19. Bohemia - January 2014

A New Year With A New Vision January 2014 Welcome To Our Winding World Volume 4, Issue 1

Art and Literary Journal

Bohemia Bohemia

Jim Henson’s Labyrinth Ron Mueck Alice in Wonderland Monique Munoz New Year’s Resolutions Minotaurs

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Contents Masquerade 7 Elensgard 12 Once Upon a Dream 21 The Hallway of Doors 26 A Crow's Choice 29 String 32 Lost in Wonderland 40 M.C. Escher 56 Heartfelt Words in Classic 62 History of Goblins 65 Ron Mueck 71 Behind Every Man 75 Minotaurs 78 Writing Tools: Setting 80 A New Vision 82 Olivia & the Star 88 New Year Resolutions 94 Contributors 102

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Bohemia January 2014 Volume 4, Number 1 ISSN No. 2162- 8653 Editor In Chief: Amanda Hixson Assist. Editor: Stephanie Rystrom Fiction Acquisition: Gary Lee Webb Lay-out designer: Amanda Hixson Ad Sale Manager: Ty Hall Writers: Pete Able, William Blackrose, Ty Hall, April Henley, Jessica Purser, Sierra Sugar, Jennifer Swartz, Gary Lee Webb Photographers: CJ Hudgins, Bonnie Neagle, Aoife Gorey HMU:.

Alex Williams Addie Garcia Shannan White

Bohemia is produced in Waco, TX. We take submissions from around the world. Bohemia is a thematic submissions-based journal and staff-produced magazine. Contributors, please follow our submission guidelines

More information can be found at bohemia-journal.com facebook.com/bohemiajournal Cover credits: Photographer: CJ Hudgins with Vember Photo Models: Stephanie Rystrom Lucidia Fera & Jocelyn Fulbright

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HMU: Alex Williams Addie Garcia Shannan White

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T

hrough dangers untold and hardships

unnumbered, I have fought my way here To the castle beyond the Goblin City, To take back the child that you have stolen,

For my will is as strong as yours, And my kingdom is as great.

Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered,

I have fought my way here To the castle beyond the Goblin City,

To take back the child that you have stolen,

For my will is as strong as yours, And my k i n g dom is as great.

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You Youhave haveno no power powerover overme. me.

You Youhave haveno no power power over over me. me.

You have no power over me.

Masquerade Photography by CJ Hudgins with Vember Photo

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The Whisper

of Fingertips

by Lewis Humphries

As one beneath the spill of moonlight, their essence braced against the cold, as slithered, silver seeping ignites the twilight’s mould; and hues the pale of winters drift, a deeper shade of old.

No words are spoken in the moment, no trace of sound is made; Instead, her muse slow creeps, by whisper of fingertips, each hushed stroke a faithless promise, a temperate touch to coax his sin.

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Makeup by Alex Williams Hair by Addie Garcia & Shannan White Shoot features (from left) Stephanie Rystrom Lucidia Fera & Jocelyn Fulbright

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Kaspar Wilder is a poet in spirit, with blue eyes and a love of making up words. She writes about small everyday moments, connecting them to larger concepts. Armed with a frank sense of humor, a sunflower for everyone she meets, and laser eyes, she is happy, if often late.

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The Labyrinth of Elensgard

by April Henley

I

t started with a wish,” whispered Tom, his fingers nervously gripping the page. “And it ended with a –”

“Lily, come back here.

Someone, stop her!”

“Bloody hell.” Tom’s furrowed brow rose above the pages of his book at the familiar shouting of Mrs. Flavorshum. “Now what’s got that woman’s knickers in a knot?”

Peering through the dark, Tom noticed Lily running up the road toward him, her long brown hair free and wild, and her dress lifted above her knees. He blushed to see her pantalets. Keeping a difficult pace behind her was Mrs. Flavorshum, yelling after every available man to stop her daughter. Several stable hands stumbled out of the barn with their 12 • bohemia • january 2014

britches half on, hopping on single legs to assist. Lily was far ahead of them all.

“Never a moment’s peace,” said Tom, tossing the book aside and jumping from his perch on the stone wall. He stepped directly in Lily’s path, arms out, and hollered, “Lily, stop!”

“Tom, get out of my way,” she retaliated, not slowing her pace.

“Boy, grab her,” yelled Mrs. Flavorshum, still a good distance off.

Tom braced himself to catch Lily, when he caught sight of the wet gleam of her tear-stained face in the moonlight. His heart jumped into his throat. “Damn,” he mumbled, lowering his arms and stepping aside.

Lily ran past him, frantically yelling, “Aero! Aero!”

Out of the darkness, a mighty whinny and thunderous hooves preceded the arrival of a dapple-gray stallion in the field. Lily hoisted herself onto the wall and leapt onto her horse’s back as he cantered up beside her. Then, with a swift kick, she sent the stallion charging ahead into the forest that bordered Flavorshum estate.

Tom watched them disappear into the dense wood, just as Mrs. Flavorshum came to a heaving stop beside him.

“Boy, why didn’t you stop her? Do you want to lose your job?”

F

aster, Aero.” Lily squeezed her horse’s sides in encouragement.

“I have to get away.”

Try as hard as he might, the

close proximity of the trees and the nonexistence of a path made it difficult for the horse to turn loose.

Lily looked back over her shoulder, searching the dark. All she saw were trees. “They’ll be coming after us. I wish I could go somewhere beyond their reach.”

Suddenly, as she looked ahead, a low-lying branch appeared and laid a powerful blow across Lily’s forehead, knocking her unconscious and off of Aero’s back.

M

y lady, do you live? Oh, please live,” exclaimed a roughly panicked voice, which quickly fell into a whisper as it said, “He’ll have my head if she does not live.”

Clinging to the strange, unfamiliar voice, Lily pulled herself out of the darkness. Her amber eyes slowly began to open then grew wide as they saw an old man’s wrinkled face and beady little eyes staring into them.

“Thank snow, you live, my lady,” he joyfully declared. “You had me worried there for a moment.”

Lily let out a cry, causing the old man to cover his ears and fall away from her.

“No need for that,” he exclaimed.

Lily sat up and backed away from him. She became aware of a cold sensation coursing throughout her body and frantically looked around to find the world covered in white.

All around her there was snow, on the ground and falling from the sky, making her feel numb and senseless.

The trees of the forest were gone, as was Aero, and anything else she recalled before hitting her head.

She reached up a trembling hand, feeling the painful spot where she met the branch. “What happened?” she whispered. “Where am I?”

“You are in Elensgard, my lady,” answered the old man, busily

working on lighting a whitewood tobacco pipe.

Lily stared at him in bewilderment. He was very short, unable to pass her knee without wearing his pointy red hat. He was dressed in a variety of animal pelts and colored leather, with an assortment of items dangling from his belt, including bottles, a telescope, and a compass.

His long white beard draped over his belly and almost graced his toes.

“Who are you?” asked Lily.

The man blew a few smoke rings and then answered, “The name’s Fig. Fig Finnius Fig, royal gopher to his high lord, the King of Elensgard, to whom I am supposed to take you now. So, let us be on our way.” Putting his fingers to his lips, Fig blew a melodic whistle that echoed throughout the cold night air.

At once, through the falling veil of flurries, Lily saw a shadow approaching them, and there appeared a white fox wearing a small bridle on its head and a makeshift saddle on its back into which Fig hoisted himself.

“Please, follow me,” he said, “My lord awaits.” Taking hold of the reins, Fig turned the fox’s head back the way it came from and nudged it with his heels to walk on.

Watching them leave, Lily finally summoned up enough strength within her to stand up and exclaim, “Stop!”

The fox stopped in its track and the snow ceased to fall.

“What is this?” Lily demanded. “How did I get here? Where is my horse?”

Without looking back at her, Fig answered in a monotone, “Do not be afraid, my lady. The king himself brought you here as a special guest. Therefore, no harm will come to you.”

“Brought me here,” Lily whispered. She lifted her voice, “But why?”

“You can ask him that your-

self. I am only his gopher. However, if you do not wish to meet with my king, if you truly wish to return home, all you have to do is cross the bridge.” With the end of his pipe, the old man pointed over his shoulder in Lily’s direction, in response to which, a golden light illuminated behind her.

Lily turned around to see two cast-iron lanterns heading a cobblestone bridge. The bridge led across a vast frozen lake to an unknown destination lost in a veil of darkness on the other side of the ice.

“If you cross that bridge, you will return to the woods from which you came, with your horse waiting for you,” said Fig.

Longing for the familiar, Lily began to approach the bridge.

“You should know though, my lady, that after you have met my king, he will allow you to return home. He will not force you to stay.

He merely wishes to meet and speak with you, which quite frankly, is not a great deal for a king to ask of his guest. Don’t you agree?”

Lily glanced over her shoulder to see the fox and its rider moving on, disappearing into the oncemore falling snow.

What do I do?

She looked at the bridge, feeling the compelling force of good sense within her telling her to go home, but then, a grim look swept over her face, as a painful memory played out in her mind.

Stomping her foot in the snow in frustration, Lily turned away from home and ran.

“So, how far do we have to go?” she asked her guide as she caught up with him.

Fig pulled the fox to a halt.

“We are here.”

The dark was suddenly illuminated by two white lanterns hanging from the naked limbs of two small white trees. The trees stood outside a

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great green hedge wall rising twenty feet high. Lily’s jaw slipped as her eyes climbed to the top.

“What is this?” she asked.

“The meeting place. My lord is inside,” said Fig, clapping his hands together. As he parted them, the hedge wall split down the middle, producing an opening by which to enter.

Lily nearly stumbled back in disbelief. “It- it moved,” she stammered. “The hedge moved.”

“Things are not always what they seem here. This enchanted labyrinth does a lot of things you may find peculiar, but do not worry. It is perfectly safe. Try to keep up now.”

Fig kicked the fox into a run, entering the labyrinth and taking a sharp turn to the left.

“Hey, wait,” shouted Lily, lifting her dress and chasing after them.

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For some time, Lily kept the fox’s bobbing tail in her sights, watching it sway left and right with its respective turns. At the beginning of this little adventure, she feared a trap or an underlying scheme to do her harm as she traveled deeper into the labyrinth. Slowly though, her caution began to slip away, as she started to forget anything preceding this chase and thought it all a fantastic dream. At one moment, the fox’s back paws kicked up a bit of snow, pelting Lily with the cold powder, and she surprised herself when she heard a laugh escape from her mouth. Hearing herself exclaim such joy, she kept on laughing, unable to remember the last time she was able to do something spontaneous, even, dare she say it, fun. Yes, in a strange way, she found this chase fun, until around the next turn, she lost her guide.

The fox’s paw prints came to an abrupt halt in the snow, without turning left or right. There was no sign of Fig or his furry steed.

“Hello?” cried Lily, spinning in circles. “Fig?”

No answer came.

Feeling nervous, Lily looked back the way she came, seeing her fresh footprints in the snow.

Maybe I can retrace my steps.

She rubbed her arms as she looked up at the green walls. They seemed ominously tall and close all of a sudden, and she wondered if they should move again. Perhaps they would close in on her and trap her within the labyrinth.

And how should I escape then? How do you escape a labyrinth that moves?

Tired and frustrated with her predicament, Lily collapsed to her

knees in the snow.

“What am I to do?” she whimpered, tears collecting in her eyes.

Suddenly, something snorted behind her, sending a warm wave of air over the back of Lily’s neck. The air curiously smelled of fresh spring grass. Lily slowly turned around then fell back in the snow as she looked up into the dark thoughtful eyes of a creature both mythical and fantastical.

Standing nobly proud, with its head held high and its horn pointed towards heaven, was a unicorn, with a coat as white as the snow and long silver mane and tail shimmering in the moonlight. It pawed at the snow with its silver hooves and nickered softly to Lily, who stared at the creature with unfathomed astonishment.

She cautiously reached out a hand to touch the magical horse, her heart pounding. “I thought you only existed in the pages of books,” she whispered.

The unicorn lowered its head for Lily to place her palm on its soft muzzle.

He closed his eyes at her gentle touch and pushed into her hand, encouraging her to pet him.

“You are real.” Tears traced Lily’s cold cheeks at the joyous discovery.

The unicorn nuzzled Lily’s face, drying her tears. Then, he lay down beside her in the snow and

started curiously pulling at her sleeve with his teeth. Lily did not understand what he wanted.

Suddenly, a voice fell on Lily’s ears. It was a man’s voice.

“Climb on, Lily.”

Lily tensed up at the sound of her name.

Looking at the unicorn, she asked, “That was not you that spoke, was it?”

The unicorn shook its head and pulled at her sleeve again.

“Get on, Lily. He is here to take you the rest of the way, to bring you to me.”

Lily felt her heart skip as she realized who she thought the speaker might be.

The king. It has to be him.

Lily did as she was told, for fear of being left alone in the altering labyrinth and out of a sense of respect she felt she owed to a king that sent such a magnificent escort.

She climbed onto the unicorn’s back, grabbing the mane as it got to its feet.

“Hold tight, Lily.”

The unicorn picked up a canter and Lily felt as though she were riding on the air itself. The unicorn’s strides were smooth and Lily thought how envious Aero should be if he could feel jealousy. She liked the feel of the unicorn’s silky mane threaded through her fingers, and she felt warm sitting atop of him. In time, the two broke free of the labyrinth and entered a garden graced with blooming flowers in the winter season.

“Oh my,” said Lucy, as she looked around her.

Beautiful violet flowers clung to the hedge walls encompassing the garden and polished black marble fountains spouted in the corners. The snow continued to fall above, but an invisible force kept it from touching the garden grounds; the flurries simply dissolved away in mid-fall.

“How odd,” said Lily, slip-

ping off of the unicorn’s back as he knelt down for her to dismount.

The unicorn trotted off to graze a dewy patch of grass, while Lily followed a cobblestone path down the center of the garden. On either side of the path were white rose bushes in full bloom. She grasped one of the roses to pluck it from its stem.

“How very odd,” she said, as she examined the flower, smelling it and brushing her cheeks with its soft petals. It was most certainly alive, and yet, the bush was frostbitten.

The edges of the bush’s leaves were kissed with ice, as were the stems and the thorns, but not the petals.

“It’s beautiful though,” said Lily, smelling the rose again.

“And it’s for you, Lily,” said a deep voice that rolled throughout the garden.

Lily dropped the rose, recognizing his voice.

“Where are you?” she called, trying to sound brave.

“I am right here, Lily.”

Lily glanced ahead of the cobblestone path and her eyes rested on a white gazebo that was not there before. A figure stood beneath its shingled cover. Her heart stopped.

It’s him. It has to be him.

“Come to me, Lily,” he said.

His voice ran over her like honey, feeling warm and inviting, yet the mystery that surrounded him made Lily feel uneasy.

At first, she did not move at all, but then she felt a compelling, invisible force pull her forward, one rigid step at a time. In the pit of her stomach she felt a sense of urgency, as though she were approaching danger. Her internal instincts told her to stop walking now, and she did, stopping only a few feet away from the gazebo and its occupant. It was hard though to keep her feet glued to the spot, to not walk towards him. It was as though her will power was being

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challenged, yet Lily could not figure out what was wrong. She kept her eyes lowered to the ground, afraid to look ahead, afraid to look at him.

Suddenly, a white gloved hand appeared beneath her face, open and waiting to receive her hand.

She did not even hear him approach her.

“I understand your fear, Lily.

You are lost, but not alone. So long as I am with you, you have nothing to fear.”

Curiosity got the best of her now, as Lily found herself wondering what the king looked like. Her gaze slowly drifted up, till she met a pair of winter blue eyes that penetrated her like ice. He was very handsome, with long golden hair and flawless white skin. He was tall and lean, perfect in every physical way, like a statue of a Grecian god. He wore an assortment of white robs dressed with white feathers. About his neck there hung an unknown creature’s claw grasping a crystal ball. Lily felt her defenses fall under his gaze.

“Please,” he said, indicating his extended hand, which Lily took without a second thought.

The king led her to the gazebo, which illuminated as he stepped onto the wooden platform. When Lily stepped on, an invisible source of music began to softly play, with violins and flutes. The king quickly pulled her in close to him, taking her right hand in his left, placing her left hand on his shoulder, and grasping her waist tightly with his right. At once, they began to dance.

Lily was resistant and awkward in the king’s arms. For one thing, she did not know how to dance, but more importantly, she felt afraid of him.

“Do not resist, Lily,” said the king, his voice still warm and compelling. “I will lead you.”

“Why am I here?” she boldly asked, trying to break the spell. Her 16 • bohemia • january 2014

mind reeled with questions and did not want to get caught up in the fantasy she was sure the king was trying to spin. She wanted answers, despite the unexplainable sense of happiness she felt sweeping over her.

“You are here, because you wished to be.”

“I do not remember making a wish to come here.”

“You surely did. You wished to go somewhere beyond the reach of those that were chasing you. Those were your last words before you hit your head.”

Her head! Lily felt a startling fear as she realized she had forgotten her accident. The pain in her forehead returned and she winced as it swelled.

“Do not think about it, Lily,” said the king, laying a warm kiss to her forehead where the tree limb had laid the blow.

Lily gasped as the pain immediately faded.

“What did you just do?” she asked, touching her forehead.

“I made it go away. I can make anything go away.”

Lily was bothered with the realization that she had forgotten her accident, that it was completely wiped away from her memory till the king mentioned it. What else had she forgotten?

“Why did I wish that?” she asked.

The king looked at Lily with a curious smile.

“Who was chasing me? And why did I wish to get away from them?”

Lily started to feel uneasy inside as she racked her brain for answers, but none came to her. Perhaps the blow to her head had caused amnesia.

“You were running away from home, away from your parents and the stable hands.”

“But why?” exclaimed Lily.

“I cannot remember.” She pulled away from the king, looking out at the garden in disarray.

The king sighed. “Rather than tell you, I can show you. Look.”

Lily turned about and was surprised to notice for the first time a large silver mirror hanging on the gazebo’s post. The mirror reflected nothing, but contained a swirling fog in its glass.

“Come, look into the mirror, Lily,” said the king, “And it will show you what you have lost.”

Lily cautiously approached the mirror and gazed into the glass.

The fog suddenly cleared and she saw herself standing in the living room of her house yelling at her parents.

“How could you do this?” she heard herself shout.

“It is for the betterment of your future, Lily,” said her mother, busy with her needlework.

“He comes from a respectable family and is to inherit a great deal of land,” said her father, flipping through letters.

“I don’t care who he is. You cannot force me to marry someone.”

Lily watched her father turn on her and yell unintelligible words. The fog returned and the last image Lily saw was of herself running out the front door. She staggered back, feeling nauseous, and the king caught her as she backed into him.

“How could I forget that?” said Lily in a weak voice.

“It is not your fault, Lily. In my world, you forget your troubles.

They are wiped away forever.”

“But, I don’t want to forget.”

Lily started to pull away, but the king held her fast.

“Why not forget? What good does it do you to remember anything that hurts you?”

Lily did not answer.

“That was not the only reason you ran though, Lily. There is

more to your story than meets the eye. Do you remember why your parents wanted you to marry a man of their choice? Or do you care to remember?” He pointed to the mirror as the fog cleared once more.

Lily’s eyes grew a little wider and her jaw slackened as an image of Tom appeared in the glass.

“That’s right,” she whispered, as everything fell into place in her memory. “My parents did not like me being friends with Tom. They said he was beneath us and that being friends with him would ruin my reputation.”

Lily moved away from the king and gripped the gazebo railing for support. “They arranged my marriage to a man of our class so that they would not be embarrassed by their daughter being friends with a lower class man. That’s what they said, but I knew the truth. They were afraid I might fall for Tom.”

“And, have you?” asked the king.

Lily was surprised by the question. “I- I don’t know. I think of Tom more as an older brother than anything else. He taught me how to ride. I taught him how to read. He taught me how to fish. I taught how to sew. We do a lot of things together.

We’re friends.”

“But your parents did not see this as a good thing.”

“Anything I do that is not their way, they see as a bad thing,” retorted Lily, her nails gripping the wood of the railing. “They make me so mad sometimes. Sometimes I wish I could get away from them, far away.”

“And you have,” said the king, taking Lily’s hand and turning her head with his two fingers to look at him. “I granted your wish, and now it is up to you to decide.”

Lily looked at the king peculiarly. “Decide what?”

There was a brief moment of

silence before the king kissed Lily, his warm lips locking with her’s in a powerful embrace.

Stunned and caught off guard, Lily pulled away and stared at the king in bewilderment. “What are you doing?” she exclaimed.

“I am making you an offer,” said the king. “A once-in-a-lifetime offer.”

Lily took a step back, but the king firmly held her left hand.

“I can give you anything and everything, Lily. Anything you want, it shall be yours. This world and everything in it can be yours.”

Lily’s eyes grew wide.

“And not just this,” the king continued. “If you want the sun or the moon, I can place it in your hands.” He demonstrated, holding two fingers up to the moon and pulling it down from the sky.

Lily gasped as he surely did place the moon in her hands. It only sat there for a moment though. When she closed her fingers on it, the white orb returned to its spot in the sky.

“I can give you the seasons.

If you do not like this winter, I can give you the spring. If you do not desire summer, I will make it fall.”

“Wait, wait –” started Lily, finding everything the king said overwhelming to take in at once.

“I can make you whatever you want to be, Lily. In fact, I have already done so, my princess.”

Gently grasping her arms, the king spun Lily around to face the mirror once more, and he smiled as she caught her breath at the image she saw looking back at her.

“Is that really me?” asked Lily.

“Yes. It is no illusion.” The king released Lily as she walked towards the mirror.

In the glass, Lily saw a young maiden dressed in a beautiful white ball gown, with crystal shards embroidered into the fabric, so that

with every move she made, the dress shimmered. A crown of diamond barrettes fitted her head and her long dark hair fell in ringlets about her bare shoulders. There was a strange white glow about her, as though she was truly healthy and beyond mortal limits. Her nervous hands ran over her hair and her body, feeling the hard diamonds and the soft fabric of the dress. She then took a step back and looked down to see the dress lift as she twirled.

“This is unbelievable,” she said, grasping her arms to hold herself. “This sort of thing only happens in fairytales.”

“Then consider this your fairytale, my sweet princess.” The king stepped forward and took Lily’s left hand once more. “It can be yours.”

Holding out his other hand, he revealed a silver ring to Lily.

“I have a proposal for you, Lily. If you wish to stay here and rule over everything you see before you, you need only tell me and accept this ring. With this ring, you shall be bound to this world forever.”

Lily looked up at the king with nervous eyes. “Forever? That’s a really long time.”

“It’s only forever. Not long at all.”

Lily looked at the king, then at the garden, and lastly at the ring.

What do I do?

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Fire Ivy

by Kaspar Wilder

I lay in darkness.

Ivy grew on walls of regret, And the ivy grew up from fire.

Fire ivy, burning its truth into my weak heart.

Growing like fire, scorching the moon.

I thought the sun would never rise again.

I thought I was already dead, as I lay there, Not awake, not asleep, unsure of who I was, In a deadly twilight.

Then flames sprouted like talons from ivy, Ivy that choked the tears and burned the water, Ivy that incinerated the regrets and forced me up.

I stood and I grew tall, Born from fire and bitter ivy.

The twilight will not frighten me again.

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Once Upon A Dream

by Pete Able

Logline: Three princesses trapped in a dreary world inhabited by goblins and a three-headed hydra must find a way to rescue Prince Ambien.

FADE IN: EXT. STEEP CLIFF - DAY ASTORIA, pink gown torn to shreds, blonde hair sticking to her dirty, high cheekbones, clings to the edge of a precarious cliff face.

Wind and rain LASH the stone as her fingers strain to maintain hold. A lightning bolt STRIKES above, sending small rocks like shrapnel around her.

SKYLA (O.S.) Astoria! Are you sure this is right?

Astoria spits hair away from her mouth and turns to see SKYLA, blue and yellow gown soaked and clinging to her sallow skin, jet black hair plastered to her skull.

She is standing on better footing than Astoria, but her ruby red lips tremble in the cold.

Below them, BIANCA struggles to take a step as her heeled shoe gets caught in her green gown. Her brown hair falls in tight little curls around her ears and shoulders. Her WHIMPERS are audible even above the fury of the storm.

ASTORIA Just keep climbing! We’re almost to the top!

BIANCA I can’t do this!

Astoria levels a firm gaze on Bianca.

ASTORIA You can, and you will.

BIANCA No, I really really really really cannot do this. I’ve got blisters!

SKYLA You chose to wear the heels, sister, not us. Now shut your pie-hole!

SKYLA (TO ASTORIA) I swear I’ll push her off this cliff myself if I have to listen to her whine for one more minute.

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ASTORIA I can see the top. We’re almost there.

EXT. EDGE OF CLIFF – DAY Astoria helps Skyla over the edge.

They collapse on top of one another.

From below…

BIANCA (O.S.) Hello? Don’t leave me! I promise I won’t complain any…

and Skyla tumbles backwards. The cliff cracks more, shifting earth. Bianca SCREAMS. Far beneath her, sharp rocks loom like daggers.

Skyla rushes forward once more and wraps her arms around Astoria’s waist.

She looks over Astoria’s shoulder. A pack of gray-skinned, hairy-backed goblins scurries spider-like up the cliff.

Oh dear.

SKYLA

SKYLA We’re not leaving you! Act like a princess for once!

Astoria sees them as well. In seconds, the long-nosed creatures are within jumping distance of Bianca.

The leader bares his fangs.

Skyla and Astoria peer over the edge together.

Bianca sees Astoria’s face, her eyes wide with fear.

Bianca clings to a tree branch, shoes scraping rock as she tries to find a foothold. She SCREAMS.

BIANCA What is it what is it what is it?

ASTORIA Give me your hand!

SKYLA Use both hands, Bianca!

What?

BIANCA

ASTORIA Don’t listen to her. Give me your hand, I’ll pull you up.

Bianca, CRYING PITIFULLY, reaches up with one hand. Astoria takes hold and pulls. As she does, part of cliff’s edge starts to crack and give way.

Skyla!

ASTORIA

Skyla grabs Astoria’s gown. It RIPS

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The head goblin leaps and sinks his teeth into Bianca’s meaty calf. Bianca’s SCREECH echoes across the mountainside.

Hold on!

ASTORIA

Astoria and Skyla strain against the weight of Bianca and the hobgoblin.

Bianca tries kicking him free, but his grip holds fast, blood streaming from her leg and down the monster’s face.

The other goblins prepare to pounce just as the edge of the cliff RUMBLES and gives way.

The three princesses tumble backwards. The goblin snacking on Bianca flies overhead and lands in a wicked looking thorn bush.

The crumbling cliff wall takes out the remaining goblins, who HOWL like wild animals to their deaths.

Astoria, Skyla, and Bianca lay on each other in a heap, breathing great gasps of air as the rain pelts their bodies.

Bianca opens her eyes to see the goblin detangle itself and hurl it’s body forward in a rage, teeth bared. S h e closes her eyes and screams as it leaps.

Skyla’s fist lands squarely on the goblin’s jaw, jolting it backward. It recovers, lunges with a bloodthirsty BELLOW, and buries its teeth into Astoria’s shoulder.

She rolls on top of the goblin and grabs the hair on its head, pounding it into the unforgiving stone. Bianca scrambles away, left leg trailing gingerly.

Skyla picks up a large rock and smashes it across the goblin’s forehead. The beast’s eyes lock open, then close slowly as green blood oozes from behind its head.

Astoria stands, clutching her injured shoulder.

ASTORIA Hate those things.

BIANCA I hate this place. It’s a nightmare.

I want to go home. (screaming like a maniac) I want to go HOME! ASTORIA The quickest way home is through there.

She points toward a cavern opening. A stone gargoyle perches on a pedestal

above the cave. Beyond and above, a ruinous castle is etched into the mountainside. The lightning eluminates several ominous spires.

ASTORIA Prince Ambien is up there somewhere.

Waiting for one of us to rescue him with love’s true kiss. That’s the only way we ever get out of here.

BIANCA So many others have tried.

They all disappear. And I can’t walk. Look what the beastly thing did to my beautiful leg.

No.

BIANCA

Skyla grabs Bianca under her arms and begins dragging her toward the cliff.

SKYLA Then back down you go.

Skyla.

ASTORIA

BIANCA Let me go you witch! You are no princess!

ASTORIA I don’t know.

BIANCA I’m getting a drink, that’s what.

She dips her hand into the cool water, SLURPS, and splashes her grimy face.

SKYLA All better sweetie?

Bianca sticks her tongue out at Skyla.

She steps all the way into the fountain and begins scrubbing her arms and legs.

Bianca lifts her hurt leg. Half a dozen deep puncture wounds ooze blood.

Skyla drops her rudely.

SKYLA Please don’t do that.

SKYLA What about the hydra?

ASTORIA We’ll take turns carrying her. Come on.

Bianca WINCES.

ASTORIA That’s why we climbed this way. The hydra guards the entrance far below.

This way we avoid the horrid thing altogether.

BIANCA Hybra or no hybra…

Hy-DRA.

Whatever. walk.

Can you hop?

No. Limp?

SKYLA

BIANCA I’m telling you I can’t SKYLA BIANCA SKYLA

INT. CASTLE Bianca rides piggy-back on Skyla.

Astoria leads the way, torch in hand flicking shadows on the walls. Hieroglyphics adorn the walls. They depict women being eaten by a three- headed dragon and a man lying behind a golden curtain.

Soon the princesses enter an open area with two corridors leading in opposite directions. A fountain with a demonlike creature holding two broad swords sits in the middle of the stone walkway.

Water rushes from the demon’s mouth into the pool underneath.

Skyla sets Bianca down on the edge of the fountain.

Now what?

BIANCA Ooh. It stings my owee.

She steps back quickly, bumping into the demon statue’s arm. The swordarm drops, snagging Bianca’s dress.

The GRINDING of stone on stone pierces the room as two more corridors open up.

Down one hallway, a prince lies stomach down on a golden bed covered by a golden canopy.

His arm dangles off the edge, and he SNORE-WHISTLES softly.

The other corridor reveals the hydra, heads and necks twisting like serpents.

It ROARS, prehistoric and savage, and lumbers forward.

ASTORIA It’s Prince Ambien!

SKYLA It’s the hydra!

SKYLA

January 2014• bohemia • 23

BIANCA (struggling to free herself) Help!

Somebody!

I can’t…

One of the hydra’s heads appears next to Bianca. It SNIFFS her wounded leg before closing its jaws around it.

The hydra lifts her high into the air, and with a flick of its neck it flings her, SCREAMING, before snatching her right out of the air in a single gulp.

Astoria and mouthed.

Skyla

gape,

open-

SKYLA Wow. I actually didn’t think that would happen.

ASTORIA Run! There’s still time.

Astoria and Skyla sprint for the golden bed.

The hydra licks its lips. Six eyes narrowing, it SMASHES through the fountain in pursuit.

INT. GOLDEN BEDROOM Skyla arrives first. She lunges for the bed and struggles to turn Prince Ambien onto his back. A strand of drool

stretches from the mattress to his mouth. His beard is stubbly, hair unkempt, and as he collapses onto his back he releases a sleep belch.

SKYLA Disgusting. But I want out of this accursed place, whatever it takes.

She leans in to kiss him, but just as her lips are about to touch she is shoved aside by Astoria.

24 • bohemia • january 2014

up hurriedly and embraces him.

ASTORIA I don’t think so. I got us here, and ASTORIA I’m the one getting out.

You’ve saved me!

Astoria turns to kiss Prince Ambien but hesitates when she sees his ghastly appearance. Behind them, the hydra ROARS as it closes on its prey. Skyla grabs Astoria by the hair and yanks her way. She moves to Ambien but Astoria kicks her feet out from under her.

PRINCE True love’s kiss. Dream well did you?

ASTORIA You have no idea.

The prince stands and extends his hand. She accepts and lights graceSkyla’s head strikes the edge of the fully from the bed. bed, stunning her briefly.

They embrace and kiss once more, She shakes off the cobwebs and passionately. sits up in time to see Astoria’s lips touch Ambien’s in a chaste kiss.

ASTORIA Shall we?

Astoria disappears!

The prince smiles sheepishly.

Ambien sits up and GROANS, rubs his temple. He looks at Skyla in PRINCE There is one thing. confusion, then smiles at her pleasant face and appropriately propor- Astoria offers a confused look, then tioned figure. He looks beyond her hears a low, unearthly GROWL and his face fades into a cynical from the doorway. smirk.

A nasty ogre’s head appears, scaly, The hydra is upon them, necks monstrous, dripping steaming sadancing through the air, ready to liva, and most definitely hungry. strike.

CUT TO BLACK Skyla looks at Ambien, shrugs and smiles apologetically.

THE END AMBIEN Well don’t that beat all.

INT. ASTORIA’S CASTLE Astoria’s eyes flutter open. Sitting at her side, a handsome prince. She sits

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January 2014• bohemia • 25

The Hallway of Doors E

by William Blackrose

mily shot up from the bed, screaming. She fell silent as she looked around. She did not recognize where she was but every wall was decorated with treasured memories, some of which she never knew there were pictures of; her first medal in gymnastics, her first bike. She blushed when she saw a snapshot of her first real kiss. As she looked around, she tried to make sense of things. The last memory she had was her head snapping around to stare at the driver of the truck that hit her, and then waking in this strange room.

She pulled back the blankets, surprised that there were no bandages.

She gingerly lowered her feet to the floor, bracing for the cold tile, only to find the floor warm. She saw a robe hanging from a hook on the bedpost.

Pulling it on, she wondered why she had not noticed the robe at first. She tied the belt and continued to look around the room. She called out for a nurse or anyone and heard only an echo. As she circled the room the second time, she saw a recessed door to one side of the first picture. How had she missed that before? She tried the door and it opened easily. She felt a slight tremor in the floor, chalking it up to her imagination as the door swung open revealing a broad curved hallway. As she walked along, this place became even more curious. Every door she opened was filled with pictures, paintings and such. All of it was from different parts of her life.

She saw one door different from the others. It was locked from the outside. Curiosity got the best of her and she unlocked the door, slowly tugging the door open to peek inside. The lighting in the room was dim, but she could make out a life size photo of her uncle, the mean one, and quickly shut the door. She locked it with a shudder.

She had blocked out much of that summer, and did not want to revisit it. She moved on, leaving the locked doors 26 • bohemia • january 2014

closed. The hall seemed to go on forever, or circled in on itself. She was not sure which. She finally came back around to the door she originally came through. She had left it open, but now it was closed. She pulled on the door in frustration but it would not open.

Someone must have locked it behind her.

Emily turned, leaning against the door and looked up to see that the door across the hallway was ajar. She sighed and opened it. It opened to a garden of some kind. Everything was bright and familiar. She felt at peace here, but it somehow seemed strange at the same time. It was like something she remembered, but it was not quite there. Then she saw it. Out in the middle of the lake was a doorway, half submerged in the water. She could see the doorway but not beyond it. What was going on? She saw there was a small raft at the edge of the dock and climbed aboard. There was no poles so she tried to use her hands to row herself closer. About halfway across, the raft collapsed, dumping her in the water.

She came spluttering to the surface, spitting water as her mind was jumbled with disjointed visions.

She could feel a current pulling her toward the door and did not fight it. She wanted to go there anyway. Every few feet, she would sink beneath the water and get flashes of images. Bright lights and people dressed in masks. Then she would surface and see the door again.

She began swimming towards it, and then panicked when the current began to get stronger. She wanted to slow down but now she couldn’t. There was only darkness beyond the doorway and for some reason that terrified her. She remembered seeing her uncle in that dark room and did not want to know what awaited her in that watery room anymore. She was swimming as hard as she could but losing ground. Her head submerged again. Bright lights

and murmuring, then her head broke the surface again. Her feet were scraping the edge of the doorway and there was a flood of darkness.

She felt herself dry and prone on a bed again. Familiar voices filled the room. She tentatively opened her eyes, feeling waves of pain wash over her as her eyes focused on her mother’s face hovering over her. She could not speak, there was something blocking her mouth. She darted her eyes around, seeing white walls, plants, and a window revealing a blue sky. She heard her mother yelling for someone but her mind was groggy. Why couldn’t she move? She let her eyes trail down her own body, seeing plaster casts and bandages with a green gown draped across her. What was going on? Her mother was back, and speaking to her.

What was she saying?

“Welcome back, baby girl. We thought we’d lost you for a while.”

She wanted to ask why had happened, then the memories flooded back to her. The truck slamming into her driver side door, the shooting pain through her body, then nothing.

She glanced around, seeing the nurse come in and smile. She spoke, but not to Emily.

“I’m glad to see this. After this long, many do not wake from this deep a coma. Your daughter is a fighter. Her breathing is steady. I’ll tell the doctor so they can remove the breathing tube” The nurse smiled at Emily and patted her harm before leaving the room. Her mother held her hand and spoke softly.

“We’ll get through this, baby girl. It’ll be hard, but we’ll get through this like we have everything else. I’m just glad you came back to me.”

She felt the darkness pull at her mind, but fought it long enough to hear her mother say, “I love you.”

The End

January 2014• bohemia • 27

28 • bohemia • january 2014

A Crow’s Choice

by Cassandra Arnold

“Take this key. Enter, and find your destiny.”

I

must have heard those words a hundred times, ever since I was old enough to slip away from the household chores and climb the hill, to watch the Highborn come of age. You could buy toy labyrinths in the market place but we never had the money to get one, so we made our own. We laid out a path in the meadows with small stones, pebbles really, in place of the megaliths. Henrietta wrote us our fortunes in charcoal on willow bark and we watched, a gaggle of girls so solemn and quiet, as each one walked the path in turn. I only did it once. When Henrietta died, crushed by a runaway wagon on the road, it wasn’t the same.

But I kept what she had giv-

en me, folded in a pouch about my neck:

When crow and seagull roost beside, your destiny you must decide.

T

he Highborn standing in front of the great wall that surrounded the labyrinth was the sickliest I had ever seen. She wavered in the cold air on thin twisted legs that looked like broken reeds. Without her sticks, I thought she would already have fallen.

I breathed on my hands to warm them and crouched down in the shelter of the ditch. At least it was out of the wind. Not many people had come out to watch. Summer walkers usually had a crowd to cheer them on, a crowd that bought ale and pies from the merchants,

threw petals and whistled and cheered, especially for the young men that might pay for later nighttime pleasures with a bag of coin.

But this slip of a girl was walking near mid-winter and she was almost alone.

As I watched, the Guardian hauled the heavy door open. The black stones of the path gleamed wet and hungry as a shag’s gullet.

She won’t come back.

The thought was as cold and as clear as ice, as if it came from outside of me, from the stream or the wood or the world itself. I shivered and drew my cloak closer, not that there was much warmth left in the fabric.

The labyrinth is huge.

That too I knew to be true, and that too came as a thought from about me. I turned my head as a January 2014• bohemia • 29

crow swooped low and settled in the oak that leant over the stream, and then, I saw a gull wheel against the disk of the sun and call and dive behind the girl and in one breath I was up and running, my cloak left trampled in the mud behind me, the frost searing my lungs, but I had to be there. I had to get there before the Guardian handed her the key. I had to help.

“Proxy,” I shouted, flinging myself at their feet, startling the gull into another wheeling flight that took it away over the hill and toward the sea. “I will run proxy for you.”

The Guardian stood frozen, his hand clenched on the key as if it were melded to his palm. No one had uttered those words before.

The girl gazed at me with unblinking lavender eyes. For a moment, I wondered if she was blind as well as lame, but seemingly not, for she nodded slowly as understanding dawned. No one could enter the labyrinth more than once, and who would give up their birth right for another? Only a commoner with no birth right to lose.

W

alking the path was both easier and harder than I had imagined. Small creatures skittered into damp crevices as I passed. I pushed aside curtains of ivy and spider web, watching my breath hang like tiny ghosts in the still air that was scented with the whiff of decay and the weight of centuries.

I knew the way.

My feet took me, one step at a time, to the centre of the maze, where my heart skipped beats and fluttered like a caged bird that sees the cat. A wooden chest sat alone 30 • bohemia • january 2014

on a dusty plinth under the pale sun.

The key stuck to my sweat soaked hands as I tried to slide it into the lock.

Would I steal her dreams?

What if opening it gave me her destiny? I trembled violently as desires raged within me. Hope for something different. Hope for escape.

And the wish to see a smile touch those lavender eyes.

I swallowed and a whimper escaped my lips as I slid the key into my pocket and lifted the chest and scurried back the way I had come, slipping and sliding in the shadows of the twists and turns.

The chest grew heavier as I ran. Seemed to grow a mill stone within it, to turn from ash to oak, to marble, to the weight of death itself.

It might have been magic. It might have been fear. I knew not.

But when I finally reached the gate and fell across the threshold back into the day, I dropped it with a gasp and it shattered into a thousand fragments at their feet.

The Guardian sank to his knees with a groan, his staff forgotten at his side. He scrabbled in the ruins of the thing, searching, searching… I too bent to help, believing there would be a paper, a token, something of her destiny hidden beneath.

But there was nothing.

I looked up at the girl. Her eyes were closed. A tear ran from under her lids and shone bright as a dew drop in the silent sun.

Her words drifted down to me, gentle as snow.

“I am free.”

I shook my head in doubt at what she said, and she whispered again, leaning perilously over to be sure that I heard.

“No destiny... No dream woven for me by another, no words to rule my life.”

She smiled, straightening herself above her sticks and staring out across the village to the ocean and the ships and the distant, rosecoloured sky where gulls swooped and called.

“I will leave this place,” she said. “I will find my path, make my path, seek out all that calls me and only I need know the reasons why.”

I stood straight beside her, and took her hand in mine.

“I will go with you,” I said.

“For I also have dreams to find.”

And we turned and departed that place, leaving the Guardian crouching alone above the remnants of the past, like a mournful crow.

The End

January 2014• bohemia • 31

String

by Ty Hall

I

n the corner of a dusty workshop, a cat manipulates a ball of yarn just before going in for the kill as Icarus approaches, trailing his toy dog behind himself by a string around its neck. The figurine was carved from oak by his father with free-moving legs connected by balls in joints and hinges. The lifelike toy sends the cat scampering away and the ball of string rolls beneath the carpenter’s bench where Daedalus leans looking down at his boy. His offspring. Strands of duplicate recognition. Lines that, if drawn on a page, hang down like the tentacles of a man o’ war facing land, floating just below the surface in every cell. The branches tangle down plotting out life, a series of decisions and choices making paths. A single misstep can cost another’s life; not their death, even, but their never having been. Blood, or more its lines, ran thin with Daedalus. His sister killed herself when he killed her son. Pride comes before a fall, and Daedalus threw his nephew over a cliff. Hubris destroys the things you love; engulfed by waves, as all men ultimately are.

And more blood would be on Daedalus’ hands. His son’s, in fact. But Daedalus didn’t know that yet. It was already written, though still to be read.

So Daedalus, wanted for murder, hides away in a dusty shop where he draws lines at the request of a king, as all men ultimately do, whether they know it or not. It was here, in Crete, where he built Ariadne’s dance floor: Ariadne of the spiral moon, the white and utterly pure Dancing Goddess of the 32 • bohemia • january 2014

Labyrinth. But she wasn’t a goddess yet. Someday her lover would string her along and abandon her on an island, and the god of hedonism would make her his bride. Though she didn’t know it yet, her story was already woven in the tapestry of history in double-crisscrossed threads. Tonight she is only a mistress dancing at the grand opening of Daedalus’ dancehall as the band plucks lyra strings in two-four time, the vibrations of which set bodies in motion, all spinning intertwined in the controlled and measured chaos of harmony and tempo. It was said there are some three arts concerned with everything: the user’s, the maker’s, and the imitator’s. And Daedalus is the architect.

Meanwhile Minos sought a sacrifice, and he prayed for one.

Even kings must pay penance, though perhaps not pay as paupers do. Perhaps to kings all things are given, while those below work for those things. Maybe the gods, too, should pay propitiation for taunting men with perfection, as they granted Minos a bull. White and utterly pure. Too perfect, it seemed, to reinvest in the gods who provided it.

For every cause there is effect. For every action there is consequence.

And the gods punish with irony.

The things you love are taken by love, and sometimes, when mistakes are made, love is mistaken for lust.

It was said Daedalus’ sculptures were so lifelike, they were bound at night lest they awake. So Pasiphea, the queen, went to Daedalus in secret. She commissioned a cow coequal to the consecrated,

colorless creature, in which to consummate her carnal cravings. So she slipped inside the duplicate, and its duplicate spiral strands slipped into her. And the Minotaur was born—that cruel and hungry joke of the gods. An accident, perhaps, but no mistake.

The king could not face the facts of his faithlessness. So Minos went to Daedalus in secret and commissioned a prison to contain this abomination, and Daedalus built his labyrinth to contain the consequence of his carving. It began as an inception, spiraling out through the pathways of his mind and manifesting itself in ribbons of sprawling byzantine logic. So innumerable were the paths and possibilities of deception, even the creator could not easily find his way back. The Minotaur roamed the maze and the mind of Minos; beast and man circling with rage, building with feedback—existing in two parts where each affects the other. And Minos, like all men do, blamed the blameless and demanded innocents to pay for his wife’s transgression, born of his own vanity. Every cause has an effect, and of fury was born a paladin.

Theseus stood as a solitary sacrifice to satiate the stomach of the sum; sanctified son of sin not surrendered. Standing in the center of the throne room wearing his white and thread-bare smock, smugly staring into the eyes of both the jealous king and mother of that error of insatiable eros. So how could she not fall in love? Time is a circle and fate is an architect. Architects draw lines, and duplicate

January 2014• bohemia • 33

34 • bohemia • january 2014

strands repeat: taunting tautological tautomers teach and trap in a spiraling and sodding double-helix.

Ariadne, like her mother, fell in love with the sacrifice.

So Ariadne went to Daedalus in secret and he gave her a clue: a wound, red ball of string. “Go forward, always down, and never left or right,” he said, and Ariadne repeated these words to her beloved.

It was with this centrist view that Theseus tied one end of his lifeline to the door and descended as his yarn unraveled.

Theseus stumbled—as all men do—drawing closer to the bull’s eye, waking the monster at his core. They struggled, and Theseus severed the sinew between the skull and sternum, removing the beast and not the man. All men are human, though some only apparently, and each with a strand of the divine. As thanks for Ariadne’s red thread he will leave her his own, and abandon her on an island to be tied with the gods. He really only loved her for what she could give him.

As a consequence of his creativity, Daedalus was imprisoned with his son in the labyrinth birthed of his mind. And like all men, he thought he could escape the complex network of his thoughts by some grand design—no mere string tied to his finger would do.

“I had a dream,” Icarus will say on their seventieth night of wandering his father’s system.

“I dreamt we were on the beach.

It was night and I looked up to see the moon. But it wasn’t the moon, it was a shell. I wanted to touch it so I flew, just like a bird, up into the dark, cold, sky. I grasped the moon in my hands, but it was a shell, and I put it to my ear and heard

the ocean. It was like the ocean was calling me. As I held it to my ear, the aperture opened wide and swallowed me head-first. I spun through the helix and came out the other side. I woke up just before I splashed into the water. What do you think it means?”

Daedalus will only be half listening to his son, because getting to the center of your mind’s work and coming out the other side unscathed are two entirely different matters. Go forward, always down, and never left or right. Walking out the front door is out of the question, as his previous discretion made all the wiser his captor. Nonetheless he answers his son.

“The moon and the ocean are connected, that’s why you concocted it as a shell, and heard the tide when you put it to your ear. The moon and the ocean are connected by strings, like a marionette. Like your toy dog. When the moon rises, so does the tide.” Though he didn’t know the word for it, he knew there were invisible forces; strings that manipulate the universe. “As for the getting there,” but Daedalus trails off, thinking of a way to rise above his work.

Daedalus constructed four wooden lattices—two smaller— fastening to them feathers with wax at their base and string at their center. He knew the string would not hold forever, so he placed his faith in the wax and instructed his son not to fly too high. The sun will melt the wax, and the string will come undone. With wings affixed, father and son take flight, as the maelstrom of dust bids them farewell in a swirling demonstration.

Like Noah’s dove and raven they flew above the rolling waves. “Remember son,” he called after Ica-

rus, “the binding is unstable. If the wax melts, there’s nothing holding you aloft but string.”

And like all fathers, he leads his son farther from the twisted prison his mind created; like all sons, Icarus disregards—or gives too much credit to—his father. With reckless abandon Icarus writes in the sky with flourished cursive his prideful valediction letter. His tail feathers waver, fluttering like baseball cards in bicycle spokes, drowning out his father’s calls. The ties that bind came undone, and Daedalus could not—or would not—go back for his son.

Icarus plunged—forwards, down— into the ocean. Engulfed in waves, as all ultimately are.

So Daedalus will take shelter in a workshop on Sicily, building constructions for another king who grants him asylum. But there will never be a joist capable of bearing the weight of guilt that weighs on a hunted father’s heavy mind.

Minos sought an escapee, so he devised a plan that was sure to draw Daedalus out. To whichever king could solve a puzzle, unimaginable riches would be given. The task: string a thread through a conch shell. Greed, it seems, often goes unpunished. The problem was sent down the line to Daedalus who, looking it over, supplied his solution. The few that gathered round looked on in bewilderment as Daedalus pierced the tip of the shell, smearing it with honey. Daedalus delicately trussed the string to an ant, which pursued the prize at the end of the coil. Daedalus pulls the string taut between his fingertips as the ant reaches the finish line, and the shell oscillates in the air as the few that gathered applaud.

Daedalus knew it was a January 2014• bohemia • 35

trick. He hoped, at least, it was.

Daedalus was tired. His mind was heavy. There are too many possible outcomes, too many variables, and a mind like his sees every one of them. Every action has a consequence. Go forwards, always down, and never left or right. But lefts and rights are inevitable. Perhaps he never left the labyrinth at all. Time itself does not move downwards only, nor strait; time is a wave. And if every action has a consequence, and there are infinite paths, each variable is its own thread, potential or otherwise. And with infinite consequences each is rendered equally inconsequential.

And if everything is inconsequential, why not simply dangle from a string like a carrot before a horse, seemingly stationary while moving forward? ‘Why not dangle from a string?’ he thought, looking out over the waves from his bedroom window. So that’s what he did.

And the world moved forward.

W

hen I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. Though now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face.

Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I am also known.

My mother used to crossstitch. I would sit on the ground, drawing or cutting paper, and look up at the incoherent tangle of strings dangling below the canvass.

It never made any sense until I sat 36 • bohemia • january 2014

up in her lap and looked down at the threads overlapping each other; crisscrossed patterns telling the story, drawing the curtains of the window to a moment.

God once asked: “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Tell me if you have understanding. Surely you know!” He taunts. “Or who stretched the line upon it? To what were its foundations fastened? Or who laid its cornerstone, when the morning stars sang together?”

A mistake, perhaps, but no accident. It all hangs upon a string.

Reality is flexible because time is flexible. It ties itself up into knots like an anxious child. It’s a conversation; a dance, with the strings vibrating like mandolins creating infinite harmonies weaving together to make infinite universes. Lower the submediant of the Mixolydian and converse with the Creator, who sits up in the sky and knows reality itself is contingent upon where one stands in the universe; each of us walking that tightrope He strings taut between His fingertips. So the observed demands of the observer ‘See things as I see them.’

And maybe Atropos looks down with her abhorred shears at the sheer audacity of it all, and is displeased with the tapestry she’s woven. Maybe she decides to cut the thread. Maybe with a razor edge I am Atropos. Maybe the story isn’t finished yet. The future looms, warped and weft. If I look up I might see the selvedge and salvage what’s left by grabbing at the dangling threads that keeps it all from unraveling. Maybe I can pull myself up, following the string. Maybe I can find my way back home.

But for now, my coffee is getting cold as I look out the win-

dow of another truck-stop diner situated someplace between Point A and Point B. Headlights speed by in the early morning fog like a parade of ghosts on the highway, north or south. I’m the only one here, save the waitress who looks no older than twenty-two. God, save the waitress. Her teeth are bad from years of boredom but the rest of her is pretty. The nametag on her bleached white apron reads ‘Anna,’ and it suits her. A palindrome. She paces ellipses between her post and the jukebox, feeding it nickels. She’s making her way down a fairly comprehensive list of Elton John’s greatest hits, and pulls a remote control from behind a stack of menus to raise the volume. The bass notes make circles in my cup and I see myself dissolve away, as I am also known. Anna picks at the loose string on the hem of her apron. Disinterested, she looks up and freshens my drink on the way to the jukebox.

The universe is a melody, and the stars sing.

The End

January 2014• bohemia • 37

about the artist Hello!

My name is Monique Munoz. I’m just a simple girl from Toronto, Canada. I day dream too much and I love to laugh.

Monique Munoz

an artist. I know I have such a long My art is a way for me to express way ahead of me…but I’m ready inner emotions that I simply cannot I’m just a simple girl from Toronto, for the challenges along the way if communicate verbally. I always Canada. I day dream too much and I it means maturing and grasping a use personal experiences and my better understanding of life. love to laugh. feelings associated to that moment as inspiration for most of my art.

My art is a way for me to express inner Since colour choices are nearly inemotions that I simply cannot commufinite on computers, my favourite nicate verbally. I always use personal medium is digital. I’m very fond of experiences and my feelings associbright colours since I feel it reflects ated to that moment as inspiration for my optimistic personality. I enjoy most of my art. Since colour choices making people smile or feeling any are nearly infinite on computers, my kind of emotions through my art. favourite medium is digital. I’m very fond of bright colours since I feel it reMy goals as an artist would be to flects my optimistic personality. I entravel to many different countries joy making people smile or feeling any and expose my pieces to the world. kind of emotions through my art.

I also want to create art that anyone can connect with, regardless what My goals as an artist would be to travel your interest, background or even to many different countries and expose age are. my pieces to the world. I also want to create art that anyone can connect with, I’m still growing as a person and regardless what your interest, background or even age are.

“

I’m still growing as a person and an artist. I know I have such a long way ahead of me…but I’m ready for the challenges along the way if it means maturing and grasping a better understanding of life.

”

38 • bohemia • january 2014

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Bonnie Neagle Photography Makeup by Alex Williams

Land lost in wonder

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Aliceology

by C. R. Resetarits

A girl as simple, as rich as last night’s boiled lamb stew.

A kittenish girl, Alice - school age, pigtails, knobby knees -- and her infatuation with one who hardly knows or cares if she persists: bad boy, leporine, reserved, lately late. Oh how she pesters, loopy-hand notes, moony-eyes, stalkings through mirrors and wells, through tortuous hedges. Alice waiting at his door, knocking, mewing, threatening with girlie mischief, until he opens a crack to whisper Go away, Alice, go

but she will not go but throws herself against his door with such a lovely crack that buck is bruised, begotten, is be-fallen nonetheless.

January 2014• bohemia • 43

Models Christopher Hale & Stephanie Rystrom 44 • bohemia • january 2014

“We're all mad here.” alice’s hunt

by Gary Lee Webb

A maiden sweet did declare to seek a beast so rare, her heart’s desire e’en despite: “Beware the Sphynx, my dear, his mouth and tongue do fear, lest riddles thee deep smite.

His teeth and mighty jaws, not just his wings and claws, do more than gnaw and bite!”

Her resolve didn’t falter, she took a large halter, for when the foe she caught.

“No vorpal sword will I need to make this foe a steed, now on my way I ought.”

She took her wordy book, her quill and ink besides, fine sand the words to blot.

Above, she saw a grin, then furry, striped skin, could he the true path show?

The cat said to the girl, his eyes spinning a whirl, “Why matters where you go?

In life, you have no plan; either path be taken can: new sights you’ll see and know.”

She came to a field, where flamingos were wield, as clubs to play croquet.

Loudly “Off with her head!” the Red Queen fiercely said, but Alice wouldn’t stay.

She toppled each card, with blows very hard, and ran quickly away.

Then came to grassy maze, a field covered in haze; it seemed a likely place.

Easy to get quite lost, no one would count the cost, if sphynx this land did grace And hunt this foggy path, the lost would meet his wrath, for them he’d quickly erase.

His riddles she turned around, his words did she confound, rhyming like Homeros.

She parried with clever verse, he yielded with a curse, and bowed to her prowess: Conquered with mighty word, pen mightier than sword, helped by her Thesaurus.

January 2014• bohemia • 45

“Why is a raven like a writing-desk?” the Hatter said, turning to Alice.

“I give up,” Alice replied.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said the Hatter.”

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January 2014• bohemia • 47

Queen of Hearts

48 • bohemia • january 2014 Model Jocelyn Fulbright

Q

January 2014• bohemia • 49

? d e r s e s o r y ing m t n i a p n e e b Who’s

t n i a t o t s Who dare t n i a p r a g l With vu ? d e b r e w o l f l a y o r e Th

50 • bohemia • january 2014

Who’s been painting my roses red?

For painting m y roses red Someone will lo se his head.

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“I can’t go back to yesterday

I was a

52 • bohemia • january 2014

different person then.”

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“Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”

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January 2014• bohemia • 55

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M.C. Escher

by Jessica Purser

I

f you remember the scene in Inception where Arthur is explaining how to build a dream to Ariadne, you’ve seen work inspired by M. C. Escher - the Penrose Steps, first described and published in 1958. The steps themselves are an impossible object built by Lionel Penrose and his son, Roger, but the idea came from Escher’s work on continuous steps.

Escher eventually created his own model of the impossible object two years later in Ascending and Descending and further developed it in Waterfall in 1961.

Ascending and Descending is more than just the creation of an impossible object though; Escher intended it as a commentary on people who toil endlessly and uselessly.

Escher was born in the Netherlands in 1898 and was often sick and a poor student as a child; it was at the Haarlem School of Architecture and Decorative Arts

where he learned to draw and make woodcuts. He met his wife while traveling in Italy and had intended to stay there; however, when Fascism began to develop in force, the family then moved to Switzerland and Belgium before setting back in the Netherlands where he stayed until he died in 1972.

Although Escher did not have formal mathematical training, his most well-known work is heavily mathematical. Tessalation was of particular interest to Escher, it being a technique he picked up from Moors on a trip in the Mediterranean Sea. Tesselation is simply the tiling of an object in a plane with no gaps or overlapping and now commonly taught in primary schools.

Escher used the technique first in 1936 with China Boy. Smaller & Smaller, made in 1956, is incredibly intricate. His sense and use of space is unparalleled.

Escher’s work can be easily

dismissed at first glance because it can look cluttered and grotesque, but hidden inside pieces like Drawing Hands, Reptiles, and Path of Life III are fascinating treasures: each time you see them, you discover something new.

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Labyrinth

by A.J. Huffman

Maze

by Samuel Piccone

Wind whips through man-made tunnels, alleys acting as accelerators. The onslaught is debilitating, scrapes at my skin like sand.

Moving between silver sentinels, I am reduced to migrant ant, scurrying to avoid cracks and clomping heels. I know there is no cheese to be found, yet I hurry around another corner, then another. My feet unsteady as a newborn’s, trip over shadows that feel like holes. I know they will consume me at first touch, and I am tempted to close my eyes and let them.

For the longest time, the latch on your bedroom door had a maze for a lock, and I had long since given up on trying to get in.

But today, there was a shortcut

etched in the bronze, a straight line to release.

No curves, no hurdles,

no squeaking of brass on brass.

Inside I went, and found you naked, eating bubbles in the bathtub, cooing for me to enter and splash warm water on your back.

And I did, and it was

everything that it should be—the soap

and skin and their collision.

But the maze left a void,

and as I droned ahead at the yellow porcelain,

the squeak of a curve entered my ear— brass on brass, and the bathtub could no longer hold me.

You saw my wince, and turned the knob for warmer water.

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62 • bohemia • january 2014

Heartfelt Words Resound in Classic Fantasy Tale

by Sierra Sugar

Relativity - A state of dependence in which the existence or significance of one entity is solely dependent on that of another.

C

hildren’s stories have a way of disguising life lessons within a cleverly written adventure. The classic film “Labyrinth” by Jim Henson, with its plethora of muppets, fantasy imagery, and pop musical scenes sneaks in a hardlearned lesson of growing up.

Young Sarah transforms from being a frustrated teen feeling she has no control in a world that is against her, to a budding young woman who realizes while the world may not always be fair, she does have choices if she only stops to think rather than simply react. Much like Dorothy in L. Frank Baum’s “The Wizard of Oz” to which Henson gives acknowledgement visually in the movie, Sarah travels along a road of discovery and growth.

She collects friends along the way; friends that oddly resemble people from her real life and many of her childhood toys tucked away on the shelves of her bedroom.

The child-like Sarah, frustrated with her life is obsessed with all things fantasy. She is shown dressed in pseudo-fantasy garb.

Her dog’s name is “Merlin”. Her beloved teddy bear, when placed in her baby brother’s crib angers

her and sets off the start of the adventure, is named “Lancelot”. Her bedroom is filled with stuffed animals. On her vanity sits a music box with a beautiful ballerina wearing a dress that resembles the dress Jareth has her wear in the ballroom scene later in the film. Stuck to her vanity mirror there is a picture of her mother standing with a gentlemen who looks remarkably like Jareth. And on her shelves are books with such titles as “Where the Wild Things Are” written by Maurice Sendak which Henson gives thanks to in the movie credits, “The Wizard of Oz”, “Outside Overthere”, and “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”. Many similarities from these books can been seen throughout the story and imagery of “Labyrinth”.

“

In the first few minutes of the movie Sarah is seen rehearsing a fictitious play “Labyrinth”.

The lines she has so much trouble remembering are actually key in the climatic scene at the end of the movie, and resound the overall theme of the entire film - life is relative, dynamically changing as we grow, and learn that we have the power over our own lives instead of allowing others to control it.

Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here To the castle beyond the Goblin City, To take back the child that you have stolen, For my will is as strong as yours, And my kingdom is as great.

You have no power over me.

”

January 2014• bohemia • 63

Life is a matter of perspective. Through the choices we make we allow others and the world around us to have power over us making things seem “unfair”, much as young Sarah proclaims throughout the early half of the film. When she finally steps outside of her selfcentered little world to consider the feelings and value of others, she begins to grow up and realize that not everything is about or against her personally. Her perspective changes. The power that Jareth has over her diminishes.

64 • bohemia • january 2014

During the final encounter between Sarah and Jareth she remembers the one line she always struggles with when she was rehearsing, “You have no power over me”. It is more than a mere remembrance of line and verse, but a turning point in young Sarah herself, where she crosses that threshold of child into womanhood. A tentative early step as she realizes that she does have control over her world simply in the choices she makes and the outlook she chooses to have. She learns the value of friendship, the power of choosing her words carefully, the importance of the happiness of others, and the love she truly has for her little brother buried underneath the resentment of losing her mother.

Power is relative, and by the end of the movie Sarah’s journey reveals the power within herself to accept life instead of hiding from it, or blaming others for misfortunes.

“You have no power over me”, she confidently proclaims. With those heart-felt words she strips Jareth of his magical power she had incorrectly perceived him to have over her, which returns baby Toby to Sarah, and transports her and Toby home where all seems normal and unchanged – save for Sarah herself.

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A

s a child I had three recurring nightmares.

In the first, I balanced a giant boulder over my head on the tip of a needle. Move but a little and the stone crushed my body, pinning me to the floor. This dream was often accompanied by the feeling that my body shrank, or the room expanded, or both. I imagine modern psychiatry would link these imaginings to fears over being grounded by my parents and being confined to my room as punishment.

In the second, I’m tied to a conveyor belt along with many other strangers. The conveyor belt bounces us along a vast chamber, at the end of which is a furnace burning so brightly it is difficult to look at it directly. There’s no use trying to escape. Our bonds hold us fast. The inevitable, all-consuming blaze looms near. I see others fall into the fiery pit, nary a sound before ignition, but I never seem to ar-

66 • bohemia • january 2014

A History of Goblins

by Pete Able

A

s a child I had three recurring nightmares.

In the first, I balanced a giant boulder over my head on the tip of a needle. Move but a little and the stone crushed my body, pinning me to the floor. This dream was often accompanied by the feeling that my body shrank, or the room expanded, or both. I imagine modern psychiatry would link these imaginings to fears over being grounded by my parents and being confined to my room as punishment.

In the second, I’m tied to a conveyor belt along with many other strangers. The conveyor belt bounces us along a vast chamber, at the end of which is a furnace burning so brightly it is difficult to look at it directly. There’s no use trying to escape. Our bonds hold us

fast. The inevitable, all-consuming blaze looms near. I see others fall into the fiery pit, nary a sound before ignition, but I never seem to arrive. Heavy stuff for a six-year old.

I suppose modern psychiatry would link it to a growing understanding of my mortality. Or something.

The third nightmare is pretty straight-forward. A creature sits in the doorway to my bedroom. Graycolored and emaciated. Horns and red eyes. I can’t always see the eyes. Sometimes I only see the creature’s back and tail, and when I think I might escape unnoticed, the head slowly appears, eyes narrowed menacingly. It never attacks. It doesn’t have to. It knows I’m too scared to act. And it’s right.

Those same psychiatrists would likely dismiss this third dream

as the makings of an over-active imagination fueled by inappropriate TV. They wouldn’t bother trying to define the creature – just another demon conjured up during REM sleep. But I know what it was.

A goblin.

What is a goblin?

T

he answer depends somewhat on who you ask, and just as importantly, where you ask. There is no real consensus on the origin of goblin myths. Most likely, the idea originated in Europe, but whether from France, Germany, or England, it is difficult to say. By most accounts, goblins are grotesque versions of fairies, whose charms vary from plain mischief (upsetting

January 2014• bohemia • 67

furniture) to downright evil (eating children). Usually smaller than humans, often nomadic, and as often as not, difficult or impossible to see with the human eye – which explains why their physical descriptions have such rich variety.

Sometimes stout, or as in my dream, very thin, they typically sport thick, matted hair covering the brow, and their teeth are regularly yellow, putrid, and razor sharp. Often they are depicted with green skin, but this is a very modern tradition, comparatively.

Classically, goblins are clever creatures, often using their cunning to lure foolish travelers into traps where they might be robbed, beaten, or kidnapped (be especially careful if you are travelling with your children, especially daughters). On their best behavior, goblins are greedy and churlish. On their worst, they are malevolent, bloodthirsty ghouls of the most vindictive mindset.

Where did they come from? ne popular origin story holds that the first goblins came out of the Pyrenees mountains between France and Spain, hiding in caves and scaring children, before eventually spreading to other parts of the continent. But these foundation stories are wide-based and fluctuate greatly depending on the country.

In Great Britain, a Redcap is a kind of murderous fairy that inhabited ruined castles and murdered travelers who strayed too close, usually dying their hats with the blood of their victims – hence the name. The most famous, Robin Redcap, was actually an assistant to a lord practicing dark arts in Hermitage Castle in Scotland.

In Germany, the word for goblin is Kobold. Haunting mines and other underground places, they venture toward mischievousness rather

O

68 • bohemia • january 2014

than outright murder. I’ve made a mental note to start here for further research. There are Germanic stories from the 18th century that reference “Erlking” – a king of the elves who has a daughter that ensnares humans.

Even in Greece there are tales of short, ugly creatures that live underground and only come out during the winter to terrorize mortals.

They only appear at night, and are apparently fond of counting, as the way to dissuade them from entering your household is to put a colander on your doorstep so the goblin can count the holes. By the time he’s finished, the sun will have risen. Not the best at math, these Greek goblins.

In Korean folklore, goblins – known as Dokkaebi – play an important role of transformative justice.

While they are often frightening and grotesque and enjoy mischief, they usually employ their tricks on the antagonist of the story while rewarding the good people with wealth or other blessings. But my favorite origin story is Welsh.

Gwyn ap Nudd is a mythological figure depicted as king of the “fair folk”, and ruler of Annwn, the Welsh Otherworld. In the earliest texts he is even associated with the Arthur legend as a great warrior with a blackened face, eventually banished to Annwn to rule over the devils lest they destroy humanity. The feminine form of Gwyn in Gwen, whose root is Gwenhwyfar. Sound familiar? It’s the original Welsh form of Guinevere.

Over time his roles changed. Most notably, he guarded the woods, and Welsh travelers often invoked his name, asking for permission to enter the forest. In the English county of Somerset, there is a conical hill called the Glastonbury Tor of mysterious origins, and also linked to the Arthur legend, since supposedly Arthur and Guinevere’s coffins were found here

in AD 1191. As late as the 19th century, the Tor became known as the entryway to Annwn, whose original Lord we have learned, is Gwyn ap Nudd.

M

odern film and literature have all taken a turn depicting goblins. Prior to the 20th century, the most famous references begin with John Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” which makes reference to hobgoblins, on to the Brother’s Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen whose fairy tales are widely regarded as the standard for modern literature. George MacDonald’s “The Princess and the Goblin” drew wide praise in the 19th century.

J.R.R. Tolkien’s used the terms orc and goblin interchangeably in “The Hobbit”, though it seems goblins applied primarily to the smaller breed of orcs. J.K. Rowling’s goblins worked as overseers of the wizard bank Gringotts. Ridley Scott’s film “Legend” depicts goblins doing the bidding of a greater evil spirit known as Darkness, and as the astute Bohemian reader has probably figured out, they play a prominent role in the film “Labyrinth” by Jim Henson, where the Goblin King Jareth has kidnapped a girl’s younger brother, whom she must rescue.

N

o doubt my dreams would mean something different as an adult.

The Boulder – the weight of responsibility as a father, husband, and supervisor. The Furnace – the Ecclesiastical Solomon that sees all of us striving after dust in the wind.

And the Goblin? I haven’t seen him for many years. But I know he’s there, red eyes piercing, waiting for me to take that step across the threshold of my deepest desire.

The only question, and maybe it is a question for all of us, is whether I’ll have the courage to face him again when the time comes.

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Faithful Human ReproductionS, Hyperrealist

R

on Mueck (born 1958) is an Australian hyperrealist sculptor working in Great Britain.

Mueck’s early career was as a model maker and puppeteer for children’s television and films, notably

the film Labyrinth for which he also contributed the voice of Ludo, and the Jim Henson series The Storyteller.

Mueck moved on to establish his own company in London, making

photo-realistic props and animatronics for the advertising industry. Although highly detailed, these props were usually designed to be photographed from one specific angle hiding the mess of construction seen from the other side. Mueck

January 2014• bohemia • 71

Where will you be singing

Home Sweet Home

Find a forever home with Natalie Morphew

Natalie Morphew Natalie Morphew, Realtor nataliemorphew@gmail.com 254.229.0261 c | 254.399.7024 w www.nataliemorphew.com

72 • bohemia • january 2014

Waco, Texas is a beautiful place to live, founded in 1849 by the Huaco Indians that lived on the land in the present-day downtown area. Waco offers some major attractions, five historic homes, seven recreational venues, and nine arts organizations staging theatrical and musical productions, as well as art exhibitions.

Waco is also brimming with Texas history, economic opportunity, and a rich variety of cultural experiences.

With three college facilities including: Baylor University, McLennan Community College, and Texas State Technical Institute. The city boasts one of the of the biggest and best municipal parks in Texas, Cameron Park. The 416-acre park is located in the heart of Waco, next to downtown, situated on the Brazos and Bosque Rivers. It hosts numerous races, triathlons, boat races and more.

Mueck’s character Ludo in Jim Henson’s film Labyrinth (large puppet, top right). The concept of Ludo was influenced by creatures in Maurice Sendak’s children’s book Where The Wild Things Are, a copy of which can be seen in primary character Sarah’s bedroom.

increasingly wanted to produce realistic sculptures which looked perfect from all angles.

Dad is a rather haunting silicone and mixed media sculpture of the corpse of Mueck’s father reduced to about two thirds of its natural scale.

In 1996 Mueck transitioned to fine It is the only work of Mueck’s that art, collaborating with his mother- uses his own hair for the finished in-law, Paula Rego, to produce product. small figures as part of a tableau she was showing at the Hayward Mueck’s sculptures faithfully reGallery. Rego introduced him to produce the minute detail of the Charles Saatchi who was immedi- human body, but play with scale ately impressed and started to col- to produce disconcertingly jarring lect and commission work. This led visual images. In 1999 Mueck was to the piece which made Mueck’s appointed as Associate Artist at the name, Dead Dad, being included National Gallery, London. In 2002 in the Sensation show at the Royal his sculpture Pregnant Woman was Academy the following year. Dead purchased by the National Gallery

of Australia for AU$800,000.

The Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth, Texas showed an exhibition of thirteen of Mueck’s pieces from June 24, 2007 through October 21, 2007. The works in the show include Untitled (Seated Woman) (1999), Dead Dad (1996-97), In Bed (2005), Untitled (Big Man) (2000), Two Women (2005), Crouching Boy in Mirror (1999-2000), Spooning Couple (2005), Mask II (200102), Mask III (2005), Wild Man (2005), and A Girl (2006).

January 2014• bohemia • 73

Valley Mills

Winery

I

n the spring of 2007, Valley Mills Winery planted its first two grapevine varietals on a rocky hillside in Valley Mills, Texas. The land, which is embedded with fossils, is harsh but their grapes have flourished there. In late 2010, they opened the Winery and Tasting room (halfway between Valley Mills and Waco).

Valley Mills Winery takes great pride in assisting their grapes’ journey from vineyard to winery and into your bottle of wine. They are growing world class grapes and producing great Texas wines.

74 • bohemia • january 2014

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Behind Every Man

by Gary Lee Webb “H H

ad she done the correct thing? Atalanta had seen Theseus talking his father, King Ægeus, into including the hero among the 14 nobles to be sent to King Minos for sacrifice to the half-bull, Asterion. Theseus promised slay the beast and rescue the young sacrifices. So she quietly volunteered go to … in case Theseus needed help. Like many, she wore an elaborate coif, but hers hid a sling.

ad she done the correct thing?

Atalanta had seen Theseus talking his father, King Ægeus, into including the hero among the 14 nobles to be sent to King Minos for sacrifice to the half-bull, Asterion.

Theseus promised slay the beast and rescue the young sacrifices. So she quietly volunteered go to … in case Theseus needed help. Like many, she wore an elaborate coif, but hers hid a sling.

At Minos’s royal palace, a pretty, young woman, wearing a rich robe of rainbow hues open to the naval and a skirt with many layers of diversely-patterned flounces, “welcomed” the sacrifices with a radiant smile.

“I am Ariadne, daughter of

”

Pasiphaë and Minos the King. I hope we can make your time with us pleasant. There is a pool within the atrium, should you wish to bathe. I am having a feast prepared: we would not want you hungry! We’ll dine in the main hall when the gong sounds. You may explore the palace as you wish, but please do not attempt to leave. My father would not like it.”

Kilted guards blocked the exit; their 3-foot-long Minoan swords were known for their sharpness.

She noticed Theseus staring – typical besotted male!

Theseus looked up from Ariadne’s bare bosom and moved

forward. “Is it true that Asterion is your brother ?”

“Only half-brother. My father refused to sacrifice a white bull to Poseidon, so Aphrodite had my mother fall in love with the bull.

Asterion was the result. Never anger the Gods!”

“Those horns must have hurt!”

“Oh no, have you never seen a calf be born? The horns grew in with manhood.”

Theseus shrugged. “My home is too rocky; we only had goats nearby. But I did hear how large and mighty Asterion was; I did not expect him to have such a pretty sister. What was it like growing up with such a half-brother ?”

January 2014• bohemia • 75

The princess blushed as they walked off, chatting. Maybe the hero wasn’t such a beauty-struck fool, just coyly ingenious with words: For the feast, Theseus was seated to Ariadne’s right. They disappeared afterwards.

Atalanta searched the palace, looking for to improve their chances, but only found some rounded stones in the bottom of a fishpond.

Cinching her clothes tighter, she hid several stones inside a pleat of her tunic.

In the morning, they were escorted to a low entrance and stairs leading down. At the stairs’ bottom, the ceiling height doubled and was periodically pierced with a lightgiving shaft, capped with a grating.

Theseus seemed to be in amazingly good spirits. “What? Come!

Prove to these Cretans we are Hellenes, not afraid of anything!”

After two turns, the corridor split three ways. Theseus pulled a large ball of flaxen twine and a scabbarded Minoan sword out of his tunic. He handed one end of the twine to a fellow sacrifice: “Hold this, I should be back soon. Guard the junction.” He headed down the rightmost corridor, playing out the twine.

The thirteen remaining looked at each other in surprise. “Where did he get the sword?”

Atalanta shrugged her shoulders. “I guess he persuaded the princess. Do what he said and stay here. I’ll follow quietly in case he needs help.” She loosened her coif and pulled out the sling she had woven into her hair and followed the twine and hero.

She could hear his footfalls as Theseus strode confidently ahead.

The twine showed he turned first left then right, alternating as he tra76 • bohemia • january 2014

versed the maze. A simple pattern, if one only knew it. Occasionally she ran up a side corridor and back, getting a quick look.

Suddenly she heard him yell: “Wake up! Don’t make me kill you in your sleep!” and the bellow of a bull. Shaking her head in disbelief, Atalanta quickly snuck up to where she could see. Why did he not kill the monster asleep?

Asterion was huge: the high corridors were for his benefit. He laughed, lowered his head, and charged Theseus. The hero ran forward, sheathing sword. Dodging the wicked horns, he lept forward, grabbing them, and somersaulted over. Theseus twisted in mid-air, drew sword, and scored a glancing blow down Asterion’s back, drawing blood.

With a snarl, the half-bull turned, and charged again. Theseus once again dodged the sharp horns and vaulted. But this time as the hero drew sword, Asterion’s hand, quick as a viper, grabbed the sword.

Asterion spun around, throwing Theseus like a discus, and then tossed the sword in a corner. Asterion spread his arms wide: “Come get me!”

Theseus charged into the half-bull’s grasp and wrapped his mighty hands around Asterion’s neck, squeezing. Asterion wrapped his muscled arms around the hero’s torso, and started to crush the air out of Theseus’s lungs. Neither could breathe, as they sought to strangle the other.

This was not good. Son of Zeus or not, the hero did not have the lung capacity to match the halfbull’s. Atalanta stepped out of hiding and whirled her sling. The stone hit Asterion in the temple; the blow would have crushed a nor-

mal man’s skull. It got his attention, as it bounced off of his head.

She quickly shot him with another stone.

Asterion threw Theseus aside and charged.

Atalanta turned and ran for her life, following the twine. No man could catch her, but could the half-bull? Half-way through the maze she looked over her shoulder, she was almost a full turn ahead. Good! There were a number of options: the next time she came to one she knew, she ran into the side corridor. It had multiple sharp turns.

Asterion roared; he knew she was trapped. Hidden by the turn, she sprang for one of the light vents, pulled herself up, and pressed herself against the chimney wall. The half-bull charged past. Waiting for him to round the next bend, she climbed down, and dropped to the floor, her bare feet making little sound.

Catching her breath, she backed up to the turn, pulling out her sling.

She heard him bellow, reaching the end of the passage, and then the thunder of his approaching hooves.

She shot him again as he came into view, and then took off running, following the twine back deeper into the labyrinth.

Still wheezing, Theseus had recovered his sword. She ran past: “Your turn!” Moving well behind the hero, Atalanta showered the rushing half-bull with sling stones.

Theseus centered himself in the corridor, braced the sword with both hands, and waited for the maddened Asterion. The impact was horrendous, but Theseus guided the sword true, slicing into the mighty throat. Asterion’s body slammed into Theseus, bowling him over, but he kept his grip on the sword’s

haft, nearly decapitating the halfbull.

Theseus picked himself up and with a mighty stroke, cleft Asterion’s head off. “Ariadne wants to come with us.”

“We need her help to leave. Tell her of your victory. I shall not mention my part – glory is all yours, o Hero. Let’s go home.”

Behind every great man is a woman. But don’t tell him that!

Theseus and the Minotaur, bronze by Antoine-Louis Barye (1840)

January 2014• bohemia • 77

Not Just for Minotaurs

by Gary Lee Webb

M

ost of us know the story of the Labyrinth and the Minotaur (literally, “the Bull of Minos”) which inhabited it. It is the most famous of the labyrinths. But did you know that the ancients, world-wide, had a fascination with labyrinths? Or that the Minoan labyrinth may not have been a maze at all, but a double-headed axe?

C

urrently the oldest evidence for labyrinth mazes comes from western India. Before the ancient Europeans were painting bulls on their caves (e.g., in the Lascaux caves, 17,300 years ago), the ancient peoples around Goa, India were carving bulls into the Usgalimal caves, along with images of labyrinths (between 20,000 and 30,000 years ago). Did they associate bulls with labyrinths?

Nobody knows, but they are some of the oldest cave carvings anywhere in the world!

Of course, that is not a building, you might argue. The oldest known labyrinth edifice was reported by the historian Herodotus, when he visited the City of Crocodiles, Lake Moeris, in Egypt. He reported that it contained 3000 rooms, of which 1500 were underground. The geographer Strabon visited it five centuries later, giving a similar report. Archeo-

78 • bohemia • january 2014

logical excavations have shown that such a complex existed, and parts of it are more than 3900 years old, built

by Pharaoh Amenemhat III (1860 – 1814 BC).

The Labyrinth of the Minotaur, if it existed, was probably constructed a century later, possibly around 1700 BC. The Palace of Knossos (Crete) was destroyed and rebuilt at that time, and some of the features match descriptions in the minotaur legend.

There was a dancing hall matching the one allegedly used by Ariadne (Minos’s daughter), other than being inside the Palace, not outside. There was a large pit, where bulls could have easily been kept, with gigantic stairs. Moreover, there are a large number of frescos showing Cretan acrobats leaping over bulls, and chambers adorned with double-headed axes (called “labrys”). These indicators of “Minoan” or ancient Cretan

civilization are not just at Knossos, but appear in Minoan colonies across the eastern Mediterranean.

The double-headed axe is an interesting object. It was apparently a religious symbol, not just for the Minoans, but also for a number of surrounding areas. The Minoans had statues for a large number of deities, usually female. The labrys is presumed to be a symbol of the goddess of creation, and inscriptions in the Palace of Knossos identify the Goddess of the Labrys as their patron deity. Large versions of the doubleheaded axe have been found and are assumed to have been used when sacrificing bulls. Thus, the Labyrinth of Minos may have been an arena in which bulls were sacrificed, and not a maze at all.

But there is at least one other option for a Cretan labyrinth, the caverns of Gortyna. Mount Ida is Crete’s

(Right) The labrys is presumed to be a symbol of the goddess of creation, and inscriptions in the Palace of Knossos identify the Goddess of the Labrys as their patron deity.

Large versions of the double-headed axe have been found and are assumed to have been used when sacrificing bulls.

tallest peak. The entrance to Gortyna is a natural cavern, low on the side of the mountain. Carved into the back of the entrance are a series of winding passages. The main hallway runs 1200 paces into the mountain, reaching some large rooms. But the remaining passages form a true labyrinth – in the words of 18th Century French explorer, G. P. de Tournefort: “If a Man strikes into any other Path, after he has gone a good way, he is so bewildered among a thousand Twistings, Twinings, Sinuosities, CrinkleCrankles and Turn-again Lanes, that he could scarce ever get out again without the utmost danger of being lost.”

A number of Roman poets believed Gortyna to be the true Cretan labyrinth. The truth is anyone’s guess. Roman writers knew of some other labyrinths. In the first century AD, Pliny the Elder recorded one

built on the island of Lemnos and another build on Samos. He also quoted a report by Varro (from the second century BC) that the Etruscan general, Lars Porsena, was said to have been buried in a large labyrinth under the city of Clusium, Italy. While these particular labyrinths have not been found, the Etruscans were well known for using labyrinthine tombs.

Another possible underground labyrinth might have existed in the American Southwest. The O’odham culture, better known to most of us as the Papago Indians, widely used depictions of a labyrinth with a god, I’itoi, standing in the entrance.

Many other cultures built surface labyrinths. The ancient inhabitants of northern Russia created stone labyrinths out of boulders. Over 30 still exist on islands of the White Sea, dating from the first millennium BC, along with hundreds of probable

labyrinths which have not survived 2000 years. The Swedes also built stone labyrinths during the Middle Ages: over 500 are still in existence along the Baltic Sea. Yet farther to the west, there are still several mazes built from cut sod in the British Isles.

In relatively modern times, the British aristocracy started to grow hedge labyrinths for their entertainment value. That idea has spread, and you can find plant mazes throughout the world. A very recent addition is an enormous cactus maze grown by a Belgian woman in Costa Rica.

Nothing pointless about that labyrinth!

In short, labyrinths have been with us in some form for tens of thousands of years, and it looks like labyrinths will be growing on us for the foreseeable future.

January 2014• bohemia • 79

Writing Tools:Rewriting Reality Part 1: World Building

By William Blackrose

W

e all love reading and writing but I think we also equally hate when the book or story we are reading does something that rips us out of our enjoyment by not making any sense. That sense of possibility is what makes reading a story enjoyable. World building can take time, but in the long run can be an intensively rewarding experience.

You might be wondering what I mean when I say ‘world building’. It’s easy to think this means “setting,” but that’s way too simple; world building covers everything and anything inside that world. Money, clothing, building materials, imports and exports, transportation, whether the world does or does not contain magic and other distinct details.

World building supports story,

80 • bohemia • january 2014

mood, theme, conflict, character, culture, and setting as well as the basic plot. The details of the world you’ve created can and should engage with the whole narrative, not just an action or event.

It’s easy to get wrapped up in all the large aspects of world like religion and politics and many other topics that can alter a story’s reality. But a lot of world building lives in little details. What they drink at different meals, wash their hands, treat their animals. What materials they use to construct their homes. These little details can reflect a larger cultural aspect without beating readers over the head with weighty explanation.

World building is not a compendium for lifeless cultures and forgotten bloodlines. That element can be in there, sure, but this world is one that features actual characters doing actual things and affecting the world.

World building has a tendency to feel staid and massive: “This is how everyone must be because it is their culture.” But that’s never really that simple in our world, is it? Not everyone falls in line with the ‘mainstream’. This is due to the simple fact that your characters are alive. They have free will and the ability to conform or re-

ject aspects of their culture.

Everything Let uspushes look at and the complexpulls on ity inherentelse, to world building. everything often in unanEverything pushes andofpulls ticipated ways.

Think howona everything else, often in unanscientific advance can change the ticipated Think of amount how a world in aways. relatively short scientific advance change the of time. Think of can what happens world in a relatively short amount when a critical resource dries up. of time.changes Think of happens Small in what an economic when a critical resource dries system can have huge results.up.

A Small changespractice in an can economic new farming fix or system can have huge A wreak havoc upon theresults. environnew practice can to fixevor ment.farming Everything is bound wreak upon erythinghavoc else, and in the this, environyou can ment.

Everythingtwists is bound to evfind compelling as well as erything else, and instories this, you thought-provoking that can defind velopcompelling out of it. twists as well as thought-provoking stories that develop out of it. re we on Earth or another planet? Is it this or another solar system? Are we in the past, present or future? If we’re on anwe onwhat Earthdoes or another otherreworld, it look Is it continents this or another like? planet?

Are there and solar system?

Are we in themounpast, oceans?

How about rivers, present or future?How’s If we’re antains, volcanoes? theon gravother world, what does Does it look ity compared to Earth? it like? there continents and have aAre moon or even more than oceans?

How about rivers, mounone? Are the races of that world tains, volcanoes?

How’s human-like?

If not, whatthe aregravthey ity compared to Earth?

Does it like? have a moon or even more than one? Are the races of that world human-like? If not, what are they like? ave there been any natural disasters that might have wiped out a continent or two?

Has there been any major planetary trauma? If so, was it natural there been or didave mankind cause any it? Ifnatural we’re disasters that might have on another planet or moon, espewiped outthat a is continent two? cially one outside oforour soHas there been any major planlar system that we already know etary If so,iswas natural plentytrauma? about, what theiteco-sysor did mankind cause it?

If we’re tem based on? Is there vegetation? on another planet orfood? moon, espeWhat do they do for cially one that is outside of our solar system that we already know

A

Where are we?

A

What’s the natural environment like?

H H

plenty about, what is the eco-system based on? Is there vegetation?

What do they do for food?

is on warfare, scientific progression, religion, consumerism, slavery and so on, and how does that affect everyday life and the posbilities your characters have.

E

very place has a history, even if there’s no intelligent life living on it. But history is even more important when you have an alien society, a human colony or something completely different?

What are a few major events in the history of the place that affect the present? They can be political, religious, natural or alien in nature?

H

ow has the social order changed because of the events in its past? If it was attacked by an outer force, how has its attitude toward strangers and its defense methods adapted to that?

If it was a natural occurrence, how has it affected the housing and transportation? Any atrocities in the distant past that people are still ashamed of? How about a big turn in religious beliefs, based on some key occurrence?

A

nd with culture I am referring the excess of features that affect culture: method of government, social classes, religion, races, sexes, professions, education, sciences, etc. At least you need to know whether the society’s focus

D

o people care about basic human rights and freedom of speech? Do they value competitiveness or conformity? Do they value artistic accomplishments, or scientific achievement? Are they interested in other cultures or species, or are they xenophobic? Do they value tradition over progress or the other way around?

A

s you can see, World Building is not a simple process but it can go so far in helping your writing and your progress that the effort is by all means worth it.

Once you have laid out the basic structure of your world, you will find that plot holes will often fill themselves in and creative walls will crumble. So far we have looked at the basics of creating a believable world, but what of those who live in this world?

We would not want a vibrant setting and flat cardboard cutouts to populate it. In the next article on Rewriting Realty, I will focus exclusively on the characters themselves and how to make them into living breathing creations rather than puppets on a stage.

Background is “Setting Sun”

by Frederic Edwin Church January 2014• bohemia • 81

A New Vision For the Future

by Jennifer Swartz

Photography by Aoife Gorey Makeup by Alex Williams

As we contemplate a vision for newness & the image of ourselves, I see the word “resolution” in a new light, something akin to photography and increasing your focus. Like the lens on a manual camera, sometimes our vision blurs. Minute adjustments restore clarity.

I

f our attention has been on something immediate, we cannot see clearly afar. Often what is dearest to our hearts remains elusively distant. Lifting our eyes from current problems is essential.

Focusing on “what can be” will bring things into focus.

can determine whether we face a new year with anticipation or dread. At the allure of novelty, of a fresh page unwritten, of possibilities without limitations, the spirit leaps and rises to the occasion, soaring on wings of hope and faith. Still, a certain bleakness accompanies this process, as What do you fo- we remember previous cus on? Faults? Fail- pilot flights ending in ures? Fulfillment? The disastrous wreckage or answer to this question merely remaining inert

82 • bohemia • january 2014

Model Abby Eades

January 2014• bohemia • 83

84 • bohemia • january 2014

Model Stella Jane

because actio\ new beginnings due to less than glamorous endings-- would be tragedy indeed. We cannot survive without hope. We need the promise that all could be different, that more can be achieved.

Release the dead weight of unattained purposes. A baby bird would never fly if it remembered every time it fell or thought only of how flopping its initial flight was. And remind yourself that intentions are necessary but incomplete without actions.

Though we may be unclear on the actions necessary to accomplish what we see

& feel, the very process of dreaming holds merit in itself. For, by simply envisioning what we desire, we are taking the first & most important step. Whether we become it fully or not, just seeing it changes us. The vital element of hope is injected into our beliefs. Reaching for the ideal, we may fall short but will be infinitely closer than we would have been had we never reached at all.

One component is imperative to making our dreams reality, and it lies hidden in another definition of the word resolution, entailing expression of intention with determination and resolve. Let us resolve

January 2014• bohemia • 85

to determine a course of action & pursue it purposefully with determination. When the struggle feels most difficult, remember that the sense of accomplishment will be more satisfying if the challenge is greater.

As the year progresses, put one foot in front of the other in the arduous march toward your future. Little things, like baby steps, bring us closer to desired goals. Visionary inspiration is the easy part; enjoy it, yet also embrace the plodding that produces patience.

We are not just trans-

86 • bohemia • january 2014

ported directly to the view but must trek the trail on our hike to the heights. En route to a friend’s house, do you turn back because you tripped over a branch & fell on the trail? Of course not. You pick yourself up & proceed.

The joy awaiting at the destination makes any mishap along the way seem inconsequential.

What do you see?

So much magic is inherent within your spiritual DNA. Agree with the impossible and watch what happens. Beyond the unknown lies what will be & choice can alter everything.

Model Miriam Hitsel

January 2014• bohemia • 87

Olivia and the Star

by Adam K. Amberg

“Olivia still believed in fairy stories. All the boys at school made fun of her for it. One day, they even stood in the doorway of the classroom and would not let her in.”

O

livia still believed in fairy stories. All the boys at school made fun of her for it. One day, they even stood in the doorway of the classroom and would not let her in.

“Sorry,” sneered Byron, “but this is the fourth grade. Only kids in touch with reality are allowed in here.”

“Yeah!” chuckled George, “day care is down the hall!”

Olivia pushed through them and put her backpack away in her cubby.

“Aw, come on Olivia-MakeBelieve,” Byron’s voice echoed.

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“Don’t be so pouty. You can always use pixie dust to cheer you up.”

She slumped into her assigned seat with her journal and looked at the board for Mr. Holly’s morning writing prompt: What is one thing that excites you and why?

She squinted, as if the letters would dance into the form of an answer just from peering at them. Then she chewed the metal part of her pencil as if to gnaw an insightful response from it. Of course neither of these worked. But she liked the feeling of the tin bending beneath her jaws, even though Dad said it was bad for her teeth.

“Hey Olive,” Startled, Olivia didn’t even notice her best friend sitting next to her.

“Oh, hi Maggie. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Maggie pushed her plastic-framed glasses up to the bridge of her nose. Her long black hair was a little unkempt today, and fell to either side of her face like two big, tangly brooms. “The power went off at my house last night.

Daniel tripped over his hamster cage and then, when he was trying to find the hamster, he stepped on it.”

“Gizmo? Is he okay?” Oliv-

ia clasped her hand over her mouth, not sure if she should be concerned or laugh.

“I don’t know. Mom said he just needed to rest for the day and that when we get back from school he’ll be fine but you know what I think? I think she’s just going to go to the pet store again and buy a new one before we get home.”

“I think so too!” Olivia giggled as she swept her brown hair behind her ear and fastened it with her green barrette.

“Yeah. Daniel said he wanted to stay home from school because he was too worried about Gizmo, but it didn’t work.”

“My dad says the power could go out again tonight. You better watch the new one if it does!”

“I know!” chuckled Maggie.

“Girls?” boomed Mr. Holly from his desk. “We’re about to get started, so make sure you get those journal entries done, okay?”

“Yes sir.”

With a huff, Olivia picked up her pencil, scrunched her nose and wrote: A lot of things excite me.

When Dad says it is ice cream day. When Grandma bakes bread. Slumber parties.

Green jelly beans. But today, what excites me the most is the lights going out...

T

hat afternoon, Olivia and Maggie walked home like they always did. The bright sunlight bounced off the pavement like a mirror and into Olivia’s eyes. Trying to take her mind off the constant glare in her face, she searched for something to talk about.

“I hope the lights do go off

again tonight,” Olivia submitted.

Her hazel eyes were lifted up in a state of wonder. The afternoon light made them look like a whimsical mix of green and yellow.

“I really wanted the lights to go off during school. Maybe we could’ve gone home early,” reported Maggie, as she inspected the sidewalk making sure to step over each crack.

“I don’t think they would do that, Maggie. There’s windows in all the classrooms.”

“You never know,” Maggie shrugged her small-framed shoulders. “Why do you want the power to go off tonight so much anyway?”

“Because you can see the stars when it’s dark!” Olivia’s enthusiasm got the best of her, and she realized her sudden outburst could seem a little strange to her friend. “You know it’s just nice, is all.”

“You going try and find a

falling star again?” Maggie’s eyes grew a little.

“Maybe,” Olivia swept her hair behind her ear and tucked it into her barrette, trying to look nonchalant about it.

“You’re going to get in so much trouble!”

“Only if I get caught.”

“I don’t get why you do that, anyway.”

“I’m just... Looking is all.”

“Olive…”

“What?”

“Do you really think you’re going to find a real star lying on the ground?”

“Maybe. If I follow it to where it lands.”

“Olive, I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“Of course it is!” Olivia threw her hands out open wide.

“That’s what all the books say!”

“Which books?” Maggie stopped walking and looked hard at her friend with concern. Olivia January 2014• bohemia • 89

hesitated for a moment before placing her hands on her hips and tossing back her hair.

“My books.”

“But Olive, Mr. Holly says they’re meteorites that come from space.”

“Well my books say they’re something more special than that and you get a wish if you find one.”

“But Mr. Holly says—”

“Oh Maggie, I know what Mr. Holly says!”

“Well they can’t both be true,” retorted Maggie. Olivia withdrew shyly.

“But why not?” she squeaked, picking at her fingernails.

“I don’t know, Olive. But this is my house. See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey. It’s okay if you want to look for the stars.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Just be careful is all.”

“Okay,” Olivia grinned.

“But you’re the one who could lose another hamster tonight.” ...I’m not excited about lights out because of candles or my dad making s’mores. I’m excited about it because when it’s most dark is when the stars come out real bright. Every night that is good for stars, I make sure to watch for the falling stars. Sometimes I go looking for them. I have not found one yet, but when I do, I will get to make a wish. I know I will get to make a wish...

90 • bohemia • january 2014

O

livia nearly choked on her peas, because she ate dinner so fast.

“Daddy, didn’t you say the lights would go out?”

“Are you talking about the rolling blackouts?” Her father was a kind man with a handsome and serious face. When she was younger, Olivia used to say that his face is what it looked like when a happy man sat on sadness’ shoulders.

“I don’t remember, honey. They don’t do those very often. Did you give your peas to Grandpa again?”

“No, I ate them. You said yesterday they were doing it tonight.”

“Well, yes. But then they went ahead and turned off the power last night.”

“But they could do it again, right?”

“I don’t know how all that works Honey,” he loosened the top button of his shirt and poked at his food with a grimace on his face. “You know I really didn’t do a good job cooking these peas. You usually don’t eat them when I ruin them like this.”

“You know when your

grandfather and I were your age,” her grandmother piped in from the other end of the dinner table.

“When we were little there was a blackout every other day. We used to play marbles by firelight.”

“Did they ever do it two nights in a row?” Olivia leaned in.

“Honestly, they taste mushy and cold,” her father sniffed his plate. “Can a vegetable be underdone and overdone at the same time?

“I’m sure they did nightly blackouts every now and then.

Don’t know why they wouldn’t do it again, Little Olive,” The crow’s feet around Grandma’s eyes curved around as she smiled.

“Sweetheart, why are you so intent on the lights going out again?” her father inquired as he stood at the other end of the kitchen placing his food in the microwave.

“It’s because she wants to see a shooting star!” called her grandfather from the next room.

I make sure to watch for the falling

“I thought you were asleep Dad,” answered Olivia’s father.

“Feh! I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” the old man grumbled through yellow teeth.

“Well, I think tonight’s the night for my Little Olive,” chirped Grandma. “Just be sure you don’t blink. They can be gone in an instant, you know!”

“So can my cooking apparently,” her father was looking disheartedly at the shriveled remains of his peas after zapping them in the microwave. “Why don’t you cook again?” he furrowed his brow in Grandma’s direction.

“Arthritis,” the old lady wiggled her fingers.

“We cooked for you for twenty years, don’t you know it!?” cried Grandpa from his arm chair in the next room, while brandishing a dramatic finger in the air.

“Who’s we?” laughed Dad. “You couldn’t cook a bag of popcorn without burning it.”

“The lady and I are two

stars.

halves of one whole, my boy,” Grandpa winked. “Besides, you used to cook popcorn on the stove. It was much harder before they started dousing it with radiation.”

Olivia chuckled a bit at her family’s bickering. She loved it when everyone was in a good mood at the table and thought it was especially fun when Dad and Grandpa teased each other. Even though it was a good night, she found an anxiety rising inside her. Her mind was drifting away into the night sky, already looking about for a falling star—her falling star.

“I’m done eating. May I be excused?” It was no use, her father and grandfather were too far gone hurtling jabs at one another from across the room. Grandma was of course the one who finally leaned over.

“I think it’s best you clear out, Little Olive. They might bust the lights themselves if they keep at it much longer,” Olivia kissed her grandmother on the cheek and scurried off to her bedroom in a matter of seconds.

...My mom died a long time ago.

She was very sick. I never knew her. But my Dad did (duh!). He said that her most favorite thing ever was stories. When I was just a little baby in her tummy, she used to read a big book of fairy stories to me every night. I still have the book and me and Dad read it a lot and do you know what? There are three stories in it about falling stars! I can not wait to find my own...

T

hat night, Olivia sat by her windowsill quietly thumbing through her old book. It was a thick tome with a cover that was once red but had since faded to a light salmon color. The words Classic Tales from Childhood were printed in big block letters on the front with etchings of beanstalk vines creeping around it. She brushed her fingers down the frayed yellow pages, slipping them inside and peeled a few back to read familiar titles and favorite lines. She sat with her jumper from school still on and her dad’s old binoculars around her neck.

Every few minutes she would climb up to the window’s edge and peer over. The orange glow of streetlights hovered around her large and disappointed eyes.

She finally rose to her feet, having decided to change into her pajamas and get to bed.

She took one last glance out the window and saw a tiny flicker of dying light down her street.

A thrill of excitement swelled within her and she pressed her binoculars to her eyes. Through them she could see one streetlight stammering and turning off. Before she knew it, all the lights in the neighborhood fell dark.

Olivia let out a squeal and threw open the window. As her eyes adjusted and the fog of artificial light dissolved, the stars came out. Olivia imagined them as old friends, yawning and waking up to greet her. She watched them for nearly half an hour, hoping and searching.

It is said that if you watch the night sky long enough you will always find a falling star, and that is just what Olivia did.

January 2014• bohemia • 91

With binoculars fixed firmly to her eyes, she tracked the path of a flickering star as it plummeted to the earth. Much to her delight, it appeared to disappear into the wooded area of the city park just a few blocks from her house. With a smile and a sparkle of yellow light in her eye, she gathered up her book and binoculars, climbed out the window and shimmied down the storm drain.

With one glance back towards the unlit house, she grinned and disappeared into the night.

Because of the thick blanket of darkness, she had to find her way to the park by memory. When she made it there, she slipped into the trees. At first the enchantment of the whole adventure bubbled up into a gush of excitement, but after wondering through the trees with nothing but moonlight to guide her, a sense of smallness and confusion overtook her. Just as she began to wonder if she had made a mistake, the voices rang out in the night.

“No, you’re doing it wrong!”

“Shut it, I am not!”

Olivia knew before she saw: Byron and George. When she peered through the bushes she saw the two boys, bicycles parked neatly, huddled around a pile of sticks.

She could hear the croaking of a frog coming from George’s hand and the flashes of sparks coming from Byron.

“My dad says they blow up when you throw them in the fire!”

George snickered.

“That doesn’t really happen! It’s their eyes. They get all gooey and melt.”

“Shows how much you know, you can’t even get the lighter to work.”

“Can too.”

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“Can not! Let me see!” first thing she noticed was that

As the boys bickered, Olivia the boys’ voices were fading in felt pity for the poor frog. She hated the distance. The second thing how much boys liked to do mean she noticed was the warm glow things to little animals. Suddenly, before her. Her eyes grew to the she had an idea. Just as Byron and size of saucers, and her heart George were discussing whether or skipped a beat. The little star not they should skewer the frog on lying before her was brilliant. a stick before roasting it, Olivia si- It looked almost as if it was lently picked up a nearby rock and made of porcelain, but it was flung it with all her might at the clear like glass. Within it she bicycles. It wasn’t the most well- could see an otherworldly yelaimed shot, but luckily the stone hit low light fluttering about like a the ground and rolled into one of firefly. the bikes just hard enough to tip it The tiny curl on the side of over and knock down the other one her temple that was so fond of comin a heap. ing unclipped blew in the wind. Ol “Who’s there?” cried ivia swallowed hard and swept it George. back into her barrette never taking

“Let’s go.” her eyes off the little trinket she had Olivia turned and fled. She did so longed for. Slowly, she reached not properly think this decision forward to pick it up. Her very own through, for the boys were soon star. on their bikes, which meant they were much faster than she ...I know it seems silly for me was. Her only choice was to to still believe in fairy tales, like stick to the unpaved patches of wishing on a star. I am ten after trees, but this was fraught with all, so I am almost grown up. unseen obstacles obscured in But I still think that maybe it the darkness. With a hop and is true. At least it is true maybe a stumble, she was thrown off for me. In all the fairy stories, balance by a tree root and soon the kids are just like me. They found herself tumbling into the do not have one of their parents path facing down two schoolor they do not have any parents. yard bullies on bikes.

But it is almost okay because

“It’s a girl!” the sad kids are always the ones “Who!?” who get to have the adventure.

“I can’t tell. Get her!”

Sometimes I am so sad, that

Olivia turned and ran I think it is very close to bewith her stomach lurching into ing time for my adventure. That her throat, but it was no use. will be what I wish for when Just as Byron stretched out his I find my star. Olivia Simmons. hand to grab hold of her, she Mr. Holly’s class. November 12, threw herself back into the 2012. thicket, but misplaced her footing. She tumbled down a small hill and felt as if time slowed for a moment as she fell and fell. When she landed with a thud in a patch of leaves, the

January 2014• bohemia • 93

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The Science Behind: Successful New Year’s Resolutions

by Dr. Tasha Eurich

Photography by Aoife Gorey, Makeup by Alex Williams feauturing Boho Model Crew

E

ven though the new year can be exciting and full of possibility, it can also be pretty stressful.

You might be saying things like, “Why don’t any of my pants fit?!” or “How am I still in this horrible job?!”

Enter the New Year’s resolution. About 45 percent of Americans make them. We imagine ourselves in that new job or smaller pants size. It’s exhilarating.

The good news: A Journal of Clinical Psychology study found

that people who make resolutions from scientific research on the topare 10 times more likely to change ic. their behavior than those who don’t.

Two Types of

The bad news: Short-term urges can trump long-term plans. Resolutions That Another Journal of Clinical PsyWill Always Fail chology study reports that 54 percent give up on their resolutions “Pie In the Sky” Resolutions within six months -- and only 8 percent ultimately succeed by the end

Even though making a resof the year. olution is thrilling, keeping it isn’t easy. Many people aren’t ready

So each year, why are we to make the serious commitment writing proverbial checks we can’t needed to succeed. cash? A few answers have emerged

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Th So in 2014, keep things focused. Pick one resolution at a time. Make it specific and real. Practice it every day. And every day, you’ll be one step closer to making your resolution a reality. Good luck, and here’s to a prosperous 2014!

In my new book, Happy People, Bottom-Line Results and the Power to Deliver Both, I talk about a workplace phenomenon that I call Delusional Development.

Delusional Development is the fu96 • bohemia • january 2014

tile hope that you will get better at something just because you want to. For example, a manager might say she wants to improve her listening skills, not do anything substantive to change that, and then be

surprised or disappointed when she isn’t a better listener.

The same applies to your New Year’s resolutions. When you say, “This year, I will lose 30

pounds,” but have no real strategy to make it happen, the number on the scale simply isn’t going to change. As the saying goes, hope is not a plan.

“All Over the Place” Resolutions

Many people toss out a laundry list of resolutions every year. In 2014, you might decide, you’re going to fix your finances, stop drinking beer and run a marathon! Hot dog!

Unfortunately, when we take on too much at once, our brain chemistry works against us. Successful resolutions require selfcontrol -- say, the self-control to

wake up early and run five miles -- and self-control is an exhaustible resource.

In one study, Baumeister and his colleagues divided participants into two groups -- one completed a series of tasks requiring self-control, and the other completed tasks that didn’t. Then, the researchers measured their blood glucose levels. Glucose is best thought of as fuel for the brain -when it metabolizes in the bloodstream, the brain can carry out its major functions. In Baumeister’s study, not only did the self-control group show lower glucose levels, low glucose levels led to poorer self-control.

So, in a nutshell, having too many New Year’s resolutions is a prescription for not keeping any of them.

Three Ways to Keep Your 2014 New Year’s Resolutions 1. Work on One Thing at a Time

We live in a society where more is better. But when it comes to goals, less is usually more. Another example: In business, even though 64 percent of executives believe they have too many priorities, companies with fewer priorities show more growth.

So take a page from the late,

Model Stella Jane

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great Stephen Covey and put first things first. Instead of picking four resolutions that you’ll abandon, choose one that will give you the biggest payoff. This doesn’t mean you can’t work on more than one resolution per year, it just means you shouldn’t focus on more than one at a time.

planned exactly when and where they would floss were more successful at changing their habits than those who didn’t.

trains in the weeks leading up to the marathon.

For your resolutions, the amount and quality of daily practice

So, break your resolution you choose will be proportionate to into specific behaviors and put them the level of improvement you will on a timetable. For example, to get see. Period. So if you’re not workto the gym on weekends instead of ing every day to, for example, curb lounging around drinking mimosas your smoking habit, you won’t get 2. Translate Your Resolution Into in your pajamas, join a gym and long-term traction.

Specific Behaviors schedule time on your calendar.

Before you know it, you’ll be go- So in 2014, keep things fo Keeping resolutions usually ing without even thinking about it. cused. Pick one resolution at a time. means replacing old, bad habits Make it specific and real. Practice with new, better ones. People who it every day. And every day, you’ll Practice Every Day successfully change their habits be one step closer to making your achieve something called “habitu- As shown by K. Anders Er- resolution a reality. Good luck, and al automaticity” -- performing the icsson, daily practice allows people here’s to a prosperous 2014! new habit without having to think with average talent to achieve exabout it. traordinary things. The best marathon runners, for example, don’t

In one study, researchers show physiological differences in tried to improve participants’ dental lung capacity or muscle. The differhabits. All participants were told to ence lies in how much each runner floss more, given floss, and shown how to use it. Participants who

itsel

Model Miriam H

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January 2014• bohemia • 99

Dr. Tasha Eurich A proud leadership geek, executive coach, speaker, contributor to Huffington Post, and author, Dr. Eurich is the author of the new book, Bankable Leadership: Happy People, Bottom Line Results, and the Power to Deliver Both.

She also helps organizations succeed by improving the effectiveness of their leaders and teams. Dr. Eurich passionately pairs her scientific grounding in human behavior with a practical approach to solving some of today’s most common leadership challenges. Her decade-long career has spanned roles as an external consultant and a direct report to both CEOs and human resources executives. The majority of Dr. Eurich’s work has been with executives in large Fortune 500 organizations, including CH2M HILL, Xcel Energy, Western Union, IHS, Destination Hotels and Resorts, Newmont Mining, Centura Health, CoBiz Financial, the City of Cincinnati, and HCA. With an M.S. and Ph.D. in Industrial-Organizational Psychology from Colorado State University and B.A.s in Theater and Psychology from Middlebury College, she serves on the faculty at the Center for Creative Leadership. She has served as an adjunct faculty member in Colorado State University’s Psychology and Business Schools. She is also a popular guest speaker at the University of Denver and Colorado State University’s Executive MBA programs.

She has been featured in The New York Times and Forbes and she has published articles in Chief Learning Officer Magazine, The Journal of Business and Psychology among many others. In 2013, Dr. Eurich was honored as one of Denver Business Journal’s “40 under 40” rising stars in business.

A true renaissance woman, Dr. Eurich enjoys cycling, traveling, theater, and fashion. A resident of Denver, Colorado, she is married to a wonderful man, and has three dogs.

Books can be ordered at BankableLeadership.com. To connect with Dr. Eurich, please visit Twitter.com and Linkedin.com.

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Eades Models Abby

eal

& Kenyai O’N

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Contributors Pete Able has been writing stories and poetry since college, or almost 20 years. 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.

A. K. Amberg moved to Waco six years ago and hasn’t looked back since. Born in Nashville and raised in Houston, he finds the quirkiness of Central Texas far more poetic than any of his pre- vious surroundings. He has published poems in both the UK and the US, including his own book of original poetry and prose, The Least of These.

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Cassandra Arnold has been a storyteller since Primary School. She lives in Canada and works as a doctor for Doctors Without Borders.

heart, she loves zumba, the outdoors, animals, cooking, time with friends, and a nice glass of wine with a great book. She enjoys exploring her new home of Texas and William Blackrose is an Egyptian the US. She contributes to Bohemia born writer and photographer that by modeling and assisting photogis dedicated to using unusual per- raphers. spectives in all his projects. Constantly flipping gender as well as Ty Hall lives in Texas, makes up style to craft new perspectives, he stories, and tries to be good. is working on his novel. His current works include “Twin Minds”, April Henley “God set two pas“Tears of Kharon”, and his newest sions in my heart: A love of horses project “Bloodfire”. and a love for writing. The first in-

Aoife Gorey is a native Irish woman and moved to Texas 3 years ago to pursue her Marketing career.

She is an International Marketing & PR Associate for a global business based in Waco. A creative at

spired the second, and now, everything around me adds to my treasure trove of inspiration. My desire to write led me to Baylor University, to major in Professional Writing, and now, I work as a technical writer for Pinnacle, a Halliburton

service. The most wonderful thing about writing, to me, is the feeling of release, like falling down the rabbit hole into my own perfect Wonderland.”

CJ Hudgins is a born and raised Wacoan. He is what you may call a jack of all trades in the creative sphere. Photography is simply one of his loves and passions. CJ runs and operates Vember Photo, a photography business.

Stephanie Rystrom is a photographer, model, fashionista, and momma in Central Texas. She’s a bohemian at heart, currently working on her BA in horticulture, and enjoying life day by day.

Samuel Piccone is a recent graduate from the M.A. Writing and Publishing program at DePaul University in Chicago. His work has appeared in publications including: Silverthought Press, Threshold, Leveler, and, Forge. He currently A.J. Huffman’s poetry, fiction, and resides in Colorado. haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, Jessica Purser has been writing including Labletter, The James and traveling since she was a little Dickey Review, and Offerta Speci- girl. Currently, she lives in Tennesale, in which her work appeared in see and spends most of her time both English and Italian translation. talking to people about STDs. You She is also the founding editor of can find her online usually under Kind of a Hurricane Press. www. the name jesspurse. kindofahurricanepress.com Sierra Sugar is a Florida-native asLewis Humphries is a freelance piring writer having two children’s writer and blogger based in Bir- short stories ready for publishing, mingham, UK. He also has a pas- and two novels in various stages of sion for creative writing, and has completion. Her passion for books, featured in magazines throughout movies, and music has given her a vast knowledge of random “usethe UK, U.S. and Oceania. less” pop-culture trivia, as well as Bonnie Neagle is a native Texan a large eclectic collection of mp3s. who is married with 3 children; Alley, Isaac and Parker. Her love for Gary Lee Webb is a 16-year photography started during middle resident of Waco. He has lived on school and has grown ever since. three continents, visited four, and She was recently featured on Se- speaks many languages … badly. nior Style Guide’s blog. She also His credits include over 240 public co-owns First Sight Photography speeches, four decades of conferences and contests, assisting the with Marcel Van Es. Waco Cultural Arts Fest, and over C. R. Resetarits’ poetry has re- two dozen publications. He is 58, cently appeared in New Writing, married 36 years, and has 4 daughSLAB, Stoneboat, dirtcake, Weber ters.

Studies: The Contemporary West and in the new anthologies Lines Underwater and The Four Chambered Heart: In Tribute to Anais Nin.

Kaspar Wilder is a poet in spirit, with blue eyes and a love of making up words. She writes about small everyday moments, connecting them to larger concepts. Armed with a frank sense of humor, a sunflower for everyone she meets, and laser eyes, she is happy, if often late.

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makeup artist

Waco, TX 254-813-8547

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Nikki Lindorfer

Fun Designs Such as Sororities & Holidays including Valentine’s Day January 2014• bohemia • 105

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