YAHARA JOURNAL A FINE ARTS AND LITERARY PUBLICATION
20 15 EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Megan R. M. Mendonรงa
EDITORIAL STAFF Alexander Balchen Joseph Dunst Isaak Mertz KC Phillips Zina Schroeder Patience Vallier BOOK DESIGN Brittany Hoban ADVISOR Doug Kirchberg
The Yahara Journal consists entirely of Madison College student work. Activities Fees. Opinions expressed in this journal do not represent those of the Madison College administration, faculty, staff, or student body.
Madison College May 1, 2015
TABLE OF CONTENTS PROSE 7 10 12 20 25 33 34 36 39
Night Terror .................................................................................... Vic Gear Elena ...................................................................................... J. Ellie Golemb Birds of a Feather .............................................. Alexander Scott McMiller The Debt ................................................................. Eric-Anderson Momou The Freshmen ............................................................................... D.J. Pierce Lucrative Offer ............................................................. Christopher Pinkert Exhaust........................................................................................ Matt Reines Oak ...........................................................................Ian Thomas Sanderson The Severed Head of Aldea Maldita ..................................Bryan Simpson
POETRY 51 53 57 58 59 60
Birmingham ........................................................................ Christina Barber Out ........................................................................................Natalie Connors Mountain ................................................................. Eric-Anderson Momou Ocean.............................................................................................. Teal Rowe When the Dealer Calls .....................................................William Schneider Nots ...........................................................................................Kayla Wilson
ARTWORK 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78
Leo ........................................................................................ Mirko Canicoba Om ........................................................................................ Mirko Canicoba ........................................................Eugenio Rodrigo Carapia Bear Mound ....................................................................... Michael Edwards Edgar ...................................................................................... Alex Grismore Hand Made ........................................................................... Kristina Karlen In the Depths ....................................................................... Kristina Karlen Lemon & Lips ...................................................................... Hannah Larson Natalie’s Spike Ball ..........................................................................Joe Mohr Harlequins .................................................................................. Elena Poiata Janie ................................................................................................. Paul Ripp Those Beautiful Wings ............................................................... Meng Vang Beijing Opera ...................................................................................Dian Yao Sage ........................................................................................... Rachel Virnig
PROSE
NIGHT TERROR Vic Gear
Ayda awoke in a cold sweat, beads falling past the curves of her face. She sat up in the darkness and grasped her purple comforter to her thin frame as she looked into the darkness, soft gasps escaping from her full lips. She looked into the shadows of her room in slight confusion. Where was the sun? For as long as she could remember, her nightly terrors always took hold until morning’s light. Did I forget to pull the curtains away? she thought, still shaky from the horrors that swirled in her head.
in a warm glow, while shadows fought to hang onto the fringes of where the light lay. The soft tick tock of her clock drilled into her thoughts as she glanced at it. The white-faced, golden clock with an old fashioned bell read 2:23 a.m. As she looked around her room, she wetted her lips as they felt oddly dry. Something the back of her mind she wandered into another thought altogether. She knew as she sat there, thinking of whether or not she should attempt going back to sleep, she would likely just lay there in the dark for hours on end. Ayda slowly pulled away her covers and stepped onto the plush, pink rug books or toys to make sure she was awake. All felt real enough, and she thought, since there was no school tomorrow, she would stay up until tomorrow night. Ayda stepped toward her door and gripped the handle, thinking she would go downstairs and watch TV to pass the time. But the moment she opened her door and took a step into the hallway, a great rush of cold air slammed into her like a unable to do anything but pray the wind would let go of her. But instead of colliding into the wall of her bedroom, she kept whirling head over heels. Her voice ran hoarse as the onslaught continued, the air shredding her night gown. Suddenly, the wind stopped, and Ayda found herself shivering in her torn and bloodied night gown, sitting in an old recliner. The air around her was thick
7
NIGHT TERROR
before her very eyes the scene changed into a long corridor with a black door at the end. As she sat, her mind unhinged, her chest rising and falling sharply, the door began to creak open. She tried to stand, but found she had been strapped
stench, the chattering of its fanged teeth, the lurching of its left leg with no muscle to propel it. It staggered forward with a sickening cracking and splintering before it came to a sudden stop. A rusted chain held taught kept the beast from emerged from the darkness of the black door. This too was a monster she had seen in her night terrors since she was old enough to remember. But unlike the to the nines in a smooth, mauve Zoot suit, a black silken tie with sharp leather boots and slicked back black hair, he might have seemed somewhat human,
“Pretty, pretty Ayda. At last we meet face to face,” cried out Deimos your nights with terror has brought me great joy, tonight’s the night we tango. One last time.” Ayda’s eyes widened in horror as Deimos let go of the creature’s chain, and it came bounding toward her, faster than she had ever seen it. She struggled, Ayda lay in her bed screaming and thrashing. It wasn’t long before her father burst into the room, knowing all too well about the night terrors. He jumped to her side, holding onto her tightly as he spoke in a loud, yet calm voice. “Ayda, Ayda. You’re safe. Daddy’s here.” Her thrashing slowly subsided, and onto her father and shook, doing her best to forget all that had happened.
8
VIC GEAR
“It felt so real, Daddy. I thought that this time... It…” “Shh... It was all but a nightmare,” he said, petting her head with his
dribbling down his chin. “It’s alright.”
9
ELENA J. Ellie Golemb
trees twinkle a bright green in the sunset, while the grass foreshadows the oncoming seasonal change by browning in patches. Elena sits on her porch steps, willing the grass to stay green. Today has been a long day for Elena. The hours dragged on in the morning, from across the room as she awoke, startled and alone. Her coffee brewed slower than normal. Heartbreak has a way of making everything drag on and on. But Elena was not heartbroken this morning—no, just the opposite. Elena was in love and eager to begin her day. Eager to pick out a dress, slip on her purse. Elena had feelings for a man who spent his days in the cubicle next to hers. Today was the day she had worked up the nerve to speak to him. Today was the day she would make her move. Today was the day Elena would ignite a passionate romance. Elena knows everything about this man. Elena has been studying him for over a year. She knows his mannerisms, his tastes, his diet, his ex-wife. Elena shops at the same grocery store as his ex-wife. That grocery store is nearly an hour farther from Elena’s home than closer shopping options. Elena knows where he lives. She has parked her car outside his apartment
license plate number by heart. His electric bill last month was $72.56. As one can surmise, Elena has followed this man out of love. She has heretofore lacked the courage to approach him, even though she spends her waking hours in close proximity to him. Elena is in love. So will he be in love
10
J. ELLIE GOLEMB
to orchestrate an accidental elevator ride with the object of her affection. She will He is receptive to her advances; the attraction is indeed mutual. But the man is moving away when summer ends. He says that his ex-wife is stalking him, that he has proof, and that he is concerned for his safety and sanity. His several nights a week. But if the situation were different, he would love to take her out for a drink.
11
BIRDS OF A FEATHER Alexander Scott McMiller
Friday, June 8, 2012 Dear Talón, You know how much I love my birds. Their chirping cheers me up, and they sooth me to sleep. They are quiet when I ask it of them, and when I need cages in my bird room containing thirty-four different beings, and I hope to add another cage soon when I have the money. My job at the pet store is going well, although Mr. Harrison, my boss, has been getting on me about not approaching the customers well enough. As you know, Talón, I do not like people. I despise them, but can’t get any other job besides a sales position, and all of the other places disturb me because they do not have those beautiful, noisy birds. However, my reason for writing this time is that I met a woman. She is nothing like you, Talón, but she seemed to take an interest in me. She came into the store this morning and inquired about getting a cat. I said I would bring her to the cats, but I confessed that I only loved birds, and I thought cats were menaces. She laughed at it as if I had told a joke, but I only smiled and led her to and soon we will be adding a litter of kittens. I told her this, and she said she was actually looking for an adult cat, as they were the ones who really needed love. “Kittens always get love,” she said, “but the adults are sometimes overlooked.” I agreed, although I said that I love birds not cats. Then she said I was cute. Can you believe it, Talón? She said I was cute! I don’t know her, so why did funny, but the way she looked at me was weird. It made me uncomfortable. But that is not the worst of it, Talón. She said her name was Patricia, and she handed me her number and said I should call her sometime. How is that, Talón? You said
12
ALEXANDER SCOTT MCMILLER
Anyway, I have not called her yet, and I am wondering what I should do. Help me, Talón, help me. Love, Roger
Sunday, June 10, 2012 Dear Talón, I took your advice, and I called her. She picked up on the third ring, and she asked who it was. I said it was Roger from the pet store, and she sounded excited. “Oh, Roger, how are you?” she asked. number. I asked her why she gave me her number, and you know what she said? She said, “Oh, I think you’re a nice guy, Roger. A little quiet, but nice.” She said we had met before, although from the way I had acted at the store, I must not have remembered her. I said, “Where did we meet? I do not go out much, besides to the pet store and when I need to buy groceries.” She said it was around two years ago at a Christmas party at her church. I was with a friend, and I apparently had talked to her, and she thought I was cool. She looked for me after the party and inquired after me, but had no luck I don’t remember her, but as you are always saying, Talón, I need to and I would rather spend time with my birds or with you. Of course, I don’t see you anymore. Patricia asked if I wanted to go out for coffee some time and guess what? I said yes. She said she knew this great place with a live band, but I confess, Talón, I’m a little nervous. I don’t go out much. Not anymore at least.
13
BIRDS OF A FEATHER
Anyway, I will write soon. Love, Roger
Friday, June 15, 2012 Dear Talón, I just got back from getting coffee with Patricia. It was somewhat fun. I was really scared though. I told her that, and she said that it was all right; we all have things that scare us. I hope you’ve been well, Talón. I miss you, but someday we will see each other again. I wish you could meet her. I think you would like Patricia. I am not sure where I stand yet on what I think about her. She’s kind, but I am afraid I would disappoint you by dating her. She seemed inclined to do it again. I do not know that it is wise. Perhaps I should just take some time and think on it. Anyway, I will talk to you again. Love, Roger
Monday, June 18, 2012 Dear Talón, I have not seen her for a few days, and I am haunted by thoughts of her. It was only one outing that I had with her, but now I want more. Lately, my birds have not been enough. I have been feeling really anxious, and I think I should talk to Patricia again. What would you do, Talón? Would you ask if she wanted to go out again? It feels so foreign to me. I wish I could see you again, Talón. Also, I found this beautiful macaw at this bird shop near the capital. I am
have to get her a separate cage.
14
ALEXANDER SCOTT MCMILLER
when I get done… Okay, I am back. It was Patricia. She was calling to make sure I was all right. She asked if I wanted to see her again. I said yes, and we have an outing and I will let you know what comes of things concerning the macaw and Patricia. Love, Roger
Wednesday, June 20, 2012 Dear Talón,
She ordered a pasta dish, but I am not sure what it was called. We also had root beer to drink, because I explained that I don’t drink. Not anymore. She was okay with that. She said her dad was an alcoholic, so she respected my decision. I like her, Talón, I really like her. It has only been two outings, but I am starting to want to consider them dates. I asked if she liked birds, and she said no, not particularly, but she said that she could learn to like them. I asked her wanted to show it to her. And you know what, Talón? She said, “Yes, it’s a date.” She considers it a date! It’s really cool. I hope you’re not mad, Talón, but you always say I should get out there. I will be seeing her on Saturday, so I will write then and let you know how it was. Anyway, I will talk to you again. Wish me luck! Love, Roger
Sunday, June 24, 2012 Dear Talón, It’s Sunday! I’m sorry I did not write you yesterday like I said I would, but I got home so late that I fell asleep in my clothes. 15
BIRDS OF A FEATHER
morning and walked around for a bit. It was really sunny yesterday, and so we went into the aviary for some shade. As you know, the aviary is humid just like the climate of the birds’ homes, but she seemed to enjoy the birds chirping and cawing. Then she did something I did not expect. She came around to face me, and then she kissed me, right there in the aviary! “Patricia,” I had said, “you kissed me.” “I did,” she said, “and I would like to do it again.” So we kissed again, but it felt weird. I haven’t kissed anyone in many years, and it scared me. I hope you aren’t angry, Talón, but I think I love her. Then we watched a show at one of the amphitheaters just like you and I used to do. It was a man with a python, and he showed it to everyone, talking about its history, appetite, and many other things. The show was mainly for kids, but Patricia and I stood in the back, holding hands. play some board games. It felt like an insult to you, Talón, because we used to do that at your place. We played Monopoly, The Game of Life, and lastly we played a game of Risk, which we paused to order take-out. She beat me in the end, although it was close. By the time we were done, it was after midnight. So I drove but I did not feel comfortable doing that since we have only had three dates in a little over a week. Tell me, Talón, is that excessive? I will write again soon, but please promise me you won’t be jealous. I am happy again. Love, Roger
Sunday, July 1, 2012 Dear Talón, I’m sorry I have not written in a week, but things are going well. Patricia asked if I wanted to come over on Independence Day and hang out with her and 16
ALEXANDER SCOTT MCMILLER
some of her friends. She said she wanted to introduce her new boyfriend to her closest friends even though we have only been going out about three weeks. I know we are moving kind of fast, but she is special. She is like you, Talón, and I miss you, but I think you are happy for me. I did something I have not done for a long while. I told her I loved her when we last parted, and she said she loved me too. Oh, Talón, I cry for you, but I need to move on. I hope you don’t mind. I will write when I can, but I won’t write as often anymore, I think. Anyway, sorry if you are upset, Talón, but please be happy for me. Love, Roger
Wednesday, July 4, 2012 Dear Talón, I have had a very bad day. I know I said I would not write as often, but I need your counsel. I went over to Patricia’s today, and I helped her make dinner.
at the show around 7:00 p.m. We sat on a blanket on the shore. moving so fast with me. They said they had seen her ex, Patrick, around earlier and that he was looking for her. She sighed and said it did not matter, that she loved me, and was over him for good. “How can you be so certain?” one of her friends asked. “You were with This guy here, (Patricia said, “he has a name, and it is Roger”) is so new to you. You are throwing your life away. Patrick wants you back,” her friend continued, “Roger here is incredibly awkward and not your type.” Patricia defended me, but I felt humiliated, and I could feel the tears burn my eyes. She said she loved me and did not care what anyone else thought. Then her friend said I was some bird-loving freak—probably because I talked about birds all evening—and that I was just plain weird, and she deserved better. I could not take it anymore, and I started to cry. I ran back to her place. Then I 17
BIRDS OF A FEATHER
want to be with you, Talón. I am scared and hurt. She called me on my phone when I got home, and I said I was sorry that I was weird. She said she is on her way over because she wants to see me. Oh, I hear a knock at the door, I have to go. Love, Roger
Thursday, July 5, 2012 I know I have not written in a while, but I am deeply hurt, and I do not know what to do. As I have mentioned in our talks on the phone, I have met someone I really like. I know you said we have been moving fast and to be careful because I might get hurt, but I love her. Needless to say, I have been hurt. I met Patricia came over and we talked, and I introduced her to my birds. I showed her my favorite, Talón, and she laughed. She said it was stuffed, but I said it was not; it is my favorite. Then she said, “okay,” and I went to make some hot chocolate for us. When I came out, she was holding my letters to Talón in her hand, and she asked why tear up, and she said I was weird and a bird-loving freak. She said she enjoyed the last three weeks, but she thought it was best that we break up because I obviously need help. and I do not know how I will go on without her. I lost Talón, and now I have lost Patricia. Help me! Sincerely, Roger
18
ALEXANDER SCOTT MCMILLER
Friday, July 13, 2012 Dear Patricia, You have never met me, but I hope we can meet someday. My name is I hear you have broken up. I told him that you two seemed to be moving a little fast and that he would get hurt, but he insisted that it would work out. He said he was in love with you. Now, that might not mean much to you, and you may think he is weird and a “bird-loving freak,” but I tell you now that he wasn’t always that way. He used to be my strong, tough, big brother whom everyone went to when they needed help. He was a shoulder to lean on when people needed a good cry. He was married to a woman named Margaret. They were very much in love. They met when they were both pursuing their doctorates in ornithology at the university in town. They had affectionate names for each other. She called him Beaker and he called her Talón, as in beak and talon, which are body parts of the birds they both so loved. in the aviary, and they were hit by a drunk driver. Margaret was killed instantly when the driver slammed into her side of the vehicle. Roger lost it after that. He withdrew from society and quit his job at the aviary. I bought him a white macaw to try and cheer him up, and he named her Talón after his wife. That seemed to help him a bit, and he would write letters to his wife and tuck them behind its cage at home. Then Talón died from who knows what, and Roger had her stuffed. He continued to write letters to his wife, which he put with the stuffed bird. It may not make sense to you, Patricia, but I beg of you to talk to my brother. He has been so lost these past three years, and you make him happy. Even though you two were together less than a month, you made him happier than I have seen him in years. He is weird, yes, but he is a good man, and I have faith that you can bring him out of his darkness. Sincerely,
19
THE DEBT Eric-Anderson Momou
The business establishment adjacent to the villa came to be known as The Shabby Construct. Alongside The Pier, the union masons had long disregarded it, and the foundation looked like an aged Mesopotamian privy with cracked, crumbled shingles. Ivy fronds readily engulfed the signed manifesto: NO SHIRTS NO SHOES NO BUSINESS – SIGNED, THE BUSINESS Perhaps the most interesting thing to note was the absence of persons embassies, and funded no schools. In fact, The Town had no name, but the misnomers the inhabitants called it—The City on a Hill, or the Broken Place— were the most common. The estate originated from a long line of entrepreneurs in a sort of monarchial rule; all of them used the surnamed Godfrey. The tutelage of the town, and the title of the current occupant was righted to Richard Andrew Godfrey, Juris Doctor. Mayor, lawyer, judge. He preferred celibacy. holiday. He had left a note on the door to the Commissioner of Affairs: GONE AWAY TO ARUBA. WON’T BE BACK TILL NEW YEARS. Mr. Wallace would attend to monetary matters—stocks and annual not see his vacation ending any time soon, and he was well in need of a decade basis of weather. Therefore, he had spent a healthy chunk of time at the local tavern. He reveled like a man in his youth.
20
ERIC-ANDERSON MOMOU
The truth was Godfrey was a centenarian, but he didn’t look a day over twenty. He possessed a full head of well-cropped, brown hair and a twinkle in the eye (as salesmen do). His teeth were white. Very white. On this particular morning, Godfrey awoke to the stalling of a motorcycle engine outside his bedside window. With gaseous spittle, the motorcycle stalled on it. The cyclist was clad in a browned, coarse cotton T-shirt with worn dungarees to match, and a pair of Dunlap boots. He was not Mr. Wallace, but his eldest son, Matthew. Instinctively, Godfrey rose, having wiped the sleep from his eyes. He was sure the night’s festivities had remained on his breath, so he swigged mouthwash and spat. The doorbell rang. He was met by a gawky, little thing—not much older than the majority of his interns. “Can I help you?” asked Godfrey. He had opened the door, half cocked, looking through the screen. “Mr. Richard Godfrey,” said Matthew. The kid had a cowlick in his red hair. He looked comical, like a shrew with an incessant smile. “Godfrey,” he corrected. “You may call me Godfrey.” “Ah, yes. Mr. Godfrey, may I come inside? It is concerning troubling news,” said Matthew. There was a particular urgent characteristic that the Wallace’s garnered, so much so to the point of annoyance. Insistence was their strong trait, and this cardinal attribute translated into excellent business tactics—that, and charisma. But still it was odd and incredibly rude to interrupt his (the Mayor’s) vacation. His brow twitched. “I am afraid not. I forwarded a message to your father concerning any that he will be my accounting designate—“ 21
THE DEBT
“The matter is in regards to him, sir. My father is dead.” “Dead?” Godfrey asked. The word did not register. After a moment of silence, he smiled. “I see. Well then, state any further business. Internship money? Pay stub?” “No. In fact, I was wishing to take his place as Commissioner.” Gregory Wallace II had been gaunt and tall with a chestnut beard. By contrast,
list of mathematical proofs he could recite by rote was impressive. He was not at all dressed appropriately for an interview, but considering the extenuating circumstance, Godfrey chose to overlook it. With subtle reluctance, he opened the door, allowing the boy entrance into the foyer. An ornate collection of pottery vessels from the Old World lined the oak and cherry furnishings. The spiraled staircase that lead to his loft was ivory. in the plush Egyptian cotton. The grandfather clock ticked. “Our mission statement is to provide infallible service to our customers,” started Godfrey. “Life is invaluable,” Matthew nodded. “Don’t interrupt me.” He gave the boy a beady stare and swirled the brandy in the glass to aerate it. “Just drink.” Godfrey enjoyed his own monologues. He stood up fast and darted to the right hand wall of the room, pulling a piece of chalk from the blackboard. Then the magic began. He drew isometric sketches with impeccable skill: harsh angles and buildings. At last, when he was done the blackboard told a story—a historical continuum. His true brilliance shone through then. There was a reason why The Business was so prosperous, and Godfrey was the conduit from which the riches stemmed. “How did The Business supersede the economic needs of stock and crude oil? We have built empires time and again upon older ones. The next begets the 22
ERIC-ANDERSON MOMOU
next, being more illustrious than the last. We stray from material comforts to ambition. That is how The Business came to be. We are an insurance company, sell the greatest commodity,” he beckoned to Matthew and smiled. “And I believe you are applying for this?” “Yes. I will take my father’s place as tribute for his Soul.” “I can supply that. Of course you are aware, Matthew, that my engineers cannot reanimate a corpse. We must incubate a human vessel and repossess it with usable life force. As a fee, you will work the full duration of your days. We will reconstitute every one of your father’s memories, and he in turn, Matthew, will be free. As recompense, your heir may choose to liberate you as well.” Matthew sat still. He did not drink—not even a sip—and he was red in the face. “Isn’t there a way the fee can be waived? On an ethical basis, of course.” you of the debt the Wallace’s have to the Godfreys? It’s a standoff, much like the “But for generations, we have paid.” Old World came to its demise. It was a travesty, an utter shame. As penance for the deed, the family is indebted.” “To slavery!” “Yes, to slavery. A fraction of a worthy sentence.” once.” “But no longer,” Godfrey intruded. His age was beginning to show, his lips pursed and white. “That birth right has been given to me. I will tell you, many are insured with us. We are in search of carpe diem candidates. Surely, this ransom will be quick. Toil in one life, prosper in the next.” “Say I petitioned for my father’s release? What if I were to die in his place, without prospect?”
23
THE DEBT
“Expelled.” “And the debt?” “It will be paid. Forever.” * * *
feel weak or cold, but full of purpose. Content, he closed his eyes. Above, he saw orderlies—all of whom were dressed in white—comforting clients. Engineers Perhaps The Business and The Town did not exist at all, and through some plan it resided as the vessel betwixt and between a heaven and earth. With that question in mind, Matthew Wallace expired. Godfrey stood, weak at the knees. In his hands was the soul of Matthew Wallace. Somewhere at the back of his mind, his conscience riddled him. In anger, he threw the jar.
24
THE FRESHMEN D.J. Pierce
I’m driving to see Terry. It’s something I should have done a long time ago. I have the windows cracked enough to let in bursts of the cool November air, and with my gloved hands gripping the wheel, it occurs to me that I’ve forgotten many things. I’ve forgotten how scenic the drive across southern Wisconsin could be. I’ve forgotten how stiff this leather jacket could be. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be in Terry’s presence. It’s insane, because it was the kind of thing you know instantly you couldn’t possibly forget. I met Terry on day one of welcome week at the University of Minnesota Twin Cities in the fall of 2007. I had graduated from high school with a solid GPA and was thrilled to start school in the city of my dreams. Over the summer, I had dyed my gnarled hair a darker shade of brown and pierced my left eyebrow. At the end of August, I hugged my mother goodbye, threw my bags in my Pontiac, and sped away from my tiny hometown as fast as I could, covering the four and a half hour drive in just under three. * * * I was in an auditorium plastered in gold and maroon banners. I sat myself down at a side table and hoped none of the chipper group leaders would come a pair of boys in baggy sweatshirts across from me. One of them had curly black hair and a prominent nose; the other had platinum blond hair that dusted his eyebrows and the iciest blue eyes I’d ever seen. The dark-haired one was slouching and looking around semi-curiously; the blond was drumming his “What college are you in?” I asked in their direction. They both glanced over. “Liberal arts,” they said in unison. “Me too,” I said. The blonde one half stood up and extended his right hand to me across the table, crackling his black, leather coat. “I’m Terry,” he said with the assurance of a politician and the smile of a movie star. I shook his hand, which was warm and dry. “And that’s Charlie,” he
25
THE FRESHMEN
said with a quick nod to the side. Charlie raised his eyebrows at me. I smiled back. “Vanessa,” I said. After a 45 minute session about how to use our student ID card, we were to team up with a quiet couple named Matt and Melinda (Mel). Matt was in the Carlson School of Management and Mel was in Science and Engineering. They were high school sweethearts from Victoria, Minnesota, a small city about a half an hour away from Minneapolis. Once outside, we were given a laminated piece get to know the campus. Before Matt and Mel could decipher it, Terry took off running, and Charlie followed him. I didn’t know where they were going, but I knew I wanted to follow. We ran for almost ten minutes. At one point, one of Terry’s tennis shoes slipped off. He didn’t even look back; he just laughed to the heavens and kept running. Charlie grabbed it and sped up after him while I trailed behind with a smile on my face. Eventually we got to a bridge shrouded in shrubbery over a railroad track. Terry and Charlie slowed to a stop in the middle of it, clutched down into my forearms, panting. I stepped on a loose board, and my stomach dropped. “This bridge doesn’t seem stable,” I said. “Look up, Nessa,” Terry said. The new nickname rang familiarly in my ears, as if he’d been using it for years. I looked up and lost my breath even more. The bridge had a perfect view of the Minneapolis skyline. The sprawling downtown towers sparkled steel grey and gold, and the crimson sunset behind it mirrored and Mel ended up joining us, the silence grew even more comfortable. Charlie and Terry’s dorm. We would smoke pot, blast 90’s post-grunge songs, and talk about freewill and time travel. It turned out that Terry and Charlie were both from Winona, MN so I was the only out-of-stater of the group, which apparently gave them license to tell me I was habitually wrong about everything. No matter what was said during these conversations, Terry’s bright eyes would always end
26
D.J. PIERCE
dorm window late every night so I could come out and walk with him. bridge, a little past midnight. “So what do you wanna do?” he asked as we stared at the skyline. “Write,” I said. “Yeah? Like books and shit?” I laughed. “Yes.” “Oh, you’ll be great at that, Nessa.” “Thanks,” I said, looking down at the rusted tracks. w motion across the sky. “See it?” I nodded, thrilled to learn something new. “You’re cold,” he said with a frown. I shrugged, but my tensed body betrayed me. He slid out of his jacket and put it around me. “Did you really just do that?” I asked with a traitorous grin. “I did,” he said. He looked at me for a moment then said,“You’re beautiful, you know.” I smiled at the ground. “Look up, Nessa,” he said, though softer than before. When I did, our eyes locked, and then he kissed me. It was the kind of kiss that stopped your heart and shocked your soul. “Can I keep it?” I asked, shrugging in the coat. He pursed his lips and cocked his head to the left. “Hmm. Let’s make a deal,” he said as he put his arm around me. “You can keep the jacket, just as long as you make sure I graduate.” His eyes were serious, almost pleading. “What makes you think you won’t?” I whispered. He smiled and rolled his shoulders back, as if trying to throw off the weight of what he was feeling. “I don’t know,” he said, the joke back in his eyes. “I just to dig into his jean pocket and pull out a pack of Newports. “You don’t mind do you?” I shook my head. He lit one up and stared at Cassiopeia. “No one in my
27
THE FRESHMEN
family has managed to see it through, to get a degree. I want to real bad.” There was a small indent on his face under his lip. I wondered if it was a birthmark. “Are your parents putting pressure on you?” I asked. “Nah,” he said. “My ma is happy as long as I stay out of jail, and my dad just wants whatever I want. But I just want better. Better for the family, better for myself.” “That’s great,” I said. “Well, I really like this jacket. So you’ve got yourself a deal.” “Good,” he said. * * * I’m crossing the Minnesota border now. I turn onto a winding road that hugs the Mississippi on one side and explodes into amber and russet colored bluffs on the other. My tank is running low, and I look around for signs of a It’s nearly 3 p.m., but it seems much later. “Where you headed, honey?” asks the overly-caffeinated cashier. “Winona,” I say. “Oh, be careful. The roads that way are icy!” “Thank you,” I say, and head back to my car. * * * On Halloween, Terry dragged all of us to a house party. “It’ll be great!” he had insisted.“We need to kick back after those killer midterms, right?” Matt and Mel dressed up like Jack Skellington and Sally, Charlie went as Sweeney Todd, Daria. When we got there, Terry and I sat on the couch and started to drink. He seemed distracted, almost bored, until an hour later when a tall, slender girl dressed like Uma Thurman from Pulp Fiction burst through the front door with a group of people. “Emma,” Terry said in a tone I’d never heard before. “Terry,” she responded, a gleam in her eye. I felt nauseous. Terry kissed my cheek, then got up and disappeared with her and the group upstairs. Charlie came to sit by me. 28
D.J. PIERCE
“What are they doing?” I asked. My voice sounded foreign to me. Charlie shrugged. “I can never keep up with the guy. He’s never in the dorm. I don’t think he eats or sleeps,” he said as he popped open a Bud Light and handed it to me. “What does he do?” I asked. Charlie smirked and looked at me pointedly. “Don’t worry, Ness.” “I’m not worried. I just—” “He loves you, you know.” “When he is home, you’re all he talks about,” Charlie said. I could tell he meant it. After the party Terry came to my dorm and we started making out on my bed. He hovered over me and kissed my lips, my neck, my lips again. I laced my
“Nessa,” he whispered as he sucked on my neck. His breath against my damp skin made me shiver. I wanted to feel him inside me. I did, but something felt off. I shook my head slightly. He kissed me slowly, deeply, and my heart felt as if it was expanding. Our bottom lips stuck together when he pulled his mouth away and leaned his forehead against mine. “Nessa, please.” He looked at me, our noses touching, and those blue eyes sank me. “Okay,” I said.
I lay there, holding him at the shoulders and trying to make sure he was okay. I knew he must have taken some kind of drug at the house, but I had no clue what it might be. Every time he entered me, I’d feel a rush of blood, and a little bit of pain that sometimes gave way to pleasure. When it was over he cleaned himself off in the bathroom as I looked out my window. Right as I found Cassiopeia, he came back, pulled me close to his chest, kissed the back of my neck, and we fell asleep.
29
THE FRESHMEN
clutching Terry, who was white as snow and unable to stand on his own. We laid him down on my bed and Charlie splashed him with water from my glass on the nightstand. We got him to wake up and puke into a bowl, and as I touched his face with a cool rag, Charlie mouthed the word “heroin” to me. The morning after when I tried to talk to Terry about it, he shook me off and told me I was worrying too much. Over the next few weeks I would go with him everywhere, and beg him not to use to no avail. At a house party on Christmas Eve, I yanked the needle from his hand. “You’re going to kill yourself, Terry,” I had yelled at him. He tried to grab it back. We fought each other; he pushed me to the ground. He injected. I grabbed my phone. “You need help, Terry,” I said, bawling. “You need to stop.” I tried to call 911, but when he saw what I was doing, he slapped the phone from my face. “Stop, Nessa, just fucking stop,” he said. His eyes were dark. * * * turn onto Huff Street. I’m nearly there, but not at all ready to be. * * * The mid-February morning I decided to leave, I woke up calmly. I peeled my sheets off and got dressed in decided silence. I scaled the icy path to the an hour later with him shaking his head over my withdrawal forms and my mind clear as crystal. Charlie was the only one I told. He bought my futon from me for $100, and we moved it into his dorm. He helped me pack my belongings into boxes and pile them in my car. After I slammed my trunk shut, he embraced me for all but three seconds, then ushered me into the front seat. As I drove away through a mild placidly at the back of my car. * * *
30
D.J. PIERCE
I’ve heard a few things about Terry over the past seven years in tangents of catch-up conversation with Mel and Charlie. I knew he and Emma got together. I knew he moved out of the dorms and in with her and a few buddies. I knew they broke up the following fall. I knew he didn’t make it through his sophomore year. With every passing year, I heard his name less and less, and once Mel, Matt, and Charlie graduated, I didn’t hear about him at all. Until my phone rang this morning. I arrive at the Woodlawn Cemetery as the sun melts into the ground. The ceremony is coming to an end, and I hover by my car until the bulk of the crowd clears out, which doesn’t take very long. As I approach the gravesite, I see the frowns. We stand shoulder to shoulder, just like old times. Unlike time travel or free will though, we won’t come to a consensus on this. “We were stupid,” Charlie whispers. “We should’ve seen this coming a fucking mile away.” “It’s not your fault,” Mel says, reaching out to him. “STOP!” Charlie grabs his hair and nearly yanks it out of his head. He paces for awhile then comes to a halt. He rubs his cheek and looks like he might laugh. the corner of my right boot; it’s caked with mud, and a piece of leaf is stuck to it. “It’s not any of our faults,” Matt says, massaging the thin, bluish skin under his eyes. He and Mel aren’t holding hands like they always used to. I know he landed an impressive managerial position last year, and I wonder if this is the most time they’ve spent together since he accepted the job. “You’re completely right, Matt. It’s not any of our faults,” he continues, nodding with his eyebrows cocked. “But,” he says with a mild shrug, “It is our fault.” There are things people say sometimes that hit you at your very core and don’t falter for a second. It’s like when a miner strikes gold, or when a baseball player hits the ball at the sweet spot and it makes that perfect crack. It’s the truth, he’s looking for. I want to look back at him, but I just can’t manage to stop staring down at the leaf on my boot.
31
THE FRESHMEN
He sighs heavily, then turns to leave. He pauses, turns back, says, “He loved you, you know,” then walks away. I know he means it. When the sound of his engine punctures the night, Matt and Mel mumble something about needing to catch a plane, nod apologetically towards me, and wander away too. Once I am alone my shoulders relax. Only the moon and a few streetlights lend me any illumination as I step forward and swing my legs out to sit on the edge of the hole with my feet dangling over. My stomach drops. For a second, I consider After awhile my bones begin to feel like ice, my limbs like stones. The white mist that escapes my mouth with every exhale is my only reminder that I’m still alive. smile, his laugh, and the pulsing repulsive thought of him lying on a bathroom heart play catch with gusts of prickling pressures and horrid sensations as I stare Look up, Nessa. I look up as my eyes well with tears. The sky is abnormally clear tonight, and the stars are splattered generously across it like freckles on a hand deep into my pocket as tears begin to fall loosely down my face. The thick, folded paper is right where I shoved it before leaving my apartment this morning. I pull it out with trembling hands, open it, and stare blankly at the swooping bachelor’s degree in English at the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee. It had taken me six years to get it. A small part of me had always held out hope that
he was the only one I had wanted to talk to. phrases in my subconscious, but it makes less and less sense each time. Headlights appear in my periphery, and I lose the moment. I know I have to get up. I know I have to leave. The car passes. I stand up shakily. I let a few more tears fall, wipe
head tipped back in open laughter toward the skies after he lost his shoe on the way to the bridge, then break sticks with my boots all the way back to my car. 32
LUCRATIVE OFFER Christopher Pinkert
pink lemonade when pronouncing the letter p. Yes, she was a candy company’s “dream come true.” However, she had no interest in joining forces with confection supergiant SuggaPopp. The HR Representative, Courtney Schaper, was growing desperate, and it coated her voice like the dusting on a sour drop.
“I’d rather not,” replied Juliana. “Yes, dollars.” “Not.” “A thousand per extraction.” “No, thanks.” “And airfare for two to–” “Lemme guess, Hawaii.” “No, well, close, Ohio. Our sister company–” “How awful.” “Hawaii could be arranged.” “I was only guessing.” “Ohio it is, then…” “I’m hanging–” Juliana ended the call. “Up.” The p landed on the screen of her phone. Juliana looked at the droplet.
the product. She chewed a twirl of her hair, bit at the top of a pinky nail. She was Grade A material. kitchen. She opened the cupboard door and dissolved a little. “Oh,” she said. The cupboard was bare. “We’re even out of candy.”
33
EXHAUST Matt Reines
The autumn leaves spiral down like ballerinas from their wooden grip and land in the mud. The soft earth embraces the fallen sons and daughters of the trees and shares with them its blessing. Its blessing of not knowing how to feel. They don’t know what it’s like to wallow endlessly through the caverns of their were once tucked away deep in the pockets of their skull ripped out like vultures
It’s her birthday today.
breathes through the forest and carries my exhaled breath with it. I sit up. “It’s gonna rain,” I say, looking over at Samuel, the bottle of whiskey in my hand held tight, the revolver resting on my lap. “Yep. Gonna rain. I can always tell.” I laugh. “Let’s go.” Samuel stands up and walks towards me. He rests his head on my shoulder before giving me a huge lick on my cheek, his tail wagging ferociously behind him. I stand up and take the last swig of the bottle before hurling it into the wooden crowd. I tug on my plaid shirt, grab the gun, and pet Samuel on the head. He tries to lick my hand. “Good boy,” I say. He really is. We got him together, Sandra and I. married. The second thing we did was break each other’s hearts. One year. That’s all it took to unveil the carnival of our doubts, troubles, and demons. Our illustrations of a white picket fence were crumpled up like our noses along with the dreams of conceiving anything innocent. The dreams of ever becoming a family. What was once a fortune of photo album smiles and rays of laughter quickly dissolved into silent dinner conversations and lonely lovemaking. 34
MATT REINES
She left me.
I point the revolver at the dog. “For what it’s worth, Samuel, you should probably let her be.” A deep laugh takes the taste of whiskey off my breath. Samuel stares at me, tail wagging, but he knows I’m serious. He’s seen this gun before. His eyes
staring at it like I’m looking at an assortment of stolen memories...echoing out my name. The end of the barrel kisses the bottom of my chin. My grip tightens. I smile as Samuel walks towards me. “It’s gonna rain, boy. I can always tell.” Samuel lies down at my feet. Will it hurt?
35
OAK Ian Thomas Sanderson
In the middle of a street on the edge of a tired little town, there was a pastel yellow house. Its windows weighed heavily on its sagging frame, and painted edges peeled away to bare its weather-worn lumber. The cement path and porch were sunken into the ground, and the once straight divide between prominent feature was the large oak tree which dominated the small backyard, reaching all the way up past the bedroom window and above the top of the Despite its state of moderate disrepair, the seemingly secluded nature of the house appealed to me and came with an agreeable price. I spent several days
encountered what would become a regular nocturnal occurrence. A tapping, irregular in rhythm but regular in tone, began on the window that was out of sight above the head of my bed. A true neurotic, the irregular tapping annoyed me to no end, and though I was exhausted from a day of extraditing innumerable cardboard boxes, I could not escape the tapping through sleep. Too tired to sit up and remedy the cause, yet too distracted to fall asleep, I lay awake until the tapping ceased, many hours later into the night.
Looking at the culprit, now very aware of the sleep of which I had been robbed, I found that there was a large oak branch that extended all the way to my window
The day wore on, but eventually I found myself waiting for sleep in my bed, when I again heard the drumming at my window. I had just worked up the mental resolve to break the chains of comfort when an errant thought crossed my mind. What if it wasn’t the oak branch? What if it was some perverse human being, come to enjoy the restlessness that their tapping had wrought 36
IAN THOMAS SANDERSON
on their victim? Worse, what if it wasn’t even human? A monster of unparalleled horror manifested on the stage of my cognition. So frightened I became that I couldn’t beyond my headboard. I lay there unable to remain yet unable to run, lest the condemned to lie there until the tapping ceased and I was able to drift off to a I awoke shame-faced and distressed at my inability to confront the source of that abominable tapping. I resolved that on this night, I would ignore the selfimposed fear that had previously deterred me. With newfound determination, I set about my usual day of workplace drudgery. How truly terrifying the monster that incessantly tapped at my window must be, to be so abiotic in its nightly arrival yet so distinctly biological in its arrhythmic beating of my window pane. Despite my morning light induced resolution, in the dark and the fear of my bedroom, there was no room for such acts bereft of foresight. And so, my nightly terror continued for days on end; even though I felt shame in my inaction every morning, come every night
let myself be scared away by the offending tree limb. The maddening cycle continued for weeks, sleep deprivation and humiliation coalescing into a toxic disposition that drove all other thoughts away from my consciousness. Finally, I came to a conclusion that, had you told me a month prior I would even consider I would have said that you must have me mistaken for another. I had decided to remove my problem—rather literally—by the roots. I would remove the oak, the single most notable part of an otherwise unremarkable building, from the premises. my residence and headed straight for my backyard. I looked upon the oak with heavy and purple-ringed eyes and felt only unadulterated malice for the goliath. Hauling all of my newfound equipment into the yard, I readied my weapon of choice. I had never been very knowledgeable in the use of power tools or general home maintenance, so by the time I got the newly purchased chainsaw running, the world was already tinted yellow by the setting sun. Revving the toothed
37
OAK
too did that incorrigible oak tree. Tucked back into my bed, I tasted triumph knowing that on this night, for what had seemed like ages. Laying there in complete stillness, I could feel the saccharine bliss of slumber inch its way over my eyelids. It was here, mere moments away from lackadaisical paradise, that I heard an arrhythmic tapping at my window.
38
THE SEVERED HEAD OF ALDEA MALDITA Bryan Simpson
“You okay?” He jumped a little, snapping out of his trance and blinking away the past. “Huh?” “I said, are you okay?” “Oh. Yeah. I’m good. You just…kind of scared me, that’s all.” “Sorry.” “Don’t be. I could use a break.” Paul rubbed his tired, scruffy face with standing next to a man. The man appeared to be a tribal leader of some sort. His grandfather was smiling broadly, but the tribal leader, or whoever he was, was very serious, very serious indeed. “How’s it going?” so much stuff. I don’t really know where to begin.” “A lot of it looks like it belongs in a museum.” “You’re probably right. I know he donated a lot of pieces to different museums here and in Europe. He only kept the things that were really special to him.” He shrugged. “Or so I was told. I never set foot in this house before today, if that tells you where I rank.” Kim, Paul’s wife of only seven months, placed a loving hand on his shoulder. “So, you never even met him?” “No. Not that I can remember. That’s what’s so weird about it. I didn’t even know the guy, just knew of him, like everyone else. My dad would tell me stories, but then when he died, the stories died with him. My mom didn’t know him. He didn’t go to their wedding, didn’t come around for birthdays or holidays. He didn’t even make it to my dad’s funeral.” “Wow.” “Yeah. And now I’m expected to clean the man’s house.” “Well, I’ll see if he left us any coffee in the kitchen. Maybe that will help.” “Just a little something he picked up in Colombia. Nothing special.” 39
THE SEVERED HEAD OF ALDEA MALDITA
Kim laughed, playfully spun on one heel, and headed back down the hall. Paul sat there a moment, very comfortable in the large, plush chair. Then, with a sigh, he pushed himself up and scooted to the edge of the seat and continued
it, so he tore off a strip of masking tape, stuck it to the side, and wrote “Old Pictures” on it with a Sharpie. Pushing that box aside, he grabbed the next one in line. It was very dusty and surprisingly heavy. He removed the lid and found old manuscripts typed on an ancient typewriter hiding underneath, the pages yellow with age. He thumbed through them until one of the titles caught his eye and refused to let go. “The Severed Head of Aldea Maldita” by Robert R. Weston. some more, then closed it and sat up with a gasp. “Honey, come take a look at this!” No answer. “Kim!” Still no answer. “Kimberly!” “I’m coming, I’m coming!” He heard her as she hurried down the hall, and when she came into the room, she was wiping the back of her hand on her jeans. “What? What’s up?” He held up the crinkly pages. “You’ve got to see this. It’s something my grandfather wrote.” “It better be good,” she said, setting his coffee cup on the desk. “I spilled your coffee all over my hand running down the hall.” “You okay?” “Yeah. And you were right about the coffee; this is not store-bought.” Paul swiveled the chair around as Kim sat on the edge of the desk. He placed both hands, palms down, on top of the manuscript covering the title, as if waiting until just the right moment to reveal it. “Okay. So, my granddad traveled all over the world, collecting stuff, going into little villages, and writing stories on the indigenous people there, right?”
40
BRYAN SIMPSON
Kim raised her eyebrows. “You’re asking me or telling me?” “I’m telling you. Just making sure you’re paying attention.” “Totally.” National Geographic and…I can’t think of National Geographic. Anyway, I found this…” In a grand gesture, he lifted his hands. “‘The Severed Head of Aldea Maldita’ by Robert R. Weston.” He sat back in the chair looking expectantly at Kim. “I don’t know if I’m pronouncing it right, but…” “Okay.” “It’s a never-before-published article, something he decided to keep hidden away in this box. It looks really interesting.” “Well, let’s read it.” “I was hoping you’d say that.” He leaned forward again. “Okay, here we go. ‘The Severed Head of Aldea Maldita’ by Robert R. Weston…my grandfather.” Kim slapped his shoulder, playfully, but still hard enough to sting. “Get on with it!” “Okay, okay.” And then with all seriousness, he began to read. “I have decided, for reasons that will soon become clear to you, to change the names and locations contained within the following story. To keep its secrets, but to expect from my travels, I will place this tale somewhere in South America and choose Spanish as the language spoken by the inhabitants therein. Now, does that mean that it actually is in South America, and I am attempting to coax you into looking elsewhere, or the other way around? I don’t think you will be asking such questions by the end of this account. And so, with that out of the way, let us begin…” *** Deep in the lush jungles of South America, hidden away from the modern world, lies a wonderful little village called Aldea Maldita, which translates into English as “Cursed Village.” The people that inhabit this village call themselves Guardianes del Secreto, or “Keepers of the Secret.” They want nothing to do with
41
THE SEVERED HEAD OF ALDEA MALDITA
hostile or weary of its presence. They have no reason to fear it or to fear us, for they know true fear. They have seen that which we only dream of, and believe me when I say this, they do us a service protecting us from it, as well as it from us. That which they have to fear, what they have learned to live with, learned to phenomenon for myself, I feel I would give anything to erase it from my memory. It haunts me and will continue to haunt me even unto death. The best I can hope for now is that with time my nerves will learn to cope. I have traveled the world and then traveled it twice more, exploring, discovering, searching for things that I could bring back to my home and share my own needs and desires. I’ve heard many rumors of many strange things (occurrences, phenomena, beasts, and beings), investigated most, and in almost every case, I have found a logical explanation. That is not to say that I have not witnessed the miraculous and unbelievable. There are things in this world which only certain people are deemed worthy to see and only at certain times. For several years I had heard different accounts of a severed head, still
I understand that Bigfoot, UFOs, and Loch Ness all have similarities–that’s where they get their credibility–but this was different, very different. I won’t bore you with the details of my revelation, and I can’t reveal my sources, even those who have died in the pursuit of lost and ancient relics, but I will say that I was hearing things that were interesting me far beyond the point of mere curiosity. I began to search for more clues; I asked questions. First, I is worldwide, then its details are in turn just that, worldwide. South America, Asia, and Africa were the forerunners, and ultimately South America sounded most believable, at least from what I could gather. Then I narrowed it down to many years to come to that conclusion. I thank God I was right, for this could have been my El Dorado. 42
BRYAN SIMPSON
Now, with the backstory out of the way, allow me to tell you my most I found a man willing to not only take me into this rainforest, help me to stay there and translate for me. His name was Pedro, and I could see the fear in his eyes and in the way his hands shook, but the need for money, the need to support his family, outweighed that fear, though not by much, and he was willing to do whatever it took. I thought he was foolish, superstitious. I was very wrong, and I made sure be proud. Of course, he would never tell them of what he did or saw. surprisingly easy. As I said, they had no reason to fear me, and if my intentions were anything but noble, la Cabeza Flotante (“the Floating Head”) would take care of them. Once all the formalities were taken care of, Pedro and I were taken to a waiting room of sorts. It stood next to the hut where the Floating Head all calm, all waiting for their chance to commune with la Cabeza Flotante. The contrast between the natives and Pedro was staggering. The closer we got to our turn, the more nervous Pedro became. I was beginning to believe that he would either run away screaming or break down into a catatonic state. But he stayed by my side, for his family, I believe. The people that came out of the hut of the Floating Head (mostly women), were crying uncontrollably, but seemed extremely happy and grateful. Finally, it was our turn. Pedro went pale and seemed to age thirty years in a matter of seconds right before my eyes. But he stood up, slowly. He was prepared. He was ready. The man that motioned for us wore a ceremonial type of robe. Obviously, he was of much importance, a holy man perhaps. I expected a list of dos and don’ts—Do not look la Cabeza Flotante directly in the eyes. Keep your hands in the car at all times. That sort of thing—but there were none. He was simply there to escort us to the hut when our turn arrived. Apparently, the Head could take care of itself. 43
THE SEVERED HEAD OF ALDEA MALDITA
The robed man held open the curtain of the waiting hut. Pedro and I exited and waited for the robed man to take the lead again. He did not touch the hut of the Floating Head, which I found interesting, only motioned toward it, letting us know that it was okay to enter. I took two steps toward the entrance, and the robed man spoke. I stopped and looked to Pedro. “He means to say good luck to you.” I looked at the expressionless face of my host and then stepped inside the hut. Pedro was right on my heels. It was pitch black inside, which was strange because the entryway was covered with only a curtain. It might as well have been a steel door. What I expected the Floating Head to be was the rotten, smelly, severed head of some to contradict me. The inside of the hut smelled wonderful. The smell of incense, I could tell right away that no matter what I found, I would show nothing but respect to the natives. They believed this was true, and so I also would treat it that way. I could hear Pedro’s breathing getting harder, faster. I know now that this was because his eyes had adjusted to the darkness faster than mine. Most likely he knew where to look. I can picture him standing there in the dark, shivering with fear, eyes wide. I looked directly in front of me, and right away my breath quickened as well. head. I heard Pedro—“Dios mio”—and I’m sure he crossed himself. My eyes fully closed, the mouth as well. The head was of a male, native to the area, with long hair. A rope connected to the ceiling of the hut and tied around the hair is what feet from the ground. The head appeared to be nicely preserved, though it was quite dark, so unfortunately, I cannot offer any details other than what I have already given. I could understand what all the talk was about, and I could understand the fear and reverence that came as a result of people’s superstitious beliefs. It was very clever. It was so dark inside the hut that one could barely see the rope. I began to get excited as my mind started to race with the possibilities of
44
BRYAN SIMPSON
unfathomable happened. The eyes of la Cabeza Flotante slowly opened. Pedro and I stumbled back, and I’m sure that if we hadn’t bumped into each other before reaching the doorway, we would have both run out into the light. But we quickly regained our composure. I took one step toward the head, and Pedro grabbed my arm. I offered him a reassuring look and then refocused my attention on the head. I was in the when the situation grew even more fascinating. Inside, I felt a fear that I had not very slowly, began to open, the bottom jaw seemingly succumbing to gravity. Pedro gasped, but held strong. of air. My mortal mind tried to understand how it could be possible, when what sounded like words began to come out, and my mind almost abandoned me. I of a long-severed head actually speaking. I’m sure he wouldn’t have been able to make out the words anyway, they were barely a whisper. Slowly and steadily, though, the eyes became more focused, and the words got louder. I moved around the head in an attempt to see the back of it, but it spun around, slowly following me. Its piercing eyes never left mine, and I got the impression that whatever it was trying to tell me was very important. And then, as if it had said all it wanted to say to me, it quickly jerked to the right, its eyes locking onto Pedro. What was enabling it to move I cannot say. The voice was much harsher, more urgent. I cautiously circled the head until I could see the face. I barely got to it in time, just enough to see how angry it looked, a much different voice than it had had with me. Before we knew it, the mouth drew to a close and the eyes went foggy and distant and slid shut. Pedro, trembling, looked to me in utter terror. All I could offer him in return was the same expression. We were then suddenly blinded as the curtain was thrown open. The robed man stood to one side, holding it out of our way so we could exit. Pedro and I emerged from the hut, pale and drenched in sweat. The events that followed were strange, to say the least. It was almost as if the ride was over and we were being
45
THE SEVERED HEAD OF ALDEA MALDITA
escorted out of the park. Pedro and I both were utterly speechless, our mouths hanging open, our eyes wide. We were each given water to drink. We weren’t made to leave exactly; we just understood that it was time for us to go. The ride back to my hotel was long and tiresome. I didn’t dare ask my translator to translate what he had heard, not yet, for he was clearly still very shaken up. In his own time, he told me what the head had wanted me to know. I simply could not believe what I was hearing, such a personal message. I had him repeat it into my tape recorder. I asked him what he had been told. He told me he could not say, and I understood. The only reason Pedro was allowed by the severed head to hear my message was because I could not understand the language. To those reading this, if I’m ever brave enough or stupid enough to make it public, know this: the story you have just read, the tale of the Severed Head of Aldea Maldita, is absolutely true. It may very well be the only such phenomena in ever go looking for it–ever–unless you are positive you are disciplined enough to handle the consequences, whatever they may be. I have not spoken to Pedro since being dropped off at my hotel and that head in that strange little village and wonder if he heeded its warning. I myself have many regrets, too many to count, and one that I do not wish to live with is respect it, whether they believe it or not. In closing, be careful how you live your life and the decisions you make. That is what I learned from this journey. *** The air conditioner kicked on. “Is that it?” “Yeah.” Paul slowly shook his head. “No.” Kim looked a little uneasy. “What do you think it means?” “I don’t know. Why do you think he kept it a secret?”
46
BRYAN SIMPSON
Kim thought about it for a moment. “It’s like you said; he kept the stuff that meant the most to him. That’s probably why he didn’t write what the head had told him.” “It was for him to know.” just read. “Do you believe it?” Paul had read his grandfather’s story with a child’s excitement. His imagination had locked onto the idea right away, and he had held on tight as he sped through those words, wondering what awaited him at the story’s end. “Do you?”
47
POETRY
BIRMINGHAM Christina Barber
pourer of metals, spinner of cotton, the magic city, dusty, humid, and languid, the Pittsburgh of the South. They tell me you are intolerant, and I nod, for I have seen the seersucker suits sipping Syrah gurgling on the mountaintop. And they tell me you are stubborn, and I concur. I have visited your museums that encase wicked artifacts and I have winced at the preserved ruins you call streets. And they tell me you are empty. I cannot deny
And I return with conviction. My nostalgia is wrapped in your tarnished trash. I once climbed over the barbed-wire fences to swim in your cockroach-infested pools. I have skipped along your bridges to wish upon your corroded stars. I followed your sidewalks that end like a comma.
your venom has killed many.
51
BIRMINGHAM
Praying like a snake handler who has never been struck. Praying and begging, Praying and begging to be reborn.
pourer of metals, spinner of cotton, the magic city, rusty, humid, and languid, the Pittsburgh of the South.
52
OUT Natalie Connors
several thousand lies hours of efforts and buckets of shame ever changing how I show myself but have reluctantly abstained from saying: I’m queer. They don’t like that word! Well, the language changes all the time, Mom and Dad That’s what I’m comfortable with. I think I heard every homophobic argument on the barking right side of the ccr the conservative christian right is so often so fucking wrong and I feel embarrassed for them as they spew bestowed hatred onto their only daughter and eldest child my father-angry coming out? what do you mean coming out? What do lesbian parents even tell their children? He yells, assuming that volume increases correctness 53
OUT
They tell their kids they love them dad. How dare you drive a wedge in this family? Dad, the wedge is your bigotry Have you even considered God again? You should. The world is sinful People are bad and homosexuality is unnatural you make us so sad You just do what you want to do we taught you the best we’ve could and you’ve just thrown it all away Now, you’re just justifying everything you say But I know you don’t see You think it’s love and the worst thing I can ever only really do is not believe what you think is true despite every good thing every genuine beautiful part of my being is dwarfed by my willful decision to not believe my aversion to being deceived by a misinterpreted text of old reading And now my willful choice to explore my attraction which draws me toward people not gender or genitals 54
NATALIE CONNORS
gains little traction just another tick on the stick of things Natalie does because she doesn’t care about what’s really right, shit If you had told us when you were younger we would have tried to help you you would have brought me to conversion therapy I’m glad I waited. Eventually my dad ceases to speak and retreats in the basement he sits in the black plastic seat in front of the woodstove with boots on his feet I am not doing any of this to hurt you Dad. I love you very much. This isn’t a fuck you. This is just me. I love you. Can I give you a hug. He silently consents and I feel the hard confusion coming off him Does he hate me? No, just this thing he doesn’t understand 55
OUT
and fears that I’ll be doomed to eternity in hell Once upon a time I believe that too Thank goodness I know it’s not true but they’re still stuck in godly glue They’ll always love me but they’ll never accept my choice to be gay don’t ever bring a partner we hope that’d you’d know they’ll never be welcomed so please don’t go that low But my father is shocked so in time things will improve and maybe they’ll learn to love every part and extend understanding to things they now see as sinful and damming but I love myself and accept every bit and I’m using my life to give others a lift my experience changes and I learn every day and their misdirected disappointment won’t get in my way.
56
MOUNTAIN Eric-Anderson Momou
The capitulation therefore is this: that every man having existed and served in every facility as to be able bodied is predisposed to an alienation within us, collective, with this malediction the greatest foreboding and Samson-like woes that exists solely in the mind and like a virus regress and emit into the humors, vitreous they are, unto His core like palpitation or rain they seep down these—are thoughts—sodden and laden in the mind. Observe: the mountain tottering not sees little beyond air and in its might speculates the curvature of the Earth yet it does not waiver, in the loathes of thoughtlessness. Come hither then, you children of men
57
OCEAN Teal Rowe
Save me from my dream’s abandon, collect the waters of my heart. Stay the tide of night forever, swim the current fast and far. Stand the swell of love and season, hear thy words resound in time. Set my thoughts upon the ocean, bear me home to thee again.
心の海 夢の破滅から救いたまえ、 心の海を探っておくれ。 絶えず汐に立ち向かって 遥か遠くまでその流れに乗り続け。 恋の兆しに揺られず、 時の中でその言葉が響くのを聞く。 僕の想いを大洋に任せて、 お前のそばへと運んでおくれ。
58
WHEN THE DEALER CALLS William Schneider
Of all the gold and all the jewels, of power and fame and wealth, the greatest thing a man can own is peace within himself. To take the cards that he is dealt and play them best he can, and be content with effort spent on being just a man. To always keep his thoughts ahead with open-caring mind, and keep what’s good that comes his way and leave the rest behind. To place all bets with chips up front and courage at his side, no need to bluff or fear to lose with conscience as his guide. To always smile and seek to do what he himself deems good, when the dealer calls that he did the best he could.
59
NOTS Kayla Wilson
I am not a poet. A poet would be able to describe the sensation of skin on skin,
drifting through air vents. I am not an artist. and could show you, dance pain, sketch love, paint the way blood looks when it runs into steaming water. I am not a storyteller. One of those would know how to say how one falls in love or slowly crawls out of it bit by burning bit. A storyteller does not have dedication like a shriveled plant. I am not a leader. Leaders do not collapse in empty rooms; people and loud music do not tear open their veins. A leader could look you in the eyes, could do instead of imagine.
60
KAYLA WILSON
I am not a lover. One of those could tell you what love means. Lovers can spell compassion without the help of a dictionary. They can say forever whereas I can only say now.
61
ART
LEO Mirko Canicoba
Pencil 65
OM Mirko Canicoba
Pencil 66
GRAFFITI STYLE Eugenio Rodrigo Carapia
Acrylic Paint 67
BEAR MOUND Michael Edwards
Ink 68
EDGAR Alex Grismore
Digital Painting 69
HAND MADE Kristina Karlen
Etching 70
IN THE DEPTHS Kristina Karlen
Etching 71
LEMON & LIPS Hannah Larson
Oil Paint 72
NATALIE’S SPIKE BALL Joe Mohr
Ceramic 73
HARLEQUINS Elena Poiata
Polymer Clay Epoxy Putty 74
JANIE Paul Ripp
Oil Paint 75
THOSE BEAUTIFUL WINGS Meng Vang
Oil Paint 76
BEIJING OPERA Dian Yao
Watercolor Propene 77
SAGE Rachel Virnig
Photography 78