Bohemia Camelot December December 2013 2013
Featuring
Courtly Love (& Love Triangles) Sparrow & The Clay: Setting Root in Our Hearts Barbara Crawford: Textile Art in Amarillo The Secret Society: Why Do We Dance?
Exclusive Exclusive Interview Interview with with Dannon Dannon O’Brian O’Brien JFK JFK && Star Star Wars Wars Theme Theme Photography Photography Statement Statement Art, Art, Artist Artist Gena Gena Deeds-Page Deeds-Page december 2013• bohemia • 1
The Camelot Issue Pg 6 Fair Lady of Shallot Photography by Bonnie Neagle Poetry by Josch Beres
Pg 14 Courtly Love by Gary Lee Webb
Pg 18 Camelot
Photography by Cynthia Wheeler
Pg 21 Destiny
by April Henley
Pg 24 Darkness Either Way by Christopher T. Garry
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Pg 26 The Second Wife by Emily Kramer
Pg 28 The Old Knight by Gary Lee Webb
Pg 33 The Secret Society by Megan Miller Photography by Cecy Ayala
Pg 39 A Dancer Named Dannon by Jessica Purser
Pg 42 Textile Artist: Barbara Crawford Pg 46 Musicians: Sparrow and the Clay
Pg 48 The Kennedy Era Photography by Pat Jones & Genna Ware
Pg 54 Gallery:Statement Art Pg 56 Star Wars
Photography by Pat Jones & Genna Ware
Pg 71 A Place of Myth & Legend Artwork by Gena Deeds-Page and poetry
Pg 80 Lance Has Some ‘Splaining by Pete Able
Pg 86 Contributor’s Pages december 2013• bohemia • 3
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Bohemia Nov/Dec 2013 Volume 3, Number 11 ISSN No. 2162- 8653 Editor In Chief: Amanda Hixson Assist. Editor: Stephanie Rystrom Fiction Acquisition: Gary Lee Webb Lay-out designer: Amanda Hixson Writers: Pete Able, Josch Beres, William Blackrose, April Henley, Meg Miller, Jessica Purser, Gary Lee Webb Photographers: Cecy Ayala, Pat Jones, Bonnie Neagle, Genna Ware, Cynthia Wheeler Thank you to the Boho Model Crew! Cover credits: Photographer: Bonnie Neagle Models: Stephanie Rystrom & Brent Phillips 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
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Fair Lady of Shallot
Photography by Bonnie Neagle Photography Hair and make-up by Tammy Shefa
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and Lancelot mused by Joschua Beres
The grief that comes to me it is sung on the silent waters that have carried you here, it nests in my heart, hereto un-mused by love, now full of over-loving. See how spring still hovers on your cheeks? Unmoving hands that all the summer pulled magic from the loom as you sang songs that weaved love in life and made warm the plated chests of passing knights.
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Who dared to curse and contain you? May three-fold they pay their fate. What now shall call the seasons in Camelot, if not your song? Sown down from tower by westward wind below, to the rye and barley that in tamed fields grow as flowers forgot the sun and looked only to you. In this space of silence I hear Winter riding, and gloom. Not even the birds can muster an ode fitting nor give flight so great is their sadness at the plight and reaping of the Lady of Shallot. No monument can we erect, but the the seasons can nor nothing so permanent as to inspire Spring shall pass and Summer too like banners to your youth, and when Autumn comes shall we recall the mysteries of your heart as the Moon calls us to harvest; but Winter shall remind us how cold a loveless, songless place the world can be and dark as empty hearths seek fire we shall in silence sing songs to you, Fair Lady of Shallot.
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As here I give you a mortal kiss with imperfect mortal lips you, in death, have given me perfect and immortal love and just as the warmth in your skin gives way from fall to winter I, give thanks to the goddesses and gods, both old and new, and ask the fading sun-rays of this day to rejoice for me: for when my tomb is built and I am returned to the Earth may it be scribed on graven stone that Love I knew.
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What some can never find,
I have held.
december 2013• bohemia • 13 Models: Stephanie Rystrom & Brent Phillips
courtly love by Gary Lee Webb
When we think of mediaeval romance, we think of knights obtaining favors from their Lady Love and gallantly going on quests to win their hearts. We think of Arthur, and the Knights of the Round Table. You may know of Le Morte d’Arthur, compiled in the 15th century, by Thomas Malory while in prison. Perhaps you think of Cervantes’ spoof on the whole idea, his 14 • bohemia • december 2013
Don Quijote de la Mancha (literally: Sir Quixotic of the Stain). Or like me, you love to listen to heard Loreena Mckennitt sing the lovely poem “The Lady of Shalott” written in the early 1800s by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. But how many of you have actually read Le Morte d’Arthur? Did you know that it draws on many mediaeval works? Did you know that
(Tristan and Isolde) “The End of the Song” by Edmund Leighton 1902
there were actually a large number of poems written in the 12th Century? Did King Arthur and Queen Guinevere really exist ? The existence of St. Gildas, a sixth century monk who came to the British Isles is not in question. He wrote “De Excidio et Conquestu Britanniæ,” the only real history of the time. In it, the saint claimed to have been born in the same year
The Last Sleep of Arthur Edward Burne-Jones 1898
as the Battle of Badon (circa AD 491) in which the native Britons decisively defeated the invading Saxons delaying their conquests by many decades. His death was in 569 or 570. While he does not identify Arthur by name in his history, it is obvious that there was an important British leader involved, and others have claimed it was Arthur, beginning with the “Historia Brittonum,” written three centuries later. Around 1150, Caradoc of Llancarfan documented the life of the saint, claiming that among other things, that when King Melwas abducted Guinevere and took her to Glastonbury (in Somerset), St. Gildas intervened and restored her to King Arthur, averting war. This is the first mention of the abduction of Queen Guinevere, and there is no mention of Lancelot. Sir Lancelot was a popular figure in late twelfth century poetry, however, and got credit for saving the queen in such works as “Lanzelet” written by Ulrich von Zatzikhoven around AD 1194. Like many of the works of the time, that work
does not mention any kind of love affair between the queen and the rescuing knight. Their affair seems to appear first in “Lancelot, le Chevalier de la Charrette” [Lancelot, the Knight of the Cart], written in AD 1170 by Chretien de Troyes for Marie, Countess of Champagne, the daughter of Louis VII of France and Eleanor of Aquitaine. That work does depict Lancelot as less than honorable, and there is reason to believe that the adultery was added to please the Countess. Chretien’s other major work, “Yvain, Le Chevalier au Lion” [Yvain, the Knight of the Lion] is a much more standard poem (6808 lines of rhymed couplets) in which the knight-errant hero wins the love of a lady and marries her, goes on quests, engages in heroic rescues, and eventually wins back the heart of his lady wife (too long ignored). Other than being gone too long from his wife’s side while questing, the protagonist is totally noble, and the poem was copied and retold from Germany to Iceland. Another popular subject of the time was the love triangle of King
Mark of Cornwall, his knight Tristam, and the Irish princess Iseult. Mark sends Tristam (or Tristan) to fetch his bride-to-be, Iseult (or Isolde or Yseult) from Ireland, but on the way back, God arranges it so that they share a love potion. Tristam and Iseult are thus guiltless, and these are basically stories about how the Law of God supercedes the laws of Man. Multiple authors wrote over a dozen tales in the late twelfth century, and the three primary characters are all honorable, trapped in a tragedy not of their making. A notable theme of these tales is that the protagonists are all acting nobly, doing the honorable thing appropriate to their situation. Lancelot, on the other hand, was not totally noble, and even in “Lanzelet” he marries four women without worrying about the ones left behind. It is probably not surprising that he was chosen to vilify Queen Guinevere. She was even more vilified in the poem “Lanval” written by Marie de France around AD 1200. In that tale, Sir Lanval is both in love and loved by a faery princess, whom he
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may not talk about, since it would doom them. He is convinced to go questing with Sir Gawain. While questing, he catches the eye of Queen Guinevere, who attempts to seduce him. When he stays loyal to his princess, the Queen accuses him of homosexuality. When that does not get Lanval in her bed, she then tells King Arthur that Lanval attempted to seduce her. Lanval gets put on trial, and eventually the faery princess herself must appear to keep him from being punished. There were many other tales written during those centuries. As mentioned before, over 250 years 16 • bohemia • december 2013
later, Thomas Malory consolidated eight of them into a consistent tale to form his Le Morte d’Arthur [The Death of Arthur], including the tale about the affair between Lancelot and Guinevere. That is the form that most of us learned, but it certainly was not the original. And very much in keeping with the above (other than being less than 200 lines instead of many thousands), in 1833-42, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, wrote “The Lady of Shalott”. For those who do not know it, it is a poem about a faery enchanter, cursed never to look at Camelot. This restriction she
The Lady of Shallot by John William Waterhouse 1888
obeys until she sees Sir Lancelot, riding down towards Camelot. She knows to follow him is to die, yet she climbs into a boat and sings her way down to Camelot, dying when the boat reaches it. It is thus a story of tragic (and one-sided) love. And like many of the others, it features an act which brings doom upon the main character. But at least this time, Sir Lancelot does nothing wrong, even if he does result in the Lady’s death. All he does is ride by, looking pretty, being totally irresistible.
Valley Mills
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Irvin avid D y ey yb Gor aph togr Aoife o h g P turin Fea
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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.
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Camelot Photography by Cynthia Wheeler Photography Hair and make-up by Alex Williams & Shannan White
18 • bohemia • december 2013 Model Stella Jane
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20 • bohemia • december 2013 Models Marcus Mormino & Caitlyn Gummelt
Destiny by April Henley
O
n the evening of the king’s burial, the princess, Anya, snuck past the guards and out the gates of Camelot, after a mysterious voice penetrated her dreams. It is time to fulfill the oath that was made. Come to the forbidden wood and know your destiny, princess. “I will never rest until I have satisfied this voice, Isen,” said Anya to her Shire, as the two galloped over the snow-covered fields. “I must know what this destiny is it speaks of.”
Isen snorted, shook his mighty head, and came to an abrupt halt at the crest of a hill. He started to shift from side to side, nervous and agitated. Down below, in the valley, was the Forbidden Forest, dressed in green and full of life in the middle of Camelot’s harshest winter, the wood of enchantment. “I am here,” whispered Anya. As if in reply, the voice fell upon her ears with a gentle wind. Turn your horse loose, prin-
cess, for you will no longer be in need of his services. “What?” He cannot enter the forest, princess. Come, your destiny cannot wait forever. Compelled by her curiosity of this promised destiny, Anya dismounted and unsaddled her horse. As she removed his bridle, a westward wind picked up Isen’s mane and the horse whinnied with joy as he galloped after it, leaving his rider alone in the snow. He will be safe, princess, as will you. Now, enter the forest and meet me, your friend and counselor. Anya faced the forest of her childhood nightmares. For years, her father’s knights shared tales of monsters and witches dwelling amongst these trees, waiting for weary travelers to come by that they may swoop down upon them and gobble them up. The only known survivor of these woods was the late king. Anya remembered that her father had slain a beast in these woods, though of what kind he never said, but she imagined it as something horrible, like a dragon. Now she stood here, on the edge of the forest, in her father’s place of long ago. Reaching under her cloak, Anya firmly grasped the gold-encrusted hilt of her father’s dagger and whispered, “I am ready,” and
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then charged ahead to meet her unknown destiny. Once in the forest, soft music filled the air and a series of natural lights illuminated throughout the forest. “Firebugs,” Anya whispered, as several of the little lightning bugs floated past her face. “And a flute?” Spinning about, the princess saw no flautist, but watched with fascination as several flowers began to bloom about her feet, and luminescent butterflies shed off the trees. “What is this?” A chorus of tiny laughter floated down from above and Anya looked up in amazement to see hundreds of small faces with glowing smiles peeking out from amongst the branches. “Fairies.” The little winged beings flew down on the princess and encircled her, giggling as they pulled at her dress in encouragement for her to follow them. A whole train of them flew on up ahead of Anya, painting the forest with a trail of glowing essences for her to follow. ‘Do I have any other choice?’ thought Anya, and she succumbed to the fairies pleas and pulls. The flute’s music grew louder as Anya walked the fairies’ trail. It sounded festive and welcoming, like the trumpet blowers in Camelot sounded when the king returned from battle; it was a home-welcoming sort of song. The melody was so captivating, that Anya became startled when she found herself standing in a clearing surrounded by blossoming trees. At its center was a blue lagoon, the full moon’s reflection as luminescent as the white orb that hung in the sky, and, all around the water’s edges, was a congregation of foreign beings. There were forest creatures of various kind and size from the 22 • bohemia • december 2013
brave stag, to the she-bear and her cubs, to the ferocious mountain lion, to the wolf leader and his pack. Birds filled the trees, whistling songs in tune with the flute. Fish leapt from the lagoon, their gills glistening in the night light. Anya’s heart pounded in her ears at the sight of the human-like individuals present there. Out on the lagoon, in hand-carved boats were little men holding iron-cast lanterns. Their long beards and rough exteriors, dressed in leather jerkins with gemstone clasps, told Anya they were dwarves. Standing in small bands at the edges of the water were tall men and women, with flaxen hair, glowing faces, and pointed ears. Their silver garbs and crystal charms shimmered. Each of them stood a figure of absolute beauty, flawless in looks and in heart, according to the stories Anya recalled about elves. The flute grew sharp of a sudden, and Anya spun around to behold a small boy, half man from the waist up. From the waist down his legs were covered in dark curly wool, and, instead of feet, he had cloven hooves. “A faun,” whispered Anya. The faun ceased his playing and smiled up at her. “You are right, princess.” “You?!” Anya stepped back. “You’re the one who has been talking to me.” “Yes, princess. I am the voice you heard.” “What do you want? What is all of this?” Anya suddenly felt afraid. With the flute’s music gone, her eyes were opened and her senses cleared. She was alone amongst a gathering of forest dwellers, unable to defend herself. She reached for her dagger, but found it to be missing. She looked around and saw two sneaky fairy boys hanging the dagger in a tree. “Return that to me at once,”
shouted Anya, “This is not fair.” “You have nothing to fear, princess,” said the faun. “We mean you no harm.” “Why am I here? Why did you call me here?” “For your destiny.” “What destiny?” “I have a story to share with you, princess. Many years ago, before you were born, your father, the king, entered our wood. Back then, we were friendly to all comers, but your father committed an act worthy of death. He slayed the lord of our forest, the last living unicorn in this corrupted world.” “A unicorn?” “Yes, and now, you are here to fulfill his oath.” “What oath? You are not making any sense.” “’By my blood,’ he said, ‘You will have another. What I took from you shall be replaced, by my blood.’” The faun started to play his flute again. Before she could protest, Anya felt light-headed and confused. She felt the fairies pulling on her dress again, and, she succumbed more easily to them than before. ‘Wait,’ she thought, but could not get the words past her tired lips. The fairies led her to the center of the lagoon, the water lapping around Anya’s knees, the full moon’s reflection shining directly over her. As soon as the fairies left her side, the water came alive, swelling up in waves, enveloping Anya’s limp body, creating a cocoon around her from which a bright white light emitted. The faun ceased his playing and the congregation held a collected breath as a single horn penetrated the cocoon and a powerful whinny broke the night air.
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Darkness Either Way by Christopher Garry
S
now buried the trail to near imperceptibility. The fading dusk light setting over the two children barely lit the forest in a blaze of orange. Erica led the way, since she was taller and had a better swing of the broadsword if undergrowth threatened to slow them down. She wore leather leggings, heavy tunic and a cloak made from the skin of a bear. The furs were extremely rare as no one had seen a bear near Camelot for a lifetime, it seemed. A gift from her father, Wart recalled. She was sullen and purposeful as she moved. It seemed to Wart that with her being nearly a year older than her, that she had already a better command of her fifteen year-old body. She was stronger and more... gainly. Her blacksmith father didn’t give a damn what the villagers said. She could work the anvil better than he could at that age, so he kept her by his side, hardening her day by day. Wart didn’t know his own father and wondered what his strength might be. Her breath came ragged as she struggled up an embankment. He followed and stopped by her, pulling the leathers away from his neck and adjusting the bow over his back. She had her arms akimbo as she rested in the clearing at the top of the ridge. There amongst the snowdusted branches, Wart could see of her what he had seen all her life: her red hair, framed and set afire by the blocking sun, wisps flying away. She avoided his look. She appeared as she did when they were in her mother’s washtub when they were toddlers, wild curls and face reddened over a toy he’d thrown out of the tub. It was his earliest memory. “We’ll camp here,” she pronounced and began to set out supplies and equipment from the packs. They had really not spoken to each other since 24 • bohemia • december 2013
leaving the village two days ago. As he gathered wood, he struggled with the point of her being so angry with him. “Can’t you see the future? Your gift?” Erica asked, suddenly. She puffed great clouds of steam in the dying light as she worked. He did not answer. He reflected on his...gift. It was simple enough. If he made a choice that he could undo, then he knew whether it was the right choice by how he felt, after he made the choice. Not before. She had asked him about this a thousand times growing up together. This was his... not gift. Instinct, he supposed. It wasn’t useful. He could sort red and black cards faced down with unerring accuracy, given time to change his mind, that sort of thing. Parlor tricks, no more. “Don’t you want to be king?” she snapped. The fire struck out, lighting their circle and darkening the distant horizon all around them, a few small eyes reflecting it. So that was it then, she was still angry over the bloody sword, he thought. “No, not like that,” said Wart. This seemed to puzzle her. Wart had not seen a king in his lifetime. Camelot was under stewardship. The lands across the narrows were untamed. The lands to the north were impossibly far away. All around them were feuding lords warring over dull, forested wild lands. He’d never even ridden a horse. “Why would I want to be king? So what if I put the sword back? It was probably loose anyway. I’m just glad no one caught us.” There’s no sense to the folk tales, he thought. Why would a king be selected from amongst peasants, craftsmen and merchants through divine intervention? What would the Almighty want with me? “That’s asinine. You saw me try it, before and after,” she grumbled. “My arms are twice those scrawny chicken
bone arms of yours and the sword would not move for me. It hasn’t moved for anyone for generations. You’re meant to take the sword.” He stopped fidgeting and stared into the fire. Almost to himself he said, “A week ago we wouldn’t have thought twice about this. It was just a pagan altar. Why...” He trailed off, hopeless of going back. He said, “When I went to draw the sword I hesitated, once I touched the hilt. I drew it and I felt such pain. Darkness.” She stared at him. “The choice to draw it led to pain and suffering, Erica.” She bent to pick up a stone and chucked it into the blackness. He heard a crack as bark chipped and flew. Her bearskin hid all her strength, he thought. He smiled at the thought that he loved her. Taking the sword meant losing her. That was that. But there was something else, too. In his mind’s eye, he lowered the sword back into the stone for the hundredth time. The pain did not subside, however. He had not told her that. He had not told her that he had chosen her over the sword, but somehow faced darkness either way. He laid out the woolen roll under the arched branches of the improvised shelter. He lay down first, facing the fire, adjusting a place for his head. After a moment she came to him, fully dressed against the snow as he was, crawled in beside him, adjusting her furs and leathers to wrap herself around the back of him. Her auburn hair fell across his neck. She laid her hand across his chest and he covered it, pulling her closer. Darkness either way, he thought. Within a month, the blade of a brigand cut her throat for her bearskins, vengeance upon her father’s house for its debts, and Wart was back in front of Excalibur by year’s end to face alone whatever awaited him by pulling the sword from the stone, not knowing yet the names of Guinevere or Lancelot.
Model Ty Hall
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The Second Wife by Emily Kramer
T
ry, they tell you, to make him happy to love you. But they are not explicit, as they never are, and you spy security, as you have been taught, in one choice, extortionate passion in the other, and make him, they say (choice implied) love you forever, love only you forever, a woman’s incriminatory nature, expected to nurture only one thing decorously, devoutly, devotedly alone, forever – Well, the castle is colder here than the southern isle you grew older in, and he uses the northern chill, when he is not at battle being indiscriminately and vaguely virtuous, as an excuse to keep you warm until you are so cold you can hardly stand to live in your own skin, feel his hands rubbing hard up your arms when you sleep alone, buried in blankets, until you slink from the inhabited corners of the castle up to the battlements where, here, at least, you’ll be closer to the moon. At night, the land is blanched as white and bare as the early-morning sea you left to be married without. You appreciate its candor, blunt and scorching. Here, the moon does not speak in courtly blandishments or ask any more of you than to grow close to you, to reflect itself off of your skin. At night, you balance yourself in between the merlons, toes quivering for purchase on the rough stone, nothing but heavy breathing between you and a long, swift plummet. You tip your face up to the sky, symbiotic and searching. Extortionate passion finds you one night, and promises that Arthur is not as bad as all that, that he will do anything if only you do not jump. His misinterpretation amuses
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you as much as it irritates, so you jump down the opposite side, back onto the battlement, and spend no short amount of time lecturing that women do, contrary to his evident belief, believe that there are other options, somewhere between men and death. His humble shame endears you more than his physique. An evening stroll around the walls turns into a sunrisen conversation, softened to murmurs, turns into long rides into the countryside under the guise of exploring and protection. He trusts you both, your husband, which is foolish, because, aside from what the historical virtue of your sex portends, you never gave him any indication that you were docile, and here is where you start to make a choice. Of course it figures that the first time you decide, breathe heavily, begin to thaw, you fall, forging all the rest. All of this, you can’t help but wonder, bound regally to the stake, much later, though never after enough time, flames licking, all of this for that old table? It sat in the hall for years before he ever took notice of either of you, fine-furred with dust, in his unapologetic disuse. When the rescue comes, you cannot even muster much gratitude, because you have become aware that there is something more massive at work than the men in your life, working against you. Try, they told you, to want this more. You have become a queen and there is no place for petulance beneath a crown. So you wait out the rest of it, penitent and patient. Never pitied, but pitying, alone at last.
Model Caitlyn Gummelt
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The Old Knight by Gary Lee Webb
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he old knight rode wearily northward. There was a town ahead, little more than a village, but it had an inn. For the fiftieth time, he wondered if he was getting too old for this. After many decades, he was used to sleeping on the ground, but a soft bed sounded really good. What he needed was a good fight. A group of bandits, perhaps, thinking they could kill one old man, sell his gear and his well-equipped horse. When they learned the hard way, he would feel useful, joyous at having made the road safer for travelers. But for now he was looking forward to that inn -- a good meal, a soft bed. Approaching the town, he could see something was wrong. Destroyed barns, abandoned blackened buildings. Invasion, this far north ? Raiders come a-viking?? He checked closer. Something had smashed the buildings, even gnawed on them. The black was not soot or evidence of some fire, but rather some kind of corrosion. There were large splotches on the ground, as if some giant had drooled as he walked. Of the barn animals, only remnants remained: a hoof, a tail, tufts of hair. He remounted and rode quickly into town. Storefronts had been smashed in, with signs that the defenders had been pulled bloodily out. He could smell the stench of fear and foeces. The inn stables had been smashed to kindling; once again, there were only remnants of the animals. The inn itself was listing badly, partially collapsed. “Flee sir knight, before it comes back!” he heard from a cellar win28 • bohemia • december 2013
dow. Dismounting he saw a face peering from underneath the rubble. “What was it? What did this?” “A dragon … it filled the sky! Flee for your life. I’ll be alright – it cannot get into the cellar. I ‘ll leave when the stores run out, take the last cheese; hopefully it will be gone elsewhere by then.” “Wise to hide. Stay safe!” The knight remounted; fleeing was not an option. He rode around the edge of town; hopefully it was not a dragon. A dragon would leave no trail as it flew. He knew his duty; he could not leave this beast ravaging Arthur’s kingdom. If it was a dragon he had his lance, but how to get the beast to land? There was a trail, a mass of crushed leaves as it left a road north of town and headed its own way. Not a dragon then. The beast was dragging some large animal still bleeding, through the fields -- the trail was easy to follow. Periodically he saw piles of skat, mounds as tall as a small child, with shards of crushed bone. Late in the afternoon, he saw where it had stopped and consumed the animal it had been dragging. No more blood to track then, and the trail became fainter. But by that point he knew what to look for: the occasional footprint; the broken bush or tree as it had passed by; the occasional dejections. It was not trying to hide its trail, and its course varied little. It had eaten well; probably it was headed to lair to sleep up. He tracked it for another day, then came to a rocky upthrust crowning a dark hill. Bones and ancient scat littered the area below the hill; the trees were blackened. He road up to a tree still growing from a pile of
rocks, and dismounted to go look for the cave or cavern which must be ahead. Took his longbow in hand, in case he got the chance for a shot. No point in the handbow: its quarrels would kill a man, but not a beast as big as this one must be. He put some hay at the base of the tree for his horse. He did not have long to wait. As he started up the hill towards the upthrust, a massive head wended one side. He quickly drew a long arrow from his quiver, rolling backwards to lie prone. Placing both feet on the arch, he nocked the arrow, pulled back with both hands, took aim, and shot. His aim was true, the arrow pieced an eye. The beast charged … he would not get a second shot. He lept to his feed, dropping bow and quiver. Drew shield off his back onto his left hand, and drew his claimore, righthanded, placing his left hand high on the hilt. The beast was long, shiny black scales, but no sign of wings. A wyrm then – St. George had killed one; it could be done. He backed onto level ground as the wyrm rushed him. It coiled its long neck and struck suddenly, like a snake. He jumped to its blindside, striking at its mailed neck as it flashed by. The sword sparked as it slid off the scales – too thick to pierce. He dove under the creature’s body: dragons were always supposed to have a weak spot, a missing scale, but this was no dragon. His horse saw the wyrm coming its way, reared high and turned to run. The wyrm ran towards the horse, ripping the annoying tree out of his way, grabbed the horse in his jaws, raised it high, and shook it. The lance dropped from its boot.
Models Ty Hall, Jonathan Newhouse, and Savannah Loftin
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The knight drove his sword with all of his might down onto the long tail as it was sliding by. The horse’s tack snapped; the lance fell pointfirst in a rain of gear, and rang like a bell, vibrating. The blow did not cut into flesh, but it must have hurt: the wyrm turned. The knight could see that the last 10 feet of tail were no longer undulating, just hanging limp. He had not pierced the scales, but he had broken the backbone. He dived again as the wyrm struck, rolling the length of the wyrm’s body, emerging near the tree the wyrm had cast aside. He spotted the lance, and knew what he had to do. As the wyrm turned, he grabbed the lance, ran up the small
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mound of rocks where the tree had been, dropped the butt into the hole. As the wyrm struck, he guided the lance point into the carotid in the mailed neck. Braced by the rocks, the lance pierced the scales, ripped through the artery, and out the back of the neck. The wyrm’s head smashed into the rocks holding the lance, shattering them, and crushing the knight’s body. The angered wyrm lifted his head high and then twisted his neck to bring his neck down to his forelimbs. He grabbed the point and haft of the imbedded lance with both paws and ripped the lance out of his neck, bursting open his neck in the process. The wyrm’s dying scream could be heard in the village, far to the south.
The knight’s spirit looked down at the scene with pride. The kingdom was safe, and he had died defending it. The word would go out, and the bards would embellish, but that was all to the good. Perhaps his battle would inspire young fighters to become knights, dedicated to defending Arthur’s kingdom. There was always room for new heroes.
Special thanks to Stonhenj Players, a non-profit organization of actors, stage combatants, dancers and singers from the North Texas and Central Texas regions, for helping out with this shoot. www.stonhenjrenaissance.com
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Anima Indie Anima Indie Anima Indie Anima Indie Anima Indie Anima Indie Anima Indie Anima Indie Anima Indie Anima Indie Anima Indie
a e a e a e a e a e a e a e a e a e a e a e
The Secret Society Photography by Cecy Ayala of Photography by Cecy
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The Secret Society By Megan Miller
On any given evening, across the country, covert meetings are taking place. Word of their time and location spreads by word of mouth, and even by internet if you know where to look.
P
eople of all ages, both sexes, and all walks of life show up. Some come once and decide it’s not for them; others return for the rest of their lives.
There’s a large group in They meet to dance. Austin, Texas that has been meeting every week since Swing, Folk, Contra, the 1940’s. Members of these Square, Ballroom, Step…a meetings are passionate, surprising number of people sometimes even wild. meeting regularly to cut a rug.
But why do we dance? december 2013• bohemia • 35
Most of us wouldn’t last 30 seconds on “Dancing With The Stars”. Sure, it can be competitive if that’s what moves you (sorry, bad pun). But in general it’s really not about skill, artistry or technique, all of which can be improved with time. As long as you are not actively stepping on toes, no one cares. In the case of International Folk Dancing, one reason we dance is that we live in a relatively isolated country. We dance to expand our knowledge and appreciation of the world and its cultures. It’s true that this is something of a quaint anachronism; there are no more merry peasants in Romania, coming to town on a Saturday to market and flirt. Many of the dances regularly performed in the United States have become almost unknown in their countries of origin. Some of these dances tell of a heritage and a history that has passed from the world, and dancing them is like viewing the stars and seeing the light given off long ago. It may fairly be said that another reason we dance is to keep the dances alive. They are stories that we are passing down with our feet. That’s true of our homegrown dances as well, such as square dancing 36 • bohemia • december 2013
or clogging. Since the 1970’s, clogging has undergone a notable renaissance and is now practiced all over the world.
real reason is that dancing is an intrinsic part of being human. It was one of the earliest ways we had of expressing our happiness, our sorrow, our We dance because danc- gratitude at the enormity of ing is good for your body. It the experience of Life. keeps you alive and active well into the “golden years”. It’s hard to write about I’ve met many people in their dance, as it is something so 80’s who dance regularly, and experiential. But as writer recently met a woman who Anne Lamott said, “Dancing resumed dancing three weeks is almost always a good idea”. after her hip replacement. That woman you passed on the Dancing uses more and dif- street, with the secret inward ferent muscles than running, smile? I’ll bet she’s a dancer. is aerobic and generally requires less impact to joints. Jazzercise knew what they were doing when they incorporated jazz dance moves into their aerobics fitness program. Dance makes everything more enjoyable. We dance for social reasons. It’s enjoyable to meet your friends, catch up on events, and teach each other movements. We dance because dancing is a moving meditation, akin to walking a Labyrinth. It allows a mind-body connection that can be very spiritually enrichening. Dancing is paradoxically both invigorating and relaxing. All good reasons to dance, but not the real reason. The
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Dannon O'Brien
Photography by Josh Brewster
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A Dancer Named Dannon Lifts Our Spirits By Jessica Purser
F
rom the second Austin native Dannon O’Brien burst onto So You Think You Can Dance, he was someone to watch, something special... and it wasn’t necessarily just because of the vaguely 70s couch upholstery-ish pants he was wearing. O’Brien, 20, was an instant hit for more than his clothing. He wowed the judges with his routine (set to “A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left” by Andrew Bird) - regular judges Nigel Lythgoe (yes, British) and Mary Murphy and guest judge Minnie Driver - and was sent straight to Vegas, the rigorous six-round boot camp that cuts 159 dancers down to the 20 that make it onto the So You Think You Can Dance (SYTYCD) performance stage. After O’Brien was featured with a four-minute audition segment and video package about his family’s annual haunted house, bloggers and fans of the show alike were perplexed when he was “blinkand-miss-it” in the “Vegas” episode of SYTYCD. He ended up being cut after hip-hop, the second round. O’Brien’s upbeat about it, calling the audition process a “fun experience” as well as a challenge. He says the judges started everyone on an equal slate once in Vegas and it was up to
the dancer to stand out. When he was cut, they were constructive, saying he “was not quite ready yet” and “still need[s] a bit of training.” That’s a little more understandable when you learn O’Brien has only been dancing since his mid-teens. He started gymnastics at 15 and, through that, met Austin choreographer Will Walker. O’Brien had been “always looking for an outlet that would fit perfectly” to encompass his creative side, and dance was it. He loved the people he met through it, the creativity he could express, and the art form itself. And it shows. With just a couple years of dance training, O’Brien placed first in the Open Solo round at the Nuvo Dance Convention and was runner-up in the Senior Male Breakout category. He was a high score soloist at the NYCDA dance convention in Houston, and that led to a scholarship at Marymount Manhattan College in New York City where he’s currently pursuing a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Dance with a concentration in choreography. When asked whether he prefers dancing or choreography, he hedges his answer with “all dance, all of it” before saying that most choreographers are older with more training and citing Mia Michaels and Wil-
liam Forsythe as inspirations. He’s also taken several master classes with Emmynominated choreographer Sonya Tayeh, probably the most unique choreographer on SYTYCD. Even with the comparatively short amount of time O’Brien’s spent dancing, he’s already taken the initiative to choreograph several public routines, one with Abry Anderson and several for his family’s haunted house in Austin, one of the reasons he was highlighted on SYTYCD. Started by his parents when he was a child, Doc Avery’s Haunted House is an Austin institution run out of the O’Brien family home, which has raised thousands of dollars for charity. O’Brien is the makeup director, creating ghosts and zombies every night the haunt is open. When you look at O’Brien’s earlier dance performances on YouTube compared to his SYTYCD audition, the leap from a few years’ worth of training is remarkable. If his skills as a choreographer make that same leap, people in the dance community will be hearing his name for a long time. First though, we hope to see him back on SYTYCD next year!
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dance like no one is watching dance like watching dance like no one is watching da no one is watching dance like no one is w dance like no one is watching dance like watching dance like no one is watching da no one is watching dance like no one is w dance like no one is watching dance like watching dance like no one is watching da no one is watching dance like no one is w dance like no one is watching dance like watching dance like no one is watching da no one is watching dance like no one is w ing dance like no one is watching dance l watching dance like no one is watching da no one is watching dance like no one is w dance like no one is watching dance like watching dance like no one is watching da no one is watching dance like no one is w dance like no one is watching dance like watching dance like no one is watching da no one is watching dance like no one is w dance like no one is watching dance like 40 • bohemia • december 2013
no one is watching dance like no one is ance like no one is watching dance like watching dance like no one is watching no one is watching dance like no one is ance like no one is watching dance like watching dance like no one is watching Dannon O'Brien no one is watching dance like no one is ance like no one is watching dance like watching dance like no one is watching no one is watching dance like no one is ance like no one is watching dance like So Youdance Thinklike You no Canone Dance watching is watchlike no one is watching dance like no is ance like no one is watching dance like watching dance like no one is watching no one is watching dance like no one is ance like no one is watching dance like watching dance like no one is watching no one is watching dance like no one is ance like no one is watching dance like watching dance like no one is watching no one is watching dance like no one is Favorite movies: Carrie, the Scary Movie franchise, Not Another Teen Movie, Up Favorite song: “I won’t answer that.” Favorite restaurant: Chipotle Favorite music: classical, new age, Lana Del Ray, Britney
On the topic of travel, O’Brien mentions an RV trip he took with his parents up and down the East Coast from Florida to Maine. He says his favorite place to go in Austin is Zilker Park, and that he’d like to go to Paris and Rome.
Just like in American Idol, there’s an un-televised primary round where dancers audition for producers before being sent to the televised auditions.
There’s no need to be unduly concerned for the health of the dancers in Vegas: EMS are always on standby, and food and water are available all the time.
Nothing is pre-determined about those who make it through the rounds in Vegas. The show is truly interested in the best dancers, not a quota. [note: this extends presumably to the Green Mile but possibly not the final 20; alas, O’Brien’s experience only went so far].
And, yes, Cat Deeley’s a sweet lady, just like she seems.
december 2013• bohemia • 41
Textile Art in We st Texas
Crawford Designs Offers Unique Techniques
“Whoever said ‘there’s no place like home’ was absolutely right,” said Barbara Newhouse Crawford upon her recent return to Amarillo, TX after a nearly 25 year departure.
B
arbara Crawford returns to her place of birth and upbringing as a nationally and internationally recognized instructor and leader in the fiber arts world. She has opened a studio at Sunset Galleries, offering workshops, classes, and finished fiber art projects on the walls for sale. Working with wool rovings, yarns, and exotic fibers, she creates beautiful pieces one can hang on the wall, wear as scarves and clothing, or use as accessories and handbags. The techniques she teaches come from all over the world-- Japanese, Scottish and American techniques incorporating twists in execution that include music, bubble wrap, foam noodles, and soap. Along with fiber arts, Barbara has her own line of patterns, Sewing Made Simple, making it easy to create beautiful clothing from the fiber fabrics that she creates. Her dream is to have a place
42 • bohemia • december 2013 Model: Emiliana Erriquez
Crawford’s textile art as seen in her workshop and studio in Amarillo, TX at the Sunset Gallery Studio.
for every one to learn how to make these wonderful pieces, even if they do not possess any particular skills. She says, “There’s no age requirements either-- young, old and in between are welcome!” Barbara is joined in the studio by Emiliana Erriquez, a friend from Foggia, Italy who is launching Anima Indie. Her comapny makes sophisticated and arty shoes with inspirational phrases painted on them. She is also a translator and has authored 2 books. (Emiliana modeled one of Barbara’s designs for this story.) Classes and workshop schedules are posted in the shop where you can see Barbara in action from 9 to 5. Each month she explores a new topic. The studio location is 3701 Plains Blvd. in Amarillo, TX. The studio is #44 along the outside sidewalk, where you will find an eclectiv array of diverse artists, working with mediums such as oil, canvas, jewelry, and fibers. Photography on both pages by Deana Richardson Thank you Deana for making a special trip to Barbara’s studio to capture her beautiful art. december 2013• bohemia • 43
Waco Furniture Hospital
Open 10 am to 6 pm Wednesday thru Saturday. wacofurniturehospital.org wacofurniturehospital@gmail.com Check us out of Facebook - Waco Furniture Hospital
Repair, Paint or Mend your SICK furniture or walls
Located at 2501 North 18th (Corner of Lyle and 18th) Waco, TX 76708 A new nonprofit group has made its home in Waco repurposing and updating old dilapidated furniture and faux finishing walls in your home or office. Waco Furniture Hospital is the brainchild of local businessman Wenceslao Lopez and friend Sharon Smirl. “I like to find a piece on the side of the road and give it new life. The added bonus is we keep these things out of our landfills and I get to get my hands in some paint,” Smirl said. Other services the organization will offer are furniture stripping and classes on furniture repair and painting. Furniture can be donated Wednesday through Saturday from 10 a.m. until 5:30 p.m. Organization founders say the profits from furniture sales will benefit a variety of local charities. For more information call (254) 855-4127. 44 • bohemia • december 2013
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46 • bohemia • december 2013
Sparrow and the Clay:
Setting Root In Our Heart
S
parrow and the Clay was formed in Spring 2012 as a trio by singer/guitarist Mikael Aguilar from Dallas TX, then bass player Brent Hayworth of Teague, Texas, and drummer Dillon Payne from Whitney, Texas. The style was originally a mixture of groove-heavy, acoustic driven rock. The band recorded a selftitled EP and played shows around North/Central Texas for the rest of that year and 2013. In Spring of 2013 Sparrow and the Clay added bass player Humberto Rosado of Ft. Worth, Texas to the group, thus rounding out the sound and moving Hayworth to lead guitar. The year 2013 has seen the band playing shows all around DFW/Denton
47 • bohemia • october 2013
at venues like Prophet Bar, Curtain Club, Liquid Lounge, Hailey’s (Denton), and The Aardvark to name a few. At the end of 2013 Sparrow and the Clay made another lineup change with the exit of Dillon Payne and the addition of Clay Carter from Arlington, Texas to drums. The group has also finished up a live EP to be released before Christmas 2013. When asked about the origin of the group’s name, singer/ guitarist Mikael Aguilar says, “The name of the group is pretty ambiguous. It draws from a few different places in literature, theology, and cinema. I think a name like ours
allows us to have more freedom to define ourselves musically without feeling the need to be gimmicky or disingenuous. We tend to approach our songwriting in much the same way. We just bring in various ideas and kind of let them flourish within the group’s creative dynamic. “ You can find more info, download music, and follow Sparrow and the Clay at www.sparrowandtheclay. bandcamp.com or www.facebook. com/sparrowandtheclayband
Graphic (left) by Sean Lock of 4 Story Graphics december 2013• bohemia • 47
The Kennedy ERA Photography by Pat Jones Photography Words by William Blackrose
Models: (This page) Aoife Gorey, (Next) Lucidia Fera & Adam Richards 48 • bohemia • december 2013
His heart belonged to a lady His mind, to an idea And when Camelot was brought down this time It was a bullet’s bite, not a kiss A flash of pain And tears fell...
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What suits a man? What suits a lady?
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: Luc
Models
hards
dam Ric
ra & A idia Fe
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sweet temptation
52 • bohemia • december 2013 Model: Aoife Gorey
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54 • bohemia • december 2013
“Dreams” by Juliet Nevarez
Statement Art Erin Frasher discusses founding workshop/gallery Statement Art in Waco, TX.
H
ave you ever dreamed that you could wake up in the morning and be exactly what you wanted to be? Well, in early 2013 I had the opportunity to follow my passion for art, wherever it decided to take me, thanks to some helpful nudges from my husband and friends. For years I have worked the craft show circuits selling crafts and paintings just to keep my sanity while holding down a typical 9 to 5 job. Like most artists, those hours don’t appeal to me at all. So I hung up my lab coat and went for broke, literally, to follow my passion for Art. Not sure as to which direction I wanted to go I began looking for classes in art that I could take as an adult. I searched the internet daily, looking at private or group classes in painting, drawing-ANYTHING, and found nothing for anyone over the age of 12. So then I went in search of local artists who might give private lessons, to no avail. Was there anywhere in Waco that I could go to paint? To go every week and paint in a setting where I could get feedback from other people moved by art? After searching for what I was looking for and not readily finding it, I began thinking. Why not just open your own space? Then, the idea was formed. When preparing for this interview I began to think about the answer to the question-- what inspired me to open an Art Studio? The typical answers flooded my brain. I need to pay the bills, I want to do something I love, but then I remembered my first experience with my own art. When I was in 6th grade, I took an art class in my local middle school and was told at the end of the year by the teacher, “If you promise never to take another art class I will pass you.” That statement stuck with me for 22 years past those hallways,
and I kept true to my word. I never took another class, never attempted to draw or paint anything more than the doodlings on the front of my notebook. Until one day I decided to take a 6 week course at MCC in watercolor that changed my life. During that short six week class the instructor commented several times about my understanding of perspective and color-- insisting that I had taken classes before. I told the story of my 6th grade teacher and his only comment was, “I wonder where you would be now had she not said that.” I was shocked, excited, and surprised that someone inside the art community who had been painting for 30 plus years found my work interesting enough to talk about. That is the feeling I want to create in people. That excitement, that acceptance is what I want to give to the students of Statement Art, along with a program designed to inspire growth in whatever medium. I am a firm believer that there is an artist in every one, you just have to embrace it. So as a bohemian, I have jumped into the preverbal rabbit hole and am excited to see where it will take me.
What we do:
We offer classes in Drawing and Acrylic and Watercolor Painting. There is a class level for every one from the beginning classes called “This Is a Pencil” all the way up to an advanced painting class called “De Vinci Who?” Class information sessions are held each Monday night at 6pm. Alongside the classes, the Statement Artists offer Mural Design and Painting in Homes and Businesses.
number of our predesigned templates. Then we encase these memories into a glass like resin that will stay beautiful forever. Jewelry Design: Come learn the art of Jewelry Making. In this class you will design your own one-of-a-kind wearable piece of art. Includes a necklace and earing set. Scrapbooking: Take your memories out of that shoe box and let us show you how to make an amazing Memory Book to display your family’s adventures. Just bring your pictures and let the fun begin. All Crafting and Art Classes are available for private parties and special occasions. Contact the studio for more details. On Going Special Events:
Mom’s Day Out: 10am-2pm Saturday mornings Date Night: Friday Nights: 6pm-11pm Alongside the lesson programs at Statement Art, we are also looking for ways to give back to the community. We are currently offering a scholarship program to families that would otherwise not be able to afford lessons. We are also in the process of working with area Boy Scouts in creating a community garden that will help feed the less fortunate in the Waco Area.
Craft Classes
Custom Coaster Design: in this class, we start with any image be it a personal photo or a favorite sports team to any
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Juliet Nevarez Juliet Nevarez – My career as a self-taught artist started at the tender age of four years old. My first piece was a small mural done in crayon on the bathroom wall of my home entitled “ Dinosaur, Sun, and Tree”. The entire family could admire it while tending to private bathroom matters and my parents NEVER erased, scrubbed, or painted over it. That encouragement sparked my enthusiasm and love of art. Since then, 30 years plus, I still find myself doodling, drawing, using pastels, and painting every moment I have free. I also have had my share of “what if” moments during my love affair with art. I was asked to draw a cartoon for a local newsletter that came out monthly and the fear of “not being good enough” kept me from what could have been. Never again. Any chance I get to share art, I do it. I’ve notice that when I draw, paint... whatever, I notice that every one feels something-whether they are the artist or the critic. It wakes something inside of them and I love that art can touch people like that.
Erin Frasher Erin Frasher – As kind of a free spirit at heart, I have always leaned toward the creative. Though most of my youth was spent running away from drawing, I could not help the pull I felt for art. For 25 plus years I surrounded myself with other creative outlets, from painting on ceramics to various crafts to sculpting, and even earning a degree in Technical Theatre. I spent a year working at the Dallas Theatre Center as a scenic carpenter and stage hand, and several years in various improv comedy troupes. When I moved to Waco in 2006, I found myself without an outlet. So I earned a degree in Clinical Lab Science and went to work. After several years working in area hospitals and clinics, I stumbled into the craft show circle and I had been plugged in again. I hung up my lab coat in 2013 to pursue Art full time.
Background, “Coy Fish,” by Tammy Thompson. 56 • bohemia • december 2013
Deann Graham Deann Graham - Born with caffeinated super powers, Deann Graham was infused with the desire to become a great designer or a Jedi Master. Needless to say, the broom incident of 1981 derailed her Jedi path. Her youth was spent frolicking in the forests and glades disputing the “Snorks” as a bastardization of the “Smurfs” until she was captured and forced to work as a cubical monkey. She has since gnawed through the walls and escaped into the world of Web design. She currently makes her nest at Statement Arts and Crafts, corrupting the young minds of students. God help us all.
“Waves of Change” by Erin Frasher
“Dandelion” by Erin Frasher
“Midwestern Fireflies” by Erin Frasher
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Photography by Pat Jones Photography Costumes by Kloe’s Custom Clothing
december 2013• bohemia • 59 Model: Abby Eades & Kenyai O’Neal
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.... It is a period of civil war. Rebel spaceships, striking from a hidden base, have won their first victory against the evil Galactic Empire.
60 • bohemia • december 2013 Model: Jocelyn Fulbright
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During the battle, Rebel spies managed to steal secret plans to the Empire’s ultimate weapon, the Death Star, an armored space station with enough power to destroy an entire planet.
62 • bohemia • december 2013 Model: Kenyai O’Neal
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64 • bohemia • december 2013 Models: Christopher Hale & Jocelyn Fulbright
Pursued by the Empire’s sinister agents, Princess Leia races home aboard her starship, custodian of the stolen plans that can save her people and restore freedom to the galaxy...
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66 • bohemia • december 2013 Models: Kenyai O’Neal & Christopher Hale
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Kloe’s Custom Clothing “Inspired by many of the great epic movies, I have always had a love for clothing and design, but didn’t get a chance to pursue that passion until about ten years ago. Since that time, Khloe’s Custom Clothing has blossomed into a full time endeavor. My customers come from all over the country and around the world seeking unique, custom made clothing. The customization of each order makes for interesting work, but I most enjoy making something completely unique or something I haven’t previously made. I love taking an idea with only a sketch or a picture and creating a one of a kind costume. You can find me at: www.across-the-galaxy.com Dress your imagination and explore the worlds around you.”
Kloe <3
68 • bohemia • december 2013
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
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.
december 2013â&#x20AC;˘ bohemia â&#x20AC;˘ 69
70 â&#x20AC;˘ bohemia â&#x20AC;˘ december 2013
A Place of Myth and Legend
Poetry inspired by the Arthurian legends & artwork by Gena Deeds-Page
december 2013• bohemia • 71 “Vision”
The Good Knight by Matthew Wilson
My kingdom is in carnage now the Dragon is here, but today my new knight comes and I have little left to fear.
Arthur by JBMulligan
History is a snot-nosed boy, brown hair like a thatched roof, eyes like dark common stones, standing before the cross of a sword set like a silver flower in the rock. Loud brave men around a table laugh and drink, and tear at meat and bread with irregular teeth. They’ve been waiting for a king, but they weren’t prepared for this. Birds and butterflies flutter nearby, immune to legend. Sunlight licks at leaves and branches. The boy is afraid to breathe, afraid to move. Afraid not to move. The moment waits for any fool. It isn’t glory, a glittery name, or eternity at stake. It’s just the damned sword stuck in the damned stone, something that needs to be done, that can’t be done.
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They say he has the might and brains of twenty men, enough to ensure I see no Dragon again. Today comes Lancelot, and tonight he’ll meet my Queen. My Guinevere, the most radiant lady this kingdom’s ever seen. I do hope they will get on, to me be like a brother, I can’t think of a better hero from one king to another.
december 2013• bohemia • 73 “Of Water & Bridges”
74 • bohemia • december 2013 “The Old Centaur”
First King Of United Lands by Matthew Wilson
Still the flowers grow where dead men lie. Worried kings will build their towers, and fear Dragons in the sky. Bear kings win their crown with the prophecy of a stone, written down by monks of ages facing enemies alone. Creating a round table so all knights would feel the same, Merlin taught a man to be king and a ruler tough but tame. Lay Arthur down within the boat, away from blood covered roses, and men slain. Sleep softly in the mountain, king, Among the heroes who hear no rain.
The Death Of Arthur by Matthew Wilsom
Arthur’s sword was set in stone, where men of strength had battled, fighting for the right of king, crushing bones that in the dust had rattled. Men came from all the lands to face the stone and take the test, to remove the sword, but the bear king did come out first and best. The lake’s lady called him royal and gave him sword of kings, Excalibur, that wiped away his enemies making ballads of history which angels sing. Struck down by his own kin on the last battlefield of blood, the first king sleeps below the mountain awaiting when the world has need of good. december 2013• bohemia • 75
Arthur on Lancelot by John J. Brugaletta
Of course I knew. What choice was there for me? It was to lose him from my table, my ablest knight, or lose a modicum of honor in the whisperings, a trifle by comparison. Besides, he was my friend, which counterbalanced my resentment when I pictured them at tossing on her bed, her joyous cries more heartfelt than she sighed for my more nobly-driven thrusts. And I had winked at other couplings in strange beds, one knight substituting for another, to keep a semblance of the peace. A king must leave aside these boyish frisks to give his thought of statecraft better weight. I had the table fashioned round to say that every man was knight, and each had say, the king reserved to give the final say. How could I move more fiercely at my own concern than at another’s? And yet, from that day that I knew, her face was maculate, her voice a rasp, her hands a milkmaid’s. I took no longer sprightly to her bed. Therein lay the poison that assassinated all.
What Roland Found by Adam Amberg
Awoke am I still nightly in my bed With sight to darkened tow’r did I yet come Infirm I am, yet came when I was young. Those years so passed in loathsome furious dread All visions of ghasts which linger in my head Though know I now that grief which fate had stung. I think in darkened hours if I am sane To hold a mem’ry of such looming gaunt And of quest’s end, found I a prize of haunt. But know I still was in a rightly brain Yet marred by sin and mov’d with selfly gain For vanity can move a knight to glory want. But when the tow’r I reached what I did see: By Christ! Twas image of I upon the rood. A kingdom of mine lay broken, heaped and crude. Called I “Wherefore, myself upon Thy tree?” “Thy pride hath stolen glory, and now,” quoth He, “Thy vanity must die where I once stood.”
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december 2013• bohemia • 77 “Dragon Shell”
78 • bohemia • december 2013 “Morgan le Faye”
about the artist “Art is a form of play rejoicing before the face of God.” — Hans Rookmaaker
From my earliest drawings, on pink paper with a pencil that tried to wobble in my hand, to the painting that kept me up nights last week, needing “just a tiny bit more work”, art is a thread that runs through my life. I drew my way through high school: ballpoint pen portraits of classmates on lined paper, and sketches that covered paper intended for homework. Majored in art and married a theatre major. Got a BFA from Hardin-Simmons in 1982. Illustrated magazines, did portraits of D&D characters, painted theatre sets, scrambled to get by. Had a baby and drew pictures of myself pregnant, in labor, nursing. Homeschooled two daughters, and of course illustrated “the life of a cell” and taught them to draw. Painted murals, did portraits, committed my work to God, drew prayers when words failed me. I am living in Waco now, still drawing and painting.
Gena Deeds-Page
You can see my work at www.genadeeds-page.com Bohemia readers can use coupon code BOHO at checkout from the online store for a 10% discount.
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Lance Has Some Splainin’ To Do by Peter Able
Photography by Bonnie Neagle Photography Hair and make-up by Tammy Shefa Costume by Abby Thomas
Tell me again, one more time.
Please stop touching me.
He’s my son.
Right, then. So, we can make this work. It may require some concessions here and there and of course one can’t forget our own situation. Our situation?
Not that part, the other part. You mean….about Elaine. Right. ELAINE. Well, as I mentioned, you may recall, she tricked me into sleeping with her. I just want to point that out one more time. In case it got lost in some of the other details. I was… Tricked.
You know what I mean, Gwen. Ol’ Stuck in the Stone may have a thing or two to say on the matter once we come clean, which of course we’ll have to once we bring Galahad into the family. There’s really no use avoiding it any longer and I can’t really see the harm.
Who, Elaine? Ah, well, I suppose there are some similarities – high cheekbones, pale as the moonlight, a strong chin that sort of thing. She has blonde hair. Indeed she does, indeed she does. To be fair you’ve only recently colored yours black. It does get confusing and honestly dear, gentlemen prefer blondes and all that.
Just so I’m perfectly clear on the Aside from my being burned at the matter, this is Elaine of Corbenic stake you mean. we are talking about, yes?
Deceived, really. Completely and utterly deceived by a foul, wretch- Arthur’s not as bad as all that – he ed woman of whom I have lost all won’t stand for it, and neither will I. Come now, Gwenny, take my respect. arm and we’ll take a stroll through the garden and make grand plans. You have lost respect, all right. Just like old times. What do you say? Gwen, dear, I… 80 • bohemia • december 2013
Do you really think she looks like me?
[nods] Not Elaine of Astolat, who’s been throwing herself at you for years? [shakes head]
Model Stephanie Rystrom
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And your mother’s name? Elaine, isn’t it? I’m getting more creeped out by the minute. All pure coincidence I assure you. So to summarize, you can’t help yourself from rescuing damsels in distress. You save Elaine from being boiled alive. Elaine pledges her eternal gratitude and flashes you some leg. You get drunk, see one of my rings on her finger, temporarily forget my hair color, and promptly – VERY promptly by my past experience with you – impregnate her. There are a few missing details… And THEN, she has the nerve to show up to the king’s feast, brings your son Goober-head… Galahad. …with her. We fight, you get drunk, she flashes leg, you sleep with her again, rinse, repeat. Is that about it? With the noted exception that this time you discovered us in bed together. Which I know must have been disconcerting. For that I am dreadfully sorry.
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Sir Lancelot, you truly are the noblest knight in all the world. So noble, in fact, that I cannot stand in the presence of your nobility a moment longer. Gwen, let me finish… Oh, we are finished. Marry Elaine, and the three of you can live happily ever after riding unicorns, listening to songbirds, and following rainbows straight to your doorstep. Who knows, with enough training maybe even that runt of a boy Gobberstop will amount to something more than a cheating, lying son of a bitch. Marry Elaine? God knows, I’d have to be nuts. Have you tasted her cooking? Gwen? GWENNY? Da-Da. Ah, Galahad, there you are. Staying out of trouble? Drink. DRINK! Hold your horses, boy. That cup’s not the holy grail, you know. Good luck finding that one.
Model Brent Phillips
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about the costume designer
Dress & wreath Abby Thomas
Abby Thomas creates fantasy and period reproduction garments using modern techniques. She strives for historical accurateness, even using period fabrics when available. With 14 years of costuming and stagecraft experience, she loves to use her skills to create beautiful and durable costumes. Her goals include developing her own patterns. She creates garments for Medieval and Renaissance Faires, SCA events, weddings, LARP, period re-enactments, fancy dress, and just for fun! Find her on etsy and facebook.
Sew Historical Costumes sew-historical.blogspot.com
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Our contributors..
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Peter Able’s screenplays have beeen finalists with Scriptapalooza, PAGE International, and the New York Television Festival. He lives in Woodway with his family. He is currently the director of Financial and HR systems for Baylor University. Joschua Beres is a Texas native of Louisiana French-Creole, Irish, French-Canadian and German ancestry. He has previously been published by Every Day Fiction, Underground Books and has work included in the anthology Milk and Honey Siren. Joschua spends his free-time traveling, writing and collecting ancient antiquities. He serves in the Texas Army National Guard and is an Air Force veteran. William Blackrose. I grew up traveling a lot, so developed an early love of the written word. I eventually grew tired of seeing the same story and decided to start writing my own. After writing my first book at 12 years of age and having my poetry published at 13, I have never stopped writing. John J. Brugaletta is professor emeritus of English and Comparative Literature at California State University, Fullerton. He edited South Coast Poetry Journal for ten years, and two volumes of his work were published, The Tongue Angles and Tilling the Land, with a third volume scheduled for publication during the winter of 2014. He lives in Northern California with his wife. Christopher T. Garry’s works are forthcoming in Tales of the Talisman and have appeared in Crack the Spine, Bartleby Snopes and many others. Born in Illinois he lives outside Seattle with family and pets. He can be found on Poets & Writers or CTGarry.com.
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April Henley God set two passions in my heart: A love of horses and a love for writing. The first inspired 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. Pat Jones became interested in photography six years ago. Finding very little help when starting out led him to seek out photographers to work with and later to start a forum for local photographers. Pat lives in Robinson, TX. He does wedding, pin-up, boudoir, fine art, and glamour. Emily Kramer is a recent graduate of Barnard College, and currently freelancing in New York City. Central Texan Megan Miller gets older every day, but apparently no wiser. Having embraced the path of the Cosmic Fool and finishing up a tour of the country, she is intent to settle down and live a life of quiet obscurity in a small town with her husband. JB Mulligan has had poems and stories in several hundred magazines, including recently, Angle, Muse, riverbabble, Red Fez, and Gone Lawn, has had two chapbooks published, and has appeared in multiple volumes of the anthology, Reflections on a Blue Planet as well as the anthology, Inside/ Out: A Gathering Of Poets.
Bonnie Neagle is a native Texan who is married with 3 children; Alley, Isaac and Parker. Her love for photography started during middle school and has grown ever since. She was recently featured on Senior Style Guide’s blog. She also co-owns First Sight Photography with Marcel Van Es. 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. In Texas since 1993, Genna Ware, 43, has been shooting alongside Pat Jones for one year. She’s a 911 Operator of 8 yrs. Photography is an incredible passion of Genna’s and she enjoys all types. Gary Lee Webb is a 16-year resident of Waco. He has lived on three continents, visited four, and speaks many languages … badly. His credits include over 230 public speeches, four decades of conferences and contests, assisting the Waco Cultural Arts Fest, and over 20 publications. He is 58, married 36 years, and has 4 daughters. Cynthia Wheeler is a Waco native and mother of three. She writes, paints, and does graphic design. Her true love is photography. She has been a volunteer at Waco Center For Youth for four years. Matthew Wilson, 30, is a UK resident who has been writing since small. Recently these stories have appeared in Horror Zine, Star*Line and Sorcerers Signal. He is currently editing his first novel and can be contacted on twitter @matthew94544267.
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