part, the armed angels seemed to be winning: the demons were only using their claws and teeth and simply seemed intent on overwhelming by sheer weight of numbers. Occasionally a seraph would fly up to deal with a flying demon, but most of the horde seemed to be walking, crawling, or slithering on the ground. In short, the angels were holding their ground. Sometimes, they even gained: the demon grabbing the hapless angel would somehow stumble before he could back off with his December 2012• bohemia • 25

Photos, this page: Avery Jackson

prize, and the angelic line would advance over the demon’s body and cover the retreat of the one who had been grabbed. So little by little, the circle grew. Why were the hosts of Heaven here? He did not know, but perhaps he could help. He had already done many things a disembodied spirit should not be able to do; it was worth a try. He moved a little higher, slowly orbiting around the circle of angels, watching the battle below. The singing cheered him, not that he could understand it. It even seemed to be smelling better. Was that incense? Soon his chance came. A demon had grabbed an angel … he would not let Evil win. He dive-bombed the demon’s back with all of his will, driving the demon forward. The demon stumbled forward, letting go of his prize, and angelic blades flashed all around the spirit, slicing the demon to ribbons. A seraph grabbed him and threw him 26 • bohemia • December 2012

through the rift. The spirit realized that each time a demon had stumbled, it was because a spirit like him had picked Good over Evil. He still did not know why he had awakened, but this he knew: God had forgiven him; he would trust in the Lord; do whatever it took to redeem himself. Passing through, it was dark, but there was light ahead. He had seen the light. The Path might be long, but he would walk every step and REACH the light. He could feel the walls contracting, pushing him along. He reached the air, was grabbed and slapped, and cried his first breath. He was truly born again. He would be a force for Good. ***

This page: Avery Jackson

Photo by Pat Jones December 2012• bohemia • 27

Boho Threads

Angels in Eyeliner

Left: Brenda Flores, Right: Avery Jackson 28 • bohemia • December 2012

Photo by Pat Jones

UNE SAISON EN ENFER by Timothy McLafferty

It’s been six months and just now I came upon our photo in my copy of A Season in Hell Imagine that.

Photo by Pat Jones This page: Serena Teakell

December 2012• bohemia • 29

Time Is Love by Avery Jackson

CAT baseball cap was always worn a little crooked on top of his curly hair, and was getting older by the week. He now had a girlfriend that worked here, drawing in him in for the “Texas Breakfast” before he went to his job at the local hardware store at 9 in the morning. He always left a $20 tip on the table with a kiss on his girlfriend’s cheek before walking past the little blonde. He never saw the girl. The only person who ever did was the drunk who came to the diner at ungodly hours of the night. His heart was good; it showed in the way he would save her half a stack of pancakes with warm syrup, or a nibbledon burger. He would give her the food with an offer to come home and live with him and be his little girl. He would sometimes get teary eyed as he stared at the blonde, wondering why she looked like the daughter he lost ten years back. As tempting as his offer sounded, her place was where she sat, outside the diner.

Illustration by Aubrey Carroll

he had been peering through the smudged window, that cold January day, studying the customers inside. She could tell you almost anything about them, even if they couldn’t tell you if she even existed. She was familiar with the old man who would come in around three or four a.m., after most of the bars closed. She knew the names of the six grandchildren a woman brought in most Wednesday nights for ice cream shakes, all with extra cherries. The diner workers themselves, even though they didn’t know her either, felt like her own family; she was invested in their lives. The girl found herself staring into 30 • bohemia • December 2012

her own reflection on a slick patch of ice; She was an 8-year-old girl, with dingy blonde hair. Her most striking feature was her eyes; they were billowing gray swirls, the exact shade and texture of a storm cloud. Those eyes took in the people’s silent affairs with an all-knowing sight. She would sit outside the 24-hour diner on Main St, every day, despite the weather. She pulled out a gold stopwatch from the 17th century, a gift from someone she had loved. It was almost time to see her favorite person who came by once or twice a week, usually on Saturday mornings. He was 18 and she had seen him come through the diner door for five years now. His signature

Sometimes she would sit next to the trashcans in the alley, petting the strays that wandered by. But usually, she would stay off to the side of the stairs that led to the diner door. She would pretend she was a statue, protecting the people who came inside the restaurant from any evil. She did, but they never saw her, but it made no difference to her. She would do her job, thanks or no thanks. It was almost time for “her boy,” as she called the 18 year old, to come in for breakfast. He would sit in the booth next to the big window overlooking the busy street. It was almost time for him to actually see her, and then she would move on to the next place that needed her. It would be hard, but she would see everyone again eventually. It was starting to drizzle lightly, and an ominous breeze was making everything chillier. She pulled her threadbare jacket a little snugger around her boney frame, and winced as the smell of putrid garbage reached her nose. She watched the easy lope of her boy as he passed the old drunk staggering out the door. The drunk

had fallen asleep for the past five hours sitting at his table, and now, after he realized where he was, was trying to get to his car quickly. She turned her eyes to her boy making his way to his regular booth, take off his cap, and smile at his girl friend. As if on schedule, she turned her head in time to watch the drunk’s car barrel straight towards the diner’s window, and consequently her boy’s head. She knew what had happened. Not fully awake, the old drunk pulled out into the wrong lane of traffic. Overcorrecting, however, made him loose control on the slippery road. The car was careening towards the diner’s front window. She pulled out her watch. It was ten after nine. Everything was on schedule. As if in slow motion, she stood up, ran for the front door, and made her way to her boy’s booth. As she grabbed him and tossed him out of the booth, the splintering of glass caused the room of people to scream as they scattered away from the front

of the diner. The car’s headlights were focused like police flashlights, pointing at a crime scene. The little blond girl was laying on the ground under the front left tire; it was right where her boy had been sitting. He was sprawled across the floor shocked at the recent turn of events. Panic was in his eyes, but he shook it off instantly as the smell of burning rubber and gasoline his senses. With a burst of adrenaline he crawled across the diner floor to the girls side. Her stormy eyes were closing; her mouth had blood dribbling out of it yet she was smiling. He gently cradled her head in his lap, and watched her unclench her fist. The gold watch was intact. Her mind went back to the person who gave it to her. It was a similar situation, not unlike the one she was in now. He had placed it in her hand as she closed her eyes and slipped away. Now, she needed to give it to her boy. He didn’t understand what was going on, but the warm metal felt com-

forting in the hand she placed it in. He saw his cap close to her shoulder. He didn’t know how else to stop the blood pouring out of her scalp, so he placed it over the wound, bent down, and kissed her forehead, salty tears mixing with bitter blood. Knowing her work was done, she let go.

Five months later, news of what happened at the diner had been long forgotten to everyone but the boy. He now saw everything, everyone. He wondered what their stories were. After the old drunk who wrecked the car told him who the little girl was, the boy began to feel ashamed he never saw her. He could still smell the smoke and taste her tears. Outside of a grocery store, three hours and two cities away from the diner the boy nearly died in, an old man with stormy eyes sits in a worn lawn chair, wearing a CAT baseball cap with a rust colored stain. Not many people see him. And that was OK by him; it wasn’t their time. ***

December 2012• bohemia • 31

Inside Out>Aubrey Carroll

Mixed media artist Aubrey Carroll is 22 years old and lives in Temple, Texas. She graduated with a BFA in Studio Art from the University of Mary Hardin Baylor. Her focus was primarily on printmaking and painting. For her, photography started out as a hobby, but as she continued to take pictures-she learned how to combine it with her printmaking and painting skills in order to make mixed media creations such as the two featured above. She is ispired by things like the day of the dead, zombies, old horror movies, and her overall obsession with Halloween. She likes creepy things, but making them into something that is either strangely beautiful or completely tongue-in-cheek. She lists her accomplishments 32 â&#x20AC;˘ bohemia â&#x20AC;˘ December 2012

as-- graduating, participating in Inkslinger's and other printmaking events which include traveling to NYC, New Orleans, and Corpus Cristi, and several solo shows at local coffee shops and a wine bar (J Kowboy).

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” “All right,” I said. “It goes, ‘Great is the Lord Satan. I live to serve him and to glorify his name, to grow his flock and see it flourish.” She clapped her hands and hooted. “That’s so funny,” she said. “Ours is pretty much exactly the same. Except for, you know.” “Right,” I said. We sat and watched the door to the dry cleaners for a while.

Quota

Photos on page by Charli McDonald

by Adam Black

he passed the joint back to me and said, “You know, you’re not really that bad a guy.” We were sitting under the Twelfth Avenue bridge, waiting for Tony to come out. He was in-side, picking up his dry cleaning. “That’s what I keep saying,” I said. “The whole duality thing is a total fabrication. It’s a con-struct. All we are is numbers to them. You’re a quota, I’m a quota. But what are the sides? They’re just two special interests. Good and bad don’t have much to do with it.”

“No,” she said. “They do.” I passed back what was left. “No kidding. They absolutely do. Every morning.” “That’s so funny,” she said. “How does yours go?” “I can’t,” I said. “Besides, it’s kind of embarrassing.”

“So how are you doing?” I said. “I mean, you know, this month’s numbers and all that. If you don’t mind my asking.” “No, no,” she said, “it’s fine.” She thought about it for a minute. “I’m a little bit behind,” she said, finally. “Things have slowed down a little bit. Anytime there’s nothing really going on, no wars or disasters or anything, it’s slow. I’m not to worried, though. After I get Tony I’ll be back on schedule.” I laughed. “Pretty confident, aren’t you?”

She was nodding. “You’re right,” she said. “You’re right, you’re right.” She scowled, then she laughed. “I have to admit that the whole thing does seem a little overdramatic, when you think about it. You know that they have us repeat the mission statement, every morning after briefings? Like, as a group. It’s embarrassing.” I was holding in a lungful of smoke. I laughed and let it out. “They have us do the same thing,” I said. December 2012• bohemia • 33

“Tony?” she said. “Forget about it. He went to see Father Dave today. He took communion and everything. He’s practically signed up. If I were you, I would just chalk this one up as a loss and move on.” “He went to see Father Dave?” I said. I took another hit and then let her finish what was left of the roach. “Shit, man,” I said. “Where was I?” “Yeah,” she said, toeing the butt into the sidewalk. “I noticed you weren’t there. Weren’t do-ing your ‘devil-onthe-shoulder’ thing.”

I are on different sides of this thing, on the day-to-day, life-on-the-street level, you and I are pretty much exactly alike. We’re two sides of the same coin, maybe, but we’re still on the same coin.” “I get what you’re saying,” she said. “You have a point.” Neither of us said anything for a while. We watched the dry cleaners, looking for Tony. “You know,” I said. But then I didn’t say what I was going to say. “What?” she said.

I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s stupid.” “What?” she said. “I guess I wanted you to have him,” I said. “I don’t know. Just because, I guess because it doesn’t really matter to me anymore, and I knew you were down on your quota, and I just figured, you know, what the hell.” “You did that?” she said. “Sure,” I said. “Think of it as professional courtesy, or something. A little gesture between nemeses.” Then I looked around and said, “Listen, don’t tell anyone, ok? If word gets out that I threw one it would be really bad for me.”

I shrugged. “I’ve been kinda phoning it in lately, if you want to know the truth,” I said. I thought about it for a minute. “It’s like I was saying before,” I said. “They keep talking about these sides. Your team, my team. It just doesn’t feel like it matters anymore. When I first started, I really cared about doing a great job. I mean I really cared. I was super enthusiastic about the whole thing. Our team’s great! Their team sucks! Rah rah rah!” I shurgged. “Nowadays, shit. I don’t know what happened.”

“Ah,” I said, “never mind. Forget it.”

I thought about it, then I said, “I was going to say, You know all of these money problems Tony’s got? This stuff with his ex-wife and all that? Well, I was going to have his buddy Nick tell him that on the last Friday of every month Mr. Delaney gets a whole bunch of cash out of the bank to pay everybody. I was going to try to get him to rob the dry cleaners.”

“Of course,” she said. “Of course I won’t.” She looked at me for a minute. Then she said. “Listen, I know it’s kind of, I don’t know, awkward or something, but I’m probably going to have this Tony thing wrapped up by midnight. Do you want to maybe, I don’t know, get some food or something?”

She thought about it. “You get older,” she said. “You get used to it, or something. Routine sets in. You stop feeling like you’re really making a difference. I know what you mean. Some days it’s hard to feel like there’s - I don’t know - a point to all this running around. People are going to do what people are going to do, regardless.”

She thought about it for a second. “Oh wow,” she said, finally. Then she laughed. “Wow,” she said again, “That is really low. I mean really low. Mr. Delaney? He’s had that place open for like forty years! Tony’s known him since he was a kid! Geez. That. Wow.”

That’s when the door to the dry cleaners burst open, and Tony came running out. Mr. Delaney was right behind him, yelling for someone to call the police. I watched Angela’s expres-sion change as it registered, what was going on. It was just as good as the first time.

“And this is exactly what I’m talking about,” I said. “It’s not all sweetness and light or brim-stone and hellfire. They try and make it out to be this epic struggle, you know, talking about the coming battle and building the army and all that. But realistically, day to day, what is it? I’m a case worker, and so are you. You and 34 • bohemia • December 2012

“What?” she said again. “What were you going to say?”

“I know,” I said. “I know. You don’t have to tell me. I know it’s despicable. Anyway I didn’t do it.” “Well it doesn’t make any difference,” she said, shaking her head. “Tony would never do it. Never in a million years. I already told you. Tony’s in the bag.” She thought about it for a mi-nute. She said, “Wait, why didn’t you do it?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’d love that.”

“God damn it,” she said. She looked back at me, and every trace of the invitation, the sweetness and light was gone. She got up and started after him. “I take it back,” she called, over her shoulder as she ran, “you’re a fucking asshole.” “I know,” I said.

***

Photo editorial by Cynthia Wheeler

SWAN LAKE/ BONNEVILLE by Miriam Sagan

wild black ducks sleep on their own reflections floating on the flooded salt flats the same in the city duck pond with gleaming mallards white geese and an intrusion of a line of black-necked Canadian geese dropping from a V in the sky the prima ballerina photographed as dawn fills the great basin stiff tutu and unbound hair arms twisted up she dances Swan Lake.

Pgs 35-39 Cynthia Wheeler Photography featuring Thomas Miller and Brittney Pratt, Hair & Makeup Brittney Pratt December 2012â&#x20AC;˘ bohemia â&#x20AC;˘ 35

Photography by Cynthia Wheeler

In Search of Silence INJUSTICE

by Brenda Bradley

A blue jay, his wings more vivid than the azure sky, flies freely to settle on a branch in my backyard. Another bird lands on the driveway and is snatched by the neighbor’s cat. A little boy with wind-burned face and tousled curls runs recklessly around the pool and dives bravely from the board. Another child wanders to the pool’s edge, unnoticed, and is swallowed by the hungry water. A father spends Saturday morning washing his car in the yard, anticipating the boat ride he’ll take with his family that afternoon. Another man ends up in the emergency room on his way home from work – six months later, his family sells the boat and relocates. A co-worker took her life today as unexpectedly, unfairly, as yours was taken. Life reminds me of the unfairness of death. Death reminds me of the injustice of life. 36 • bohemia • December 2012

by Chris Roe

Beyond the storm, Where blue sky Still cradles The morning sun.

In the clearing, Where shafts of light Hold back the shadows Of the ancient wood. Beyond conflict and pain And the inhumanity of man. Beyond duty And this journey That has seemed so long. Beyond the history That has brought me To this sacred place, This spiritual sanctuary. This peace, This silence, This love.

Saving Grace

by Taylor Rexrode

remember standing at Mama’s legs as I watched Great Aunt Gracie’s casket lower into the ground, all those years ago. Nuns whispered prayers all around me, drowning out the words of the somber priest. I felt every prayer touch my skin like the light kiss of raindrops. Mama’s prayers collected in her eyes and overflowed onto her scratchy black sweater. It was not the first time I saw my mother cry. I’m still not sure why everyone cried since nuns usually know where they are going when their bodies die. A pecan tree with dull golden leaves towered over us but it cast no shadow on that cloudy day. Even the sky wore black for the occasion. The churchyard, a gray barren hillside dotted with unadorned crosses, rested in the corner of the convent Aunt Gracie founded years ago. They called her Mother John Marie. Aunt Gracie’s casket made a soft thud as it touched the bottom of the dark hole. The priest asked everyone to close their eyes and bow their heads. I saw that as my opportunity to escape.

I remember looking up at the church. I stood arrested in front of a stained glass crucified Jesus. He stared down on me; his unblinking gaze peered into my ten-year-old soul where my secrets lay unguarded. I turned around and walked down the gravel path. I passed several white crosses with names crudely etched on them, but I didn’t stop to read their names. Instead I paused at the edge of the cemetery, high above the town. From where I stood, I saw other rolling hills warp the horizon, all covered in autumn trees with the occasional home spouting white smoke.

He wiped his nose on his sleeve, saying nothing, and looked up at me. I walked carefully down the hill, leaves crunching beneath my shiny black shoes. I got closer and realized his pale skin was dotted with freckles and his eyes were as blue as a summer sky. “Can ya talk?” I said. He nodded his head slowly. “What’s your name?” “Sam,” he sighed, lifting his face out of his hands to look at me.

I heard a muffled cry break through the silence. I looked down the hill and saw a boy on the other side of the wrought-iron fence. He sat cross-legged and slumped over with his pale face in his hands. Tufts of brown hair stuck out from under his red baseball cap and patches of dirt showed on the cuffs and elbows of his white sweatshirt. The crude mound of dirt and feeble handmade cross in front of him made me believe that he had lost someone too.

I waited for him to ask me my name since it was the only polite thing to do, but he looked back down at the dirt mound in front of him. It dawned on me that I would have to help him carry a conversation.

“Whatcha cryin for?” I called down to him.

“I didn’t even know her so I guess I’m not all that sad,” I said. I pointed

“My name is Grace,” I said. “My Great Aunt Gracie just died. I was named after her. She’s getting buried right now.” He shrugged.

December 2012• bohemia • 37

down at the makeshift grave. “Who died?” “A baby bird,” he whispered. “He had a broken wing but I couldn’t fix him or keep him warm enough. So he just died.” I plopped down next to Sam, smoothing my black skirt. His bloodshot eyes glistened. “I guess he wanted to go and fly with the angels,” he said. “I’m sure he is flying all through birdie heaven,” I said, patting him on the back. I noticed a tiny white daisy sprung out from under my dress shoes. I plucked it out of the grass and gently placed it on the fresh grave. Sam looked at me and smiled. I like to think that is that brief moment Sam and I became friends. The church bell rang out, signaling us to say our goodbyes until tomorrow. We agreed to meet at the swing set across from the churchyard so that I could bring more flowers for his bird. I didn’t even get to tell Mama about meeting Sam. The thick silence on the drive home lasted an eternity even though we only lived two blocks away. Her white fingers tight38 • bohemia • December 2012

ly gripped the steering wheel and I could see in the rearview mirror that her thin lips had receded into her mouth. Inside the house, Daddy sat in his tattered leather recliner, yelling at a boxing match on TV. A haphazard collection of crumpled empty beer cans lay out on the coffee table. I walked past him and reached the staircase leading up to my bedroom. “Audrey, I told you to make sure she takes her shoes off before she comes in the house,” he said. “Now there’s mud all over the floor.” “Grace, please take your shoes off and go upstairs. Don’t worry, Cole, I’ll clean it up. How many beers have you had to drink today?“

closed and grabbed a pillow on my bed. Before I could cover my ears, I heard the shrill sound of glass breaking downstairs and a heavy thud. I pinched my eyes shut and grit my teeth, hoping that the soft whirring of the ceiling fan would lull me to sleep. “I brought you flowers from Mama’s garden,” I said, pulling my backpack off my shoulder. I pulled out a couple wilting white roses. “But they got squished in my backpack. But I don’t think your dead bird will mind.” “You weren’t here yesterday,” Sam said, slouching in his swing, toes barely touching the gravel.

“Since when do you care?”

“I had to stay home with Mama.” I looked down at the tiny rocks between my toes. A roly-poly bug crawled up to my tennis shoe.

“Grace, go upstairs, honey.”

“Why did you have to stay home?”

“She can stay downstairs all she wants as long as she takes off her damn shoes!”

“I just had to. Why do you ask so many questions?”

The words drowned out as I ran away from the loud voices and up the stairs. I pushed my bedroom door

“I dunno. I guess I just want to know things.” “Well, it’s none of your business.”

We sat in silence, feebly swaying on the creaking swing set. Sam began talking about something or another, but all I could think about was Mama’s face in the car ride home and Daddy and my dress shoes. If I had only taken them off at the door like I was supposed to every night, Mama and Daddy wouldn’t have been so angry at each other. My heart sunk down deep in my chest. I pushed the swing higher and higher, feeling the cold air rush across my face. I wanted to swing so high and so fast that no one could catch me. I closed my eyes and pictured myself soaring above my little town where Daddy and Mama fought and baby birds died and little girls wore muddy shoes indoors. A car horn honked. It was Mama. She rolled down the window when she pulled up to the curb, calling out to me. Her right eye shined faintly purple and swollen. “Mama’s here,” I said. I scooted my

feet across the ground until the swing came to a stop in a cloud of dust.

“Everything is going to be alright, Grace.”

“I know,” said Sam, looking at me tenderly.

I turned and saw him waving at me. Before I could wave back, he was gone, leaving behind wilted white roses in the seat of his swing. I pressed my face against the window, smiling.

“See you soon, Sam,” I said, grabbing my backpack. Sam grabbed me in a tight hug. “Don’t worry, my Daddy can fix everything,” he whispered in my ear.

“Who are you waving at Grace?” Mama said.

“I told you, I don’t think the bird will mind that the flowers are all broke,” I said, walking toward the car. Sam laughed and waved at me, drooping roses in one hand.

I watched the sun set over the hill by the churchyard. The last bit of light twinkled in the eyes of stained glass Jesus, the eyes of a guardian watching over me.

When I opened the car door, I saw my pink suitcase packed. And Mama’s. I met her gaze in the rearview mirror. She looked different. Aside from her bruise, her eyes had a new sparkle, like fresh dew at sunrise and she smiled at me, a knowing smile that said everything would be okay. I climbed up into the front seat when I heard Sam’s voice behind me.

“Just a good friend of mine,” I said, buckling my seatbelt for the long road ahead. ***

December 2012• bohemia • 39

The Anniversary Dinner by Joschua Beres

old memory is not the sharpest anymore! But golly, I knew you liked me when you fed me that strawberry by hand. Remember that? How you softly teased my lips with it? So romantic! That beautiful summer day by the Comel. Yep, that’s when I knew you liked me,” her words trailed off but her smile was as wide as a crescent moon on the horizon. “The cake is just wonderful isn’t it, Edgar?” He stared at her with glass eyes. “I found these organic strawberries at the Walmart. No hormones added!” Edgar didn’t talk these days but she was always happy to fill the void. “Remember that first picnic in the park, Edgar? How wonderful that was? Gosh, that was seventy-three years ago but I remember it like it was yesterday. “And you know my ninety-one year 40 • bohemia • December 2012

She reached over and touched his hand. The years had not been good to him. His skin was dry and flaking. His hair was falling out in clumps. His shirt was soiled. Edgar had to be moved about by her. His wheel chair made it easier because her arthritis would protest her if she had to lift him. “Oh, Edgar. What have the years done to us? I can still see that summer boy with wavy brown hair and blue eyes, freckles on his nose and a washboard stomach. All my friends swooned over you. And how you used to jump onto the rope swing and cannon ball into the river? Such a show off! ”

Illustration by John Hancock

She thought back to when she was young. Her skin smooth and untouched by liver spots. When her chest was tight and firm. Defiant to gravity. Before the kids and grandkids – none of whom ever visited anymore. They chose to leave her and Edgar alone in their small, isolated country home. She knew when they would call though, a week before their birthdays or before major holidays like Christmas. Driving was getting harder for Jean and Walmart was a thirty minute drive so she always bought in bulk. Her evenings were spent with Edgar in front of the TV watching reruns of The Andy Griffith Show or I Love Lucy. Her head cradled on his shoulder. He would silently watch the TV, his hand in hers. It was a quiet life far removed from the excitement of their youth but she liked it that way because they had each other. She was humming now as she gathered up the dishes. On the wall in the kitchen hung a picture of them - he, freshly returned from the Pacific, strapping and confident in his army uniform and she in a simple homespun dress with flowers in her hair. They were standing in front of her ma and pa’s old farmhouse in Seguin. That was their golden time. Shortly before that picture was taken back in the spring of 1949 he was down on a knee proposing. That is when she knew he loved her. And they had been together ever since.

Freedom by Arthur Levine

“Sixty-nine years ago today, Edgar,” she said looking at the picture.

atching him sleep Lenore felt not so much love, as attached. She pulled the covers over “We have been through so much. Ed and kissed him lightly on the You were so gentle to me when we forehead. lost our Emilie Rose. My world was ending and you were my savior.” Ed got up shortly after midnight

to pee. Back in bed, he too felt attached, or would have, if he had “You have made me the happiest thought to put a label on it. woman in the world.” Lenore made sure Ed was covered She let the plate she was washing up at night. If the battery on her slip down into the soapy water. cell phone was low Ed recharged it She walked in her slow way back for her. When she did the clothes, to the table where Edgar was sitshe made sure he had something to ting. Her knees were getting so bad wear for work. When he shopped these days that it hurt to even lift for groceries he picked up the ceher feet sometimes. She bent down real she liked. and hugged him. But not too tightly; she had learned her lesson about In bed one night Ed pulled the .357 that years ago. She kissed him on out from under the bedside table his cheek. and emptied five of the six cartridgOn the way back to the sink she just es in the cylinder. couldn’t stop herself from grabbing a strawberry from the top of She was turned away from him, the white cream cake she had made reading about Johnny Depp in for their anniversary. She popped it “People Magazine.” in her mouth. She did not expect to trip on the edge of the dining room Ed put his hand on Lenore’s shoulcarpet as she shuffled back to the der, turned her toward him, pinned sink. The same china blue carpet her arms with his knees, spun the she had asked Edgar to tack back cylinder, held the barrel to her temdown years ago before his heart at- ple and clicked. Then he released tack. She fell to the floor choking. her arms and offered her the gun She had her arms out as if reaching but she refused it. for Edgar, her face turning as blue as the carpet; but there was nothing He hugged her and after a bit she he could do for her. He had been a hugged him back and they fell wheel chair bound corpse for years asleep. now. The next night, Lenore’s hand *** shook as he handed her the revolver Tears were welling in her eyes.

and she forced herself to hold it to his temple and pull the trigger. After that first time it was easier. They took turns. Five or six more times later nobody lost. They both called in sick the next day. It was sleeting and Ed sat in the car running the motor to get the heat to come on, while Lenore was inside packing the last few items she thought to take with her. He held the umbrella over her as they held hands on the walk to the front door of her sister’s. Before she went in she kissed him and buttoned the top button of his overcoat and that was the last they saw of each other. ***

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December 2012• bohemia • 41

Voodoo Daddies Story by Pete Able & Illustrations by Steffany Bankenbusch

of old men, I think of whisIof think kers. I think of old men, I think plaid pants, white T-shirts stained

yellow under the arms, and light blue jackets with zippers that catch on loose threads. I think of thinning, silver hair, eyes the color of slate, and the stench of old cigarettes mixed with Aqua Velva aftershave. I think of black shoes and white socks, pale skin and dirty fingernails. Amos King was an old man, and he owned all of the aforementioned qualities in full measure. I met Amos in the early summer of 1975. By August of that same year, I would wish like hell I’d never sat down for that drink.

Our watering hole in Memphis was nothing special, at least not to anyone but Amos, me, and a few other regular patrons who drowned nights away with Frankie’s elixirs. Late hours in the law firm spurred frequent drinking sessions nursing Tennessee’s finest, which in turn spurred my divorce. In June – June 14th to be precise – I stumbled into Last Chance, Frankie’s establishment, and home to a lonely old man with a penchant for George Dickel Tennessee Sippin’ Whisky. I 42 • bohemia • December 2012

sat down. “What’s your pleasure?” Frankie wiped a glass but did not look at me as he spoke. “Beam. Straight and dry.”

“Jim Beam is for little girls.”

I turned and caught my first look of Amos King. The best I can say is that the man looked alive. Barely. “That so?” “Yessir.”

He sipped his drink and wiped his hand across his mouth. It sounded like sandpaper on wood. Thick gray stubble complimented his eyes and hair. The man intrigued me, and for some odd reason I felt compelled to introduce myself. I reached over, shook his hand. It felt like fish scales. “I’m Michael.” “Amos King.”

His voice reminded me of crunching gravel.

“Frankie, give Michael here a shot of manhood.”

Frankie grabbed a nearby bottle of George Dickel and poured. I noted for the first time his glass eye and the horrific scarring that stretched to his cheekbones. I tried not to stare. In a place where anonymity often reigned, it seemed strange to hear my name spoken aloud. Other drunks and malcontents sitting at the counter and the few tables dotting the bar paid no heed to our conversation. They were lost in their own world. I couldn’t blame them. For whatever reason, tonight I needed company.

Amos didn’t say much. The few words that did pass his lips were short and direct. I learned he grew up in Memphis. Had never left, in fact. He was married once. Divorced. It had happened years ago, and whatever sorrow might have lined his voice had faded into grim resignation. He said little more about his personal life, and I said only enough to satisfactorily release a few private demons. The things we shared in common – fathers who had left home when we were young, sons whom we’d returned the favor to – these were unfortunate topics, hardly worth the breath it took to

explain. I suppose there was some small comfort in knowing I wasn’t alone in my selfishness. We deserved each other. Before the night ended, Amos had bought me a real man’s drink, and I had determined to make Last Chance a regular stop every evening. I left at 2:30 in the morning. Amos remained, sitting in the same stool, hunched over another drink, looking like he belonged in that bar as much as the yellow orb lights lining the walls. ~~~ Over the course of the next few weeks, Amos and I spent countless hours draining glasses of George Dickel and covering subjects of sports and women with all the muster two drunks could manage before fading into the usual melancholy stupor. I liked Amos. I believe Amos liked me. He gave no indication otherwise save for his “rich boy” comments on account of my being a lawyer. Truth be told, I was on the fast road to the poorhouse, but I didn’t care. Worries ceased to exist in Last Chance. Sitting on that stool next to Amos King, I ruled the world. ~~~ Still, it was an odd place. A world of misfit, bedraggled, and lost souls, each of us too far down the road of self-pity to ever think of turning back. I remember a rail-thin old man shuffling toward the bathroom. Feeling friendly, I saluted him with my glass as he walked past. The wraith stopped and stared with bloodshot eyes. “What’s your name, friend?” I asked. “Your next round’s on me.” The man opened his mouth to speak, but only managed unintelligible gurgling. I turned to Frankie, questioning. “He ain’t got no tongue.”

The gnarled figure before me opened his mouth wide, revealing a mangled red stump. “Jesus”.

~~~

“Any of you boys got a light?” The voice fell like hot wax from a

candle running onto my skin. It blistered and cooled before I had time to absorb its impact. I swiveled in my stool along with every other sexstarved man in Last Chance. Deliciously red lips framed an impossibly decadent smile. Angelic and devilish. Her hair was black as a Texas storm cloud, with waves and curls falling almost to her hips. A smooth, cream-colored dress clung to her body. More camisole than dress, it stopped mid- thigh, thin straps climbing over her shoulders, covering just enough skin to leave room for a man’s imagination. Mine was running wild. Scanning the room, I could see several patrons fumbling through their pockets for their lighters. She stopped next to Tongue-less, bent over and stroked h i s

Amos drained his whisky but said nothing. The girl approached. Barely legal, her bare feet swished against the wooden floor. I managed the impossible and looked away. I felt her hand on my shoulder. A chill. Alluring. Dangerous. It scared the hell out of me. I strained my neck to look down at my right shoulder, then up toward her stunning face, dark green eyes turned sideways toward me in impish delight. Her hand squeezed and released. Squeezed and released. She drummed her fingernails softly. They were painted red. Blood red. “Hey my lovin’ man,” she whispered.

On a Sunday night three weeks before the dark angel entered our world, I asked Amos about his divorce. Conversation had run dry, and for some reason I felt like pressing deep into his personal life. “What do you want to know?” Amos looked more tired than annoyed. “I dunno. What happened? She catch you with another woman?” It was the kind of question a drunk would ask.

chin. S h e grasped his trembling hand and kissed his cheek. “Don’t say anything,” she whispered. Straightening, she looked right at me and winked. “Amos King. Is that you my lovin’ man?” She spoke even as her eyes held me in a steady gaze. I broke free from the trance and noticed for the first time that Amos, alone among all the other men in that room, had not turned to see who owned the goddess-like voice. Small beads of sweat had formed on his forehead, and one rivulet trickled down the side of his face where it became lost in the maze of stubble. I leaned close to him. “You alright?”

“Yes.”

~~~

Her scent was intoxicating. Gardenias and some unrecognizable spice filled the air. Amos looked like he was having a stroke. “Go away,” he managed to say. Her hand left my shoulder and trailed down Amos’ back. I felt more than a little jealous. I also felt relieved. “Come with me, Amos dear.”

I didn’t get the impression this was a request. “I said go away.”

Amos motioned to Frankie to pour him another drink. Frankie stood there like a statue, eyes transfixed on the sumptuous beauty. The whole room, in fact, stood still. “Mmmm. Come with me, Amos.” She puckered out her lower lip in December 2012• bohemia • 43

mock disappointment. My animal instinct wanted to grab Amos by the collar of his jacket, twist him in his seat, and shove him out the door in the arms of this unbelievable girl. The human instinct – the one I could feel slowly retracting deep inside my soul – it wanted to step between them and tell her to back off. But I sat there silently. The girl focused her jade eyes on me. “Who’s your friend, lovin’ man?”

To his credit, Amos did not introduce us. “Frankie, I said give me another drink, damn it.”

Amos slammed his glass on the counter. Frankie snapped to and reached for a bottle of Jack Daniels. He had filled the shot halfway before realizing his mistake. Amos hesitated a moment. I thought he might turn his glass and pour its contents onto the floor. Instead, he raised it to his mouth, hands shaking, and drank. She leaned close to Amos’ ear and spoke softly, but firmly. “You’re a sick old man, and you’re gonna die in Last Chance.” She straightened, all smiles, and turned to me once more. The rest of the room seemed to retreat some distance away. “Are you my lovin’ man?” “I don’t know.”

“Don’t talk to her,” Amos said sharply. “Why don’t you come home with me tonight, voodoo daddy?” “I think I’m OK,” I said.

Mild disapproval leaked from her face. She held out her cigarette, and God help me, I lit it. The temptress blew smoke and brushed her lips against my earlobe. I felt her warm breath when she spoke. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

~~~ Last Chance remained in silent rapture for several minutes following her departure. She threw one last gaze 44 • bohemia • December 2012

my way before stepping outside. I watched the doorway for another minute, half-expecting to see her burst back inside riding a broomstick. Near the door, Tongue-less sat frozen, a puddle of urine slowly growing underneath his chair. “You can come back to earth now.” Amos interrupted the silence. “Who was that?” “It’s not important.” “She acted like she knew you.”

“She does.”

“So is she the one?”

I had trouble imagining the two of them together. Equal parts anger and longing at the thought. “Her granddaughter.” I felt instant relief. “Man. If her grandmother’s anything like…” “They’re exactly alike. from her.”

Stay away

landscape. Under his left arm, a thin, pink strand of scar tissue ran diagonally across his ribcage. It stretched toward his heart, at least four inches long. “I don’t know what she took, or if she put something inside me. I’ll never know. If you don’t want to know either, then stay away.” He pulled his shirt back down, not bothering to tuck it in, and picked up his jacket from the floor. For the first time since we began drinking together, Amos left Last Chance before me.

~~~ I stepped outside at two in the morning. A light rain fell from the darkness above, but I walked with the steady, even beat of a man who cared little for the world around him. My Jaguar waited not fifty yards from the bar. Thunder rumbled overhead, so I quickened my pace as I crossed the road. A dark sedan crawled forward along the far sidewalk, and by the time I reached the entrance to the parking lot, it had moved directly behind me.

“What happened?”

“Hey there, voodoo daddy.”

“Ain’t none of your business what happened!” he snapped. “Leave it be, Michael.”

Mystery girl parted her lips in an enticing smile through the open window. Something told me to run. I didn’t.

For some reason, it angered me that Amos referred to me by name. It was the same sort of hollow, dispassionate threat my father used to proclaim before he left. “I’ll see who I want to see.” We sat in silence for a moment. Amos set down his glass and removed his jacket. It fell to the floor, and he began to un-tuck his T-shirt. “What are you…”

“Shut up and listen. You see this?” Amos had pulled his shirt up as high as it would go without slipping his arms through the sleeves. I saw the physique of an old man. A flabby, protruding gut hung over his trousers. Curly gray hairs covered his chest. Discolored moles dotted the unsightly

“Hello.”

“You wanna be my lovin’ man?” For some reason I expected her to have a driver, for her to be riding in back like some debutante princess with a proclivity for drunk men who have lost their wits. Instead she sat drumming those red fingernails against the steering wheel, right leg propped up in the seat like a flamingo. The windshield wipers squeaked against the glass, and the awkward silence grew with each stroke. “I think you’ve got the wrong man,” I managed to say. “Oh no. I know exactly whom I’ve got, Michael.”

More thunder. The rain fell harder. I wiped water from my face, and she glanced over toward Frankie’s bar.

“Last chance.” She smiled again and began rolling up her window. I stepped off the sidewalk and practically ran around the front of her car. I slid into the leather passenger seat. We were moving before I could close the door. ~~~ “What’s your name? I asked. “You can call me Delilah.”

The things I do not remember, I no longer wish to know. I am an old man now. I sit in my stool and watch Frankie’s son fill my glass with George Dickel. Words rarely pass my lips anymore. At times, when the liquor has taken an especially strong hold of my senses, my hand will stray to my side where my fingers follow the scar once shown to me by Amos King, fellow voodoo daddy, now deceased.

The August heat this year is stifling. Tonight a young man looking pristine in his double-breasted suit has found his way to the counter in Last Chance. He looks at me, smiles, and makes his order. “Beam. Straight and dry.” ***

We rode in silence for several miles. I was tense, pinned against my seat. Delilah turned down several streets, right, then left, then right again. It wasn’t long before I had no idea where we were or how to get back to the parking lot where my Jaguar waited. Within ten minutes the road had turned to gravel and mud, and the trees grew to the edge of both sides of the path. We were near the Mississippi. “I think maybe…”

Delilah slammed on the brakes. I braced my arms against the dashboard, spraining my wrist in the process, but before I could cry out she was on top of me, straddling my waist. “Don’t talk,” she said.

I opened my mouth and she placed two fingers inside. A bitter taste touched my tongue, but I allowed her to linger. Seconds passed like hours, and Delilah pressed her lips to mine in a chaste kiss. I wanted more, but she returned to her seat and we were moving once again. I can’t say exactly when the images began to blur, but it was before we stopped. I remember the car turning into… nothing. Nothing but tall weeds and overgrown brush. I remember a small house, a shack really, and I remember the old woman who greeted us inside. By that time my surroundings had faded into a blissful dream. I remember water. I remember spiders and mice. I remember a bed. I remember blood.

~~~

December 2012• bohemia • 45

Boho BEATS This month we cover Vagrant, Moniker, and Aservant.

agrant are a five-piece band primarily focused on playing gigs in the Dallas area, and most weekends they can be found in local pubs, brewhouses, dive bars and nightclubs tearing up the stage for only a few bucks’ cover. Their music can best be described as a hybrid of 80s glam rock like...

Photography on this page by Charli McDonald

46 • bohemia • December 2012

ming lent a new angle of depth to the older members’ sounds. Their longtime friend Colton Bishop, who has been playing since he was seven years old and writes music far beyond his young age, joined the band as lead guitarist. Heavily influenced by legends like Eric Johnson, Jimi Hendrix and Stevie Ray Vaughan, Bishop played in a number of church bands and many acoustic shows with friends and families prior to committing to the Vagrant lineup. A technician at Texas Guitar Workshop, he loves assembling custom guitars and nearly every instrument he uses is something he’s created himself. “Even though we’re young, I hope people realize how serious we are as musicians,” Bishop remarks. “We’re as the band’s manager for a time, very professional even though we he has a natural inclination for any love to have fun once we’re offinstrument he touches; he’s prolific stage.” with guitars, bass, keyboards, and is working on picking up the violin as The band operated as a quartet for well despite being completely self- awhile before bringing in the expetaught and learning by ear. As for rienced hand of Brandon Wall as a Vagrant, well, “I sort of fell into it,” rhythm guitarist. Wall had paid his Johnny laughs. “I used to be on the dues on the Dallas music scene for keyboards until our former bassist quite awhile. At 28 years old, Wall moved out of state. We didn’t know is the oldest member of Vagrant and until one day he was late for re- the ‘big brother’ of the band, teachhearsal and we called him up to see ing the younger bandmates about what was going on. I picked up one life in the rock and roll lifestyle. of Curtis’s basses and here we are.” “When I was young I couldn’t decide what I wanted to play, but I Curtis got his kid brother Kary knew I always wanted to make muMaks in on the action; at ten years sic. Why play ‘Twinkle Twinkle, old Kary was a drum prodigy, turn- Little Star’ at a recital when you ing into a little monster the moment could play ‘Wild Thing’? I had a he was put behind a kit. “My first box of percussion that I would strap influences were people like Tommy all over myself and act like a street Lee and Mike Portnoy… it’s not performer. My parents were really only about the power and the adren- supportive, we didn’t have a lot of aline rush you feel when you’re money but they always found a way playing, but it’s so great being the to get me instruments. I play guitar, heartbeat of the music,” Kary says piano and drums, but guitar just enthusiastically when asked the clicked the best,” Wall explains. best part of being a drummer. He “Vagrant is made up of young, riearned himself a sponsorship from diculous guys… Johnny Finn is a Soultone Cymbals for his skills and master of bass and even as a vet I when the three of them formed the have trouble picking up his moves, band Lips of Velvet, Kary’s drum-

Vagrant:

The New Faces of Rebellion By Amanda Rebholz ...like New York Dolls, Poison and Ratt mixed with more modern offerings like Motley Crue, Vains of Jenna and Crashdiet. Influenced by punk, hair metal, classic rock and retro sleaze, the band are the perfect soundtrack to a night out of mayhem, debauchery and partying--- and the youngest member isn’t even old enough to buy cigarettes yet. Frontman Curtis “Dizzy” Patoni brings a feral presence to the stage, stalking back and forth like an animal, jumping around with as much energy as an early David Lee Roth and taunting the crowd with banter between licks. “I just hope that when people hear us, it calls to mind the days in the past when musicians had to actually learn how to play, how to sing, and didn’t rely on computers to make good beats.” Curtis befriended bassist Johnny Finn when they were just kids and the two began playing together in the Dallas music circuit as teenaged boys, honing their craft. According to Finn’s mother, who also acted

December 2012• bohemia • 47

Curtis is a wild frontman, Colton is one of the most ridiculously talented guitarists I’ve ever seen, and Kary, the only thing I can say about him is ‘wow’. It’s hard to concentrate on playing when I want to watch the show!” Finally, Vagrant was complete, and their reign of asskicking unapologetic rock domination could descend upon the DFW audiences. The band’s live show is something to be treasured; they play as if they’re in front of a packed house whether the bar is standing room only or ten fans on a weeknight. I’ve seen them over a dozen times live since my first introduction to their music and never have they brought anything but professionalism and fun to the table. Their presence calls to mind earlier icons like Nikki Sixx, Steven Tyler, Slash, Jussi 69 and Andy McCoy; they wear torn, tattered clothing and bare their tattoos, exotic hair, eyes rimmed in eyeliner, metal jewelry. Their distinct look matches their sound, which is aggressive, playful, unapologetic and bold. The band members literally thrum with energy and vibrancy onstage, limitless enthusiasm for their craft shining through in their original songs as well as their impassioned covers. When asked their favorite songs off their upcoming record ‘Jagged Steel and Sex Appeal’, the boys seem proud of every offering on the record. Finn prefers “Momma Would Be Proud”, a song both celebrating and highlighting the industry of strippers and adult actresses, while Patoni leans toward “Ein Reich”, an anthemic howl that allows him to showcase his vocal 48 • bohemia • December 2012

Vagrant is from left: Johnny Finn, Colton Bishop, Curtis Patoni, Kary Patoni, and Brandon Wall. Photos provided by band.

abilities and fun lyrical style. Maks likes “Love and Addiction”, a harder number than some of their other cuts, and Bishop is a fan of “Six Gun Serenade” and “Kissed Her Sister” due to their fresh, original sounds. If a band is this varied and no two can agree on what the best track is, then it’s a safe bet to think the entire album will be a solid offering of work that the band truly take pride in and celebrate for its fun-loving sound.

tically after each song, supporting his brothers to the end. The band is more a family than actual blood and they are unflinchingly loyal to the other members, having each other’s backs at all time as they work their way to the top of their game. They are building a loyal fanbase in Dallas and love connecting with new people via their Facebook account; they take time to hang with fans after every gig, sticking around to show support for the other acts on the bill and leading by example in Of course, it wouldn’t be a rock a world where solidarity and carband without their share of mis- ing for your fellow man is as antihaps. Finn frequently has strap quated as yo mama jokes. Vagrant connectors break off during sets, stand out because they are a family and Wall’s brutal guitar work of- always welcoming new members, ten leaves blood smears all over and this comes through in the fun his instrument. They’ve had gigs atmosphere their live show delivers cancelled at the last minute, finger- each and every performance. nails lost in slammed car doors, and played to almost-empty clubs. “The Even a zombie apocalypse couldn’t more you watch Spinal Tap the less divide them; when asked which funny it gets,” Patoni says dryly. member would survive, each boy “Everything hits close to home after had theories about their fighting awhile.” At the time of this writing, skills, ability to get to a safe place, Wall is sidelined due to a broken and two of them mentioned Kary’s thumb but he eagerly attends the insanity, but the one universal angigs his band puts on, cheering and swer is “All of us. We stand a rewaving his casted hand enthusias- ally good chance because we stand

Aservant A New Kind of Path by Avery Jackson

F together.” That about sums up the philosophy behind their music as well-- they are a soundtrack for all of the misfits, rockers and party animals out there, proving once and for all that rock and roll can save your soul if you raise your glass and just lose yourself in the revolution. For upcoming tour dates, check out www.vagrantband.com or add them on Facebook.

or a lot of people today, music is seen as the savior, but for 27-year-old musician Femi Ariya, it’s a tool that can be used to reach the Savior. Aservant is the name of Ariya’s contemporary gospel band, a dream in hiding for this young artist. Aservant is a unique blend of three distinct genres of music: R&B, Jazz, and Gospel. 5 piece band. Femi plays the acoustic guitar, James Romero does the baritone, Terri Bell is on the Drums, Simon Bar-Jona is on the keyboard and Bass, and Sammy Colunga is the lead guitarist. “We do a lot of ministry through churches of course, but our main focus is ministry rather than just

music,” Femi explained, “A lot of gospel artists just think about the money, and a lot of times its not always there, especially with the smaller churches. And unfortunately that’s where a lot of ministry is needed.” Aservant is still a business; a struggling business. While Femi and his band strive to reach out to people with their music, they rely on God to provide for them. “When we send out the contracts to churches hiring us, we send a letter explaining that these prices are standard, but if you cannot pay them that’s ok because we are about the ministry, not the money,” the musician continued. Churches and other venues in Photography by Amanda Hixson

***

December 2012• bohemia • 49

Dallas, Houston, and of course Waco are the common places they perform at. Right now, there is a lot of focus on Internet TV shows. Outside of Texas, the band travels to the Tennessee. “We’re trying to go anywhere and everywhere. Trying to minister to everybody.” Femi began his working career at 15, washing cars, manual labor, and office temp jobs. All the while, sing in his high school and church choirs. “I had no idea that I would be involved in something like this,”

Femi said.

however. After Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans in 2005, Femi developed a weed habit. After receiving a GPA of .2, Femi was kicked out of his house and was homeless for a week. “There came a point in my life where I couldn’t start a day without a blunt,” Femi said. “I could hear God speaking to me, and eventually I listened. But it was a gradual change.”

Born in Mesquite Texas and then moving to Waco, Femi graduated his high school with a GPA over 4.0. He decided he wanted to become a bilingual doctor trauma physician in Texas. But God had a different plan. “I started dabbling in music. I wanted to promote positive music for the youth. I wanted a message behind my music,” Femi continued excitedly. This may just be why Femi Ariya has such a strong opinion on what It wasn’t a smooth rode to music it means to minister and what his music stands for. “Aservant is literally our name to describe my relationship with God and my music. Its not about me, I’m just a servant. That’s what this ministry is about, it’s about service.” Femi continued by explaining how his spiritual life got stronger after going though Hurricane Katrina. “You don’t really know God will be with you through the Valley of the Shadow of Death until you go through it,” he said. Femi’s approach to loving people isn’t unheard of, but rare in this day and age. He takes Jesus’s stance on people: No condemnation. “Jesus—if you look at all of the stories he told—never condemned anybody. He never said anybody was going to Hell. And in truth, the only people he talked about going to Hell were people who didn’t have a relationship with Him,” Femi continued by saying, “People that were in the middle of their sin, he didn’t condemn, but rather had compassion on them. He taught love, he taught repentance. And he taught compassion.” Just as Jesus was a radical in His time, so is Femi Ariya. The fire in his words is inspiring, his persona inviting, and music exciting. “Jesus is the main focal point in my music,” the bold artist said, “I want people to have a pure, unadulterated view point of who Jesus is and what he actually taught.”

Photography by Amanda Hixson 50 • bohemia • December 2012

For more information go to: http://www.pagesofaservant.com

Story and photos

MONIKER ARE JUST REGULAR DUDES by Amanda Hixson

oniker are fun to hang out with, smear make-up on, and make climb rocks on the sides of cliffs all for the sake of artistic photographs. Clearly, it’s all in a day’s work for the band who have traveled to the Bohemian headquarters from Temple, Texas and are behaving themselves in a very low-key manner-- jokey, quirky, sincere, and truly exhibiting passion whenever the subject of music comes up such as when Barton Grigsby in an impromptu moment grabs an acoustic guitar to jam out The Beatles’ “Black Bird.” We took pics, more of which will be available to peruse on the inter-

net soon, and ironically the ones chosen for the magazine (see next page) were the ones of the band in their street clothes, driving around Waco and saying, “Hey, let’s shoot there.” But the cliffs were fun too. The 3-man outfit consists of shy guy Barton (lead/guitar) with the soulful voice and spirit, live-inthe-moment people-person Leonard Blevins (bass), and cool indie kid Nathan Clonts (drums). They mix aggressive rock of the mostexcellant kind with melodic-centered alternative influences like Nirvana. Doing it long enough to have earned their place as a Central Texas staple, they have tons of lo-

cal fans, they’ve been gigging for awhile, and pressing out CDs since they were in their teens. Barton and Leonard both talked about how they were always interested in music growing up but the drive to create “skyrocketed” when they received their first guitars. Creating original tunes is really the motivation behind the project. Barton describes the process: “Sometimes I come in with a riff and we build a song on that. Other times, we all come up with the music together. However, when it comes to lyrics, I do the majority of the writing. As far as my inspiration, it's extremely vast!”

December 2012• bohemia • 51

From left: Nathan Clonts, Barton Grigsby, and Leonard Blevins

Barton clearly lives up to his front man role, and the other members of the band are integral in the sound, presence, and performance of what is MONIKER.

I asked the band to name their one musical hero, and all of them named an artist that to me matched their personalities. Nathan said Elliott Smith. Leonard sited Angus Young, and Barton, the song-writer, couldn’t help but give props to his number one idol, John Lennon.

Drummer Nathan is more ambiguous, “I really play whatever I can get my hands on, but I do usually try for a cool sound.”

Most people are more familiar with Moniker’s CD “Moon On Fire,” released in 2011. It had a progressive rock sound. The songs are catchy and memorable, yet still complex enough to engage sophisticated listeners. Their new album, “Recurring Incident,” reflects the rock agLeonard, on the other hand, gets his Barton says, “My baby is a 1960’s gression that their live shows tend kicks off the live shows more than Gibson ES-335. It was my grand- to bring out. This album will be reanything, “I do it for the 45 min- father’s guitar and I still haven’t leased online. utes of pure adrenaline on stage found a guitar that sounds better. and afterwards the leftover adrena- My amp of choice is a Fender twin- Moniker are personable and love line that mixes well with liquor,” he reverb.” hearing from the fans. They will inquips. teract online with fans and engage Leonard says, “As far as my equip- with them on stage at shows. “We “And for the bimbos,” jokes Na- ment goes Dean has my loyalty. did a show where some fans took than. They make a beautiful bass and I the mic and sang the song with us Moniker’s favorite shows to do, have yet to find anything that com- and that was just amazing really.” though their experience is exten- pares to it for the price. However, In the end, the experience is what sive, is and always will be the they break easy. [He laughs.] I have makes it all worth it. homemade, DIY, Texas cow-field broken mine on stage a few times punk shows thrown together by and now my guitar is mostly a cus- Find them on Facebook, Myspace, the fans “who just can't go another tom Dean Metalman Z.” and Reverbnation. week without a show.” *** 52 • bohemia • December 2012 Barton says he uses music to “release emotional tension through song-writing.” He draws from life experiences and struggles and ex- The band also gets excited when presses himself in a way that he talking about their tools for crehopes is relatable. ation, their instruments.

Nick Vigil Photos by Kris Ann

THE DAY AFTER HEARTBREAK by Nick Vigil

Gray shade swallows my sky, the scent of warm heat

mixed with dirt and rain;

the droplets gravitate- fall on my head, sweat-dampened black hair;

I smell the long forgotten showers feel the dimness of existence, this day it begins, yesterday ends...

my agitated peace, my glorious tears.

CHAOS BY MORNING by Nick Vigil

Liberty in twisted trees

rage inspired harmonies,

dancers in the streets ablaze: Rise Diamonds strewn across the gray military in the way,

shielded eyes I see my death: Dies For a cause that had no root

seduced in my desire to loot,

now I bathe in coffin wind: Lies Singing to the next in line at the table 'bout to dine,

mark the error of my life: Sighs

December 2012â&#x20AC;˘ bohemia â&#x20AC;˘ 53

Mark Bailey Insurance & Financial Services Auto • Home • Life Business • Motorcycle Recreational 6515 Sanger Avenue Suite 17 Waco, TX 76710

54 • bohemia • December 2012

254.772.0060 mboutdoor@aol.com

Susan In Rome by Jim McKeown Photos by Jeremy Newhouse

never told this story to anyone, partly because I was embarrassed, and partly because of whom it might hurt. All that outweighed the thrills, the fantasy of the movielike story. I had traveled to Europe several times, but Italy was the destination I most craved. The food, the art, the people, the ancient ruins all offered a tangible link to history, which I have loved since my earliest days. I considered Italy as the best of all possible trips to travel on my own time, my own terms. I had a week in Rome. Early the first morning, I showered and dressed for a day in the Eternal City. My only problem? Where to start. I decided to begin with breakfast at an elegant hotel on the Via Veneto. I sat for a moment and bathed in the setting of La Dolce Vita. The waiter brought a coffee as I scanned the menu. The dining room was a little crowded, but an attractive woman, about my age – give or take a few birthdays -- with dark hair and casually, yet elegantly, dressed, sat down at a table beside me. Our eyes met, and

she smiled.

band is, uh was here on business. He was called away for a few days Why waste time? Why not give it a to Milan. I decided to stay in Rome, try? So I turned and started a con- since it was my first visit.” versation. “Mine, too. Also my first day here. “Breakfast alone? I thought I was I hardly know where to begin.” the only person in Rome con- This time she looked at me with a demned to that fate today!” level of seriousness mixed in with some interest. “Yes, I am.” She looked at me quizzically, and I can only imagine “Where are you going to start?” she what she thought I was up to. And asked. that planted a seed in my mind – an unknown companion, perhaps as “Don’t know. I was hoping I could confused about what to see first as make a plan over breakfast.” I was. Finally, the server came and took

our orders. We both ordered a light, simple breakfast – coffee, bread, and eggs – hers over easy, mine sunny-side up. We exchanged a few friendly comments as we ate “Okay,” she said, and gathered her – nothing of substance, nothing that notebook and moved to my table. would lead one to identify the oth“I’m Susan,” as she held out her er. As this game went on, I became hand. more and more intrigued. “Well, why don’t we share a table and let others have yours?” Her next look had a note of cynicism, but I held my slightest smile.

“Jack.” I took her hand and her lead “Where are you from?” and decided to follow. “So how did you end up in Rome alone today?” “Philadelphia,” I answered. “I know your accent. Let me guess… “Well, I wasn’t alone, but my hus- the mid west, maybe Chicago? December 2012• bohemia • 55

“Very good!”

her pocket.

“Ah. My second favorite city. How often have you been to The Art Institute?” “Oh, a couple of times. It’s so overwhelming. I never know where to begin there either.” She paused. “How would you feel about a companion for the day?” She turned her head, lowered her eyes, and thought for a moment. “I know it’s campy, but I really want to see the Trevi Fountain. Then we can wander around from there.” “Sounds good to me.” “One thing before we start. I am married, and my husband will be home in 3 or 4 days, so I want to keep a distance of sorts between us. We both pay our own way, and we take turns picking next place to see, okay?” “Those rules sound simple enough. Should we shake on it?” I extended my hand, and she grasped it firmly and warmly. “Okay! Well then, Philly and Chicago, welcome to Rome.” I finally got a relaxed smile. The waiter returned, and she asked for separate checks. “So, which way to Trevi Fountain? ~~~

After a few false turns, we finally arrived at the fountain. The romance of the elegantly carved figures, the crowds of tourists – mostly couples – crowding around the fountain for the traditional toss of a coin, welled up inside. Susan searched in a coin purse. Then she looked at the couples holding hands, exchanging kisses. Changing her mind, she snapped the purse shut and put it in 56 • bohemia • December 2012

tent as I have ever seen in a woman. She brushed some hair behind her We didn’t say much that first morn- ear and looked away. “Okay. But ing. The conversation was mostly what about dinner? Tonight?” serious, even rather formal. She told me nothing about herself, and I Ouch! Why didn’t I think of that. again followed her lead. “Well, sure, as long as I am not wearing out my welcome.” We found the Barberini Palace only a few blocks from the fountain, so “Give me an hour or so, and I will we decided to walk and see what meet you in the lobby.” we could see on the route. We exchanged some innocuous com- “See you then.” She turned and ments and other things we might passed into the hotel. She walked like to see. I noticed a slight change straight to the elevator and never in her tone of voice. She seemed looked back. I returned to Susan’s hotel a few minutes early. She more relaxed. stepped out of the elevator in the After the National Gallery in Bar- proverbial “little black dress” acberini, it was almost 2 PM, so we cented with a burgundy, pashmina decided to have lunch. We picked a shawl. I almost didn’t recognize pleasant looking tratoria on a small her. If she was attractive this mornside street. The server took us to ing, she now verged on stunning. a tiny table in a back corner. Nice and quiet, large enough for some She smiled, and extended her right space between us, but close enough hand and touched me on the arm. I felt a weird sensation up to the left for some better conversation. side of my face. Then, she kissed “So. How am I doing so far?” me on the cheek. What on earth happened? Why this tremendous She smiled so warmly, my heart change? began to soften. “Pretty well, I’d say. I guess I have high hopes for She had a nearby restaurant in mind the rest of the afternoon.” – recommended by a friend back “Me, too.” I returned the smile as home. Only five minutes later, we we touched ever so slightly, our were seated in a dark, warm, room as elegant as I could have wished. wine glasses. After a leisurely dinner, we walked ~~~ the Via Veneto. She put her arm in mine, and we laughed and joked The rest of the afternoon, we wan- and sighed at all the sights of nightdered around the streets, went into life in Rome. A couple of hours a few shops, bought some trinkets. later, we stopped in a café for a I tried to interpret what she bought, drink. The bottle of wine lingered but her purchases offered no clues. as slowly as we did. The converFinally, we decided to head back to sation became quieter, softer, and our respective hotels. “What about closer. tomorrow? I really want to see the Vatican Museums.” “So, Jack, what are we doing tomorrow?” She looked at me with eyes as in-

Let’s decide over an early breakfast.” “Sounds good.” She gathered her purse and shawl. We walked to the hotel in near silence. At the front door, she took my hand and walked me into the lobby. Then she stopped, turned, and asked me if I would like another glass of wine. “I have what is reported to be a really nice Chianti.” I held my breath from the time she took my hand, then I let it out, “Sure. That would be great.” We went to her suite. The bottle, two glasses, and a cork screw dominated the coffee table. “Pour us a glass, while I change into something a little less formal.” She went into the bedroom and closed the door. I barely had time to open the bottle when she reemerged in a Cubs tee shirt and slacks. She sat on the sofa, close -- in fact very close -- as I poured the wine. I passed her a glass. She held hers toward mine, “To a wonderful day...” The crystal still vibrated as I added, “…and hope for another tomorrow.” We spent the next hours going over what we had seen that day, what we planned to see the next, but finally we ran out of steam. Only a moment of silence fell between us, and I stared at her. She was gazing into her empty glass. Then she looked at me with the most warm, inviting look I could imagine. We were close, but not close enough.

Only this time it seemed to trace not wiser, but overcome with a every vein in my body. sense of beauty and tenderness and love I had never experienced. *** The next morning, I arrived at her hotel about 7. 7:00 became 7:30 and no Susan. I began to panic. What had I done? And was it too soon? I can’t even call her room.

***

A couple of years passed, and a conference took me to Chicago. When I found out I was headed to the Windy City, all the thoughts and emotions, the touches, the laughs, Then the elevator opened and she and the kisses flooded over me. I emerged, and almost ran toward had given up hope of ever seeing me. Visibly upset, I really began to Susan. worry. “What’s wrong?” As soon as I could, I went to the “I just got off the phone with my Art Institute. Previously, I barely husband. He is coming back early. had time to see a quarter of the colHe will be here tomorrow morn- lection. But that day, I planned for ing.” only one thing: I headed straight for the French Impressionists. I knew “Well, then we have to make the they had six of the 25 or so versions most of today, don’t we?” of Monet’s “Haystacks,” and I pre“I don’t want to go anywhere. pared myself to spend a substantial Let’s stay here. We can order room amount of time in that gallery. service, watch TV, listen to music – I entered and saw all six on a single anything but to be in a crowd.” wall. Emotion washed over me. “Okay.” We did order room service Tears began streaming down my – for lunch and dinner. We only cheeks for the lost Susan as much watched a little TV. We laughed as for the beauty of those canvasat what we thought the announc- es. My thoughts switched back ers were saying. I asked no ques- and forth, Monet, Rome, Chicago, tions. Bogie and Ingrid Bergman Rome… in Paris hovered in the charged Then I heard someone sobbing off atmosphere. I desperately wanted to my right. I looked at the womto hold onto this moment. Maybe an’s profile. Susan stood there tryit was the wine, or maybe the fact ing to wipe away tears. Then she that we were not fighting crowds, looked up and saw me. but she did calm herself a little. But I still sensed a streak of tension *** just below the surface. We kissed, we held each other, and without a single word, we made love.

As light began filtering into the I put my arm around her and room, I held her as tightly as I hugged. I felt her nuzzling my could, and kissed her for what neck. Then she pulled back and I knew would be the last time. I kissed me. That earlier sensation walked back to my hotel, sadder, when she touched me recurred.

Painting by Claude Monet. Grainstacks Snow Effect, 1891. Oil on canvas.

December 2012• bohemia • 57

Contributors Pete Able has been writing fiction and poetry since high school. His screenplays have been finalists with Scriptapalooza, PAGE International, and the New York Television Festival, among others. He lives in Woodway with his wife, Melissa, and daughters Joanna and Lila. He is currently the director of Financial and HR systems for Baylor University.

Joschua Beres was born in El Paso, Texas in 1987. He spent the bulk of his childhood in Killeen, Texas abd attended high school at Harker Heights High. After moving around a little bit, he enlisted in the United States Air Force where he served as a Russian Linguist. In 2011, Joschua enrolled at Texas State -- San Marcos. He is majoring in International Studies.

Musae P Adumbratus She is brave. She is fearless, expressing her thoughts and feelings without fear of judgement. She expands the limits of her creativity, reaching into unknown dimensions. She asks and searches. She is me, unbound.

Adam Black lives and works in Cleveland, Ohio. His first novel, THE PRANK, was published by The Artless Dodges Press in 2011. Information is available at www. TheArtlessDodgesPress.com/ THE_PRANK.html.

Brenda Bradley is an Associate Professor of English at McLennan Community College in Waco, Texas. She is now in her 30th year of teaching. When she is not grading papers, she enjoys cooking, reading, writing poetry, watching movies, making music, traveling, and being with her family and friends. She especially enjoys foreign travel and has been to Canada, Mexico, Kazakhstan, China, Europe, Argentina, and Kenya. Brenda lives in Waco with her husband, two children (Hannah and Isaac), and dog (Zippy). Steve De France is a widely published poet, playwright and essayist both in America and in Great Britain. His work has appeared in literary publications in America, England, Canada, France, Ireland, Wales, Scotland, India, Australia, and New Zealand. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize in Poetry in both 2002, 2003 & 2006. Recently, his work has appeared in The Wallace Stevens Journal, The Mid-American Poetry Review, Ambit, Atlantic, Clean Sheets, Poetry Bay, The Yellow Medicine Review and The Sun. Frank Jaworski lives in Temple, Texas with his amazing wife. They enjoy reading, cooking and traveling together.

Serena Teakell and Joseph Mabbitt by Pat Jones Photography

58 • bohemia • December 2012

Growing up near Disneyland it’s be odd or go mad; Karen Johnson chose odd early! A darkly dreamfilled life inspired her to write poetry, draw, paint. She has worked in comedy at The Second City-Santa Monica, and multi-lingual theatre which produced dark plays on subjects such as torture at Stages Theatre Center, L.A., as well as to create Oddgirl Art.com. Some in Karen’s family always knew tha being odd would pay off!

Bohemia not only features the best from Central Texas, but we take submissions from all over the world. Visit bohemia-journal.com to learn more.

Pat Jones I became interested in photography six years ago. Finding very little help when starting out led me to seek out photographers to work with and later to start a forum for local photographers. Pat lives in Robinson, TX. He does wedding, pin-up, boudoir, fine art, and glamour.

Larissa Nash is an alumna of Loyola University New Orleans. She currently resides in the dusty, neglected outskirts of Austin, Texas, where she attempts to appease the fickle rain god with daily haiku. Larissa often participates in Francesca Lia Block’s online workshops, and her work has appeared in DiOver the past year and change, Ar- nosaur Bees, Fortunates, and Red thur Levine’s stories have been Poppy Review. She is the founding accepted by about thirty print pub- editor of Rose Red Review. lications, but they’ve been rejected Taylor Rexrode is a junior journalby about nine zillion. ism student at Baylor University with a minor in creative writing. D'Heirus and Theresa Lollis are She lives with her family in Forney, a photography tandem in the Fort Texas. Hood area. They have equal and complementary passion for all art Chris Roe has self-published a forms and live a life of artistic ex- collection of his work titled “In Search of Silence.” More details pression. can be seen on my website at www. Meridian MacLellan An envi- silentflightpublications.co.uk. ronmental engineer in Washington state, I’ve been writing for years Bethany Sellers I’m a 23-year-old as a way to add color to my life. A illustrator and graphic designer livchampion of NaNoWriMo and an ing in Waco. I’m a recent graduate avid reader of anything with pizazz, of Baylor University with a BFA in words have been my companions Studio Art with a concentration in since I was ten, forcing atrocious Graphic Design. Currently I work adverbs upon my mother. as a t-shirt designer at Screen-Tex Graphics, while also doing some My name is Charli McDonald and freelance jobs on the side. Art, and I’m from Hamilton TX. I’m a very drawing in particular, as been a expressive person and I love cap- passion of mine for as long as I can turing a picture at just the right mo- remember. I also have a strong love ment. I live for photography. I am for pop culture, especially in t.v., currently 18 and on my own study- movies, and comics. My dream is ing for my Bachelors of Photogra- to one day work as an illustrator or phy at the Art Institutes in Austin. comic artist full-time. Timothy McLafferty lives in NYC and is a professional drummer. His poems have appeared in Pearl, Forge, Painted Bride Quarterly, The Portland Review, Talking River, Soundings East, RiverSedge, and Short, Fast, and Deadly. His book reviews have appeared in Verse Wisconsin. He provides cover art and illustrated letters for Forge.

Randy Schorman The retired Director of the University Center at MCC, amateur photographer, author of the St. Paul’s Episcopal Church: A History in Photographs. A popular after-dinner speaker in the uses of humor, I’m trying to figure out if there are truly giant alligators in the sewer systems of big cities.

Serena Kristiana Teakell, Bohemia's fashion editor, is a native Wacoan. She is also a stylist, model, actress, creator, bartender, weirdo, and fellow instagrammer. She spends her free time traveling, dancing, biking, hooping, and rebelling. Contact info for booking: email: serena_kristiana@yahoo. com - facebook.com/iwrestledabeartwice - instagram: @serenakt A German born in South Africa, Ronja Vieth teaches and writes in Lubbock,Texas. She has read and published poetry and nonfiction in national and international journals. Her activities as part of Lubbock’s Speakeasy poetry performance group can be found on her Facebook page englobe.me. Nick Vigil is 31 years old and lives in Hillsborro, TX. “My love for writing began in elementary school, but poetry in particular has been a passion of mine since discovering the work of Edgar Allan Poe when I was a teenager. Strangely, one of my greatest influences for my poetry also came from the lyrics of the band Bush. I admire the style of their phrasing and how they encorporate words with dual meanings. The emotions that I put on to paper are very exact to me, but my goal is to express it in such a way that illicits a thousand interpretations. In my opinion, poetry can be everything to everybody.” Christopher Woods is a writer, teacher and photographer who lives in Houston and Chappell Hill, Texas. http://christopherwoods.zenfolio.com/ Thank you also to staff who submit creative work for consideration as well. December 2012• bohemia • 59

Dec. 1

Wind Ensemble & Chorale Holiday Concert Dec. 6

Waco Jazz Orchestra Concert Dec. 11

Waco Community Band Holiday Celebration All performances 7:30 p.m. | Ball Performing Arts Center

mclennan.edu | 254-299-8283

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