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Table of Contents A Letter from the Editor – March 2012 .......................................................................................... 3 Poetry Kelsey Opalack Irene ................................................................................................................................................ 4 A True Childhood Apocalypse ....................................................................................................... 5 Heather Mallette As Winter ........................................................................................................................................ 6 Cody J Steinhauer Familiar Stories ............................................................................................................................... 7 Elephant’s Room ............................................................................................................................. 8 L.E.J. Rasser Oculus ............................................................................................................................................. 9 Fiction Corey Watson An Interview ................................................................................................................................. 10 Jon Adams Hidebehind .................................................................................................................................... 20 L.E.J. Rasser Leaving Paradise ........................................................................................................................... 22 Christian Belland IED ................................................................................................................................................ 29 Adrien Bloom Forward, Always ........................................................................................................................... 34 1
MASTHEAD: Editor-in-Chief – Alex Grover President, Founder – Cody J Steinhauer Intern – Olivia Errico Cover photo – Cody J Steinhauer
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book. Yorick Magazine acquires first North American publication rights. All rights revert to the author after publication.
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A Letter from the Editor – March 2012 Listen: We all have the urge to tell stories. Whether they are brash or collected, fantastical or stark, these stories give us a chance to soak the torch with gasoline and light it on fire. When the smoke rises, we’ve made our point. We’ve given off our essence. Every storyteller is a passionate human being with the instinct to craft a plot, to fill the plot with characters, and to leave an audience satisfied. Storytellers needn’t even realize that they’re telling a story at all. Hamlet was a storyteller. An angsty, teenaged revenger bound by flaw and circumstance, but a storyteller nonetheless. Through his journey of killing his uncle Claudius, he finds a skull of a jester, Yorick. Alas, he was a poor jester, but only in losing his flesh in life. He gained greater ears in death. At Yorick Magazine, we, too, aim to create distinct plots with unique characters and satisfaction. Like Hamlet, we tell the stories of our imagination intertwined with our lives. We give these stories a venue, and thus speak to Yorick’s skull. We do not know who will listen, or how big the ears are to which we muse. We do have stories. And we’d like to tell them. Listen. Sincerely, Alex Grover Editor-in-Chief
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Irene Kelsey Opalack A hurricane was projected to be on its way so we tethered the garden gnomes the trash cans the children. Power went out and light switches were still flicked as if the habit couldn’t die with the sparks. People sat together quiet in their uncertainty. No TV to speak for them no radio to distract. Round and round the people sat; Time? No cable vision box. Fun? No high speed internet computer. The hurricane rolled out, after having rolled in and revealed not just Mr. Jones’ porn stash in the hollow tree, or Mrs. Naples’ stolen bicycles behind the shed, but an awkwardness a miscommunication, a tragedy. The people picked up their yards in silence and the adults picked up their lawn ornaments in silence and the block picked up their lives, in silence, until a young child picked up a football and spoke.
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A True Childhood Apocalypse It’s painfully slow to watch, the falls she takes from standing position to the ground. Her white lace sneakers scuffing against an edge of raised sidewalk, etching brown and grey into the design of her small, decorated shoes. She falls in slow motion, Every second eluding the feeling of thousands of film frames (a prolonged horror show with an unknown ending). When she hits the ground she hits her knees first, skidding, sliding, on rough concrete. Her body rocks back until she’s sitting, her knee pulled to her chest. Etched into her knee is a scrape, an indent from the concrete, like the dirt etched into her shoes, only shoes don’t bleed. From the etches of her knee rise up drops of blood collecting like dew on a mornings grass. The cut becomes redder, more inflamed, angry, the girl cries. She’s young, I believe, young and alone. I turn my head to walk away, watching my own white shoes step higher over every raised sidewalk edge.
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As Winter Heather Mallette This cold vista is refreshingly empty, a wasteland scattered with dregs of aftermath from a harvest long past all blanketed by soft waves of snow. Spindly tree skeletons stand tall, shadows of the behemoths who were the forest in the summer. And what of the creatures? Their skins and bones are still scampering among the roots, chipping away at the frozen soil as they dig up rations stowed away when the sun still warmed the ground. Everything in this landscape is reduced to barebones. Both those who were left and those who were left behind must acknowledge that fact. The former huddle in their hovels, the latter sip champagne from flutes, both whisper the same refrain to the skeletal trees. “In winter, man, too, loses his plumage.�
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Familiar Stories Cody J Steinhauer You know I’ll still be waiting when the stars hit the skyline. The world won’t sit, but I’ve got time to kill. And should you find you’re doing fine, I hope you’ll phone me. I know you say more to the world than you’ll ever say to me. And these made up games you played, nothing quite delayed me. I know you’d throw the days away to pretend that we’re okay. If the end is all you wanted, then why’d you waste your time with stories? You waste your time with fairy tales, with never-ending stories. The shelf is clear; there’s nothing left to tell.
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Elephant’s Room These eyes are old eyes; they’ve seen the lay of lands. They’ve seen their families torn apart. The babies’ fears are verified, the cries at night are justified. The closet does hold beasts. As men next door grow louder now, their plans are all decreed. Shadows of the night grow near; the children see their eyes. Thieves have come a ‘knocking, chain links lock the door. Fragile beings of prey. Highly social, highly emotional. There’s an elephant in the room; you pretend not to know his name. You say your swords are gleaming, swinging to set him free. His mind is honed and rationalized, he can see the killing game. If blood must fall to free us all, then he doesn’t want your key.
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Oculus L.E.J. Rasser I hear a flute and the floor becomes a fine dust— I return to my land. I weave baskets that carry the dust from adobe abodes on wind stormed channels. I weave them from my bones because that is all we have. I clench a cactus and it sings pain to me, out of the spill-wound flows dust— a desert from my blood. I am the land that harbors fortune or misfortune. I am the womb that bears a city that bears a tribe that bears a leader that bears a daughter that bears a baby that bears a flute. But— when the present reclaims me, when the flute plays no more, when the hands fashion false adobe, I fall onto the floor that lacks the desert breath I know so well.
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An Interview Corey Watson
Here I have transcribed one of the most memorable interviews I have conducted in my short career as a journalist. I was given very little information about my interviewee, and was sent to the man armed with nothing more than a personal recorder and a head devoid of any formal knowledge of him—I went in as a blank canvas, and as you’ll see, I don’t believe I came out any more colorful, though I might have gained a slightly more lurid view of the world. I met him in a temporarily unoccupied classroom of an elementary school—we snuck in individually while the children were out at recess. It was his idea, not mine. My boss would hear none of my arguments on the moral nature of committing such a bizarre and pointless crime, as my terms had already been firmly set with my eccentric interviewee. I was promised good money for this conference, so I begrudgingly acquiesced. The room was littered with crayons, building blocks, and large-print children’s books of all sorts. A neon yellow alphabet banner lined two of the walls above the whiteboard, upon which, the words “cat,” “dog,” and “meow” were neatly written. Yes, I had just broken into what appeared to be a kindergarten (or possibly first grade) classroom, for no other reason than to appease the man I was set to interview. “Nothing short of the best, I declare,” my boss relayed his message to me, followed by an explanation that he offered to put us both up in the conveniently located four-star resort down the street, but my client outright refused such an offer, as it was “below his standards.” As I waited behind the teacher’s desk, flipping through Meow Goes a Cat for the umpteenth time, I suddenly became aware of a clumsy thudding from the hallway outside. As the door crashed open, I dove under the desk and braced myself for the worst. “Not here yet, I guess,” a deep raspy voice muttered, quickly followed by a thunderous guttural hawking and the distinct sound of spit splattering against a solid object. In shock, I peered out from beneath the desk and saw the cuffs of a pair of red and green-striped skinny pants standing directly before me. I also noticed that the intruder was wearing a single black Italian leather boot. His other foot was completely bare, notwithstanding a thick coating of motley filth. “Where is he, anyway? Shohuld’a been here by now, for sure.” I decided he was my guy, and made myself apparent. As I stood up to greet him, a devious grin overtook his face. We quietly took in one another for a few moments before introducing ourselves. He wasn’t wearing much more than his striped pants and unaccompanied boot. Meagerly covering his torso was a shabby brown vest with nothing underneath. His chest was quite bare, though I did notice a multitude of assorted scars scattered about it—one appeared dangerously close to bisecting his right nipple. He wore his hair in a sort of half-shaved 10
fashion, and it was a faded tint of purple. His bright green eyes surveyed me slowly from atop two dark bags, and though his face appeared wrinkled and worn, he held the unmistakable fire of a youthful spirit behind those deeply contemplative emeralds. I guessed him late twenties, maybe early thirties—it was hard to see through the hardships his body prominently displayed. His earlobes were stretched and outfitted with large steel flesh tunnels. Well, his right one was, at least. His left lobe, I realized, was completely missing. I pointed to my own ear, mouth agape with incredulousness. A puzzled look befell him, so I pulled out my recorder and broke the silence by initiating what would my most perplexing interview. Your ear, what happened? Oh, [laughing] yeah, I don’t know. I just kinda woke up like that one day! [laughs again] Wow, really? You have no idea what happened? None at all. I like to imagine that whatever happened awesome, though. At that moment, I realized that I hadn’t yet introduced myself. I put my hand forward to shake, and he attempted some kind of fist-bumping maneuver. It was awkward—and looking back, I think that this can somehow be attributed to the downward spiral that the interview took from that point. Had I committed an unspoken hand-shaking crime—some atrocity among ‘The Society of Hip Greeters?’ It might be best that I don’t pursue it further. I don’t want some trendy underground society on my heels. I continued to introduce myself. I’m sorry; I didn’t catch your name. Oh, right. Edger. Edge— …Edger? That’s right. That’s your legal name? That’s one of the more interesting ones I’ve come across. Yeah! That’s what they call me, at least. Let’s check my ID. He fumbled around a bit, and I think he then realized that he didn’t have any pockets in which to hold an ID card. I ushered him to sit down, and he pulled up a miniature blue plastic children’s chair. I offered him a larger one, but he refused, noting that the little ones remind him of simpler times. I smiled politely and continued my interview. 11
So what is it exactly that you do for a— —Hey, want to see a trick? Uh, sure—I mean, I guess… He proceeded to pull a lighter from his boot. Lighting it and staring intensely at the flame, he noticed that I kept throwing glances at his incomplete ‘set’ of footwear. I was mystified as to the fate of his missing boot, but I thought it rude to bring it to his attention. I guess he misinterpreted my observance as admiration, because he followed my gaze and grinned broadly, exposing his cracked and yellowed teeth. “Oh man, I do love this boot! They’re usually insanely expensive, but I know a guy—only asked half price!” As I pondered the ambiguity of his phrasing, my thoughts were interrupted by the smell of burning flesh. He had pressed the heated lighter to his forearm, branding himself with a mark that was somewhat reminiscent of a smiley face. I grimaced. He hollered. I flinched. He threw the lighter to the floor. It exploded. I grimaced. He laughed. I hesitated. We continued. So anyway, I was told to interview you. I hear you’re a bit of a local celebrity—but to be honest, I wasn’t exactly briefed on your occupation. If you don’t mind me being so blunt, may I ask what it is you’re known for? Oh, yeah. Well. [His face contorted into an expression somewhere between bewilderment and consternation]. I’m known for, well—just “being”, I guess you could say. Just being around. Kicking, you know? Living. Existing. I don’t know, honestly. I was kinda hoping that you’d tell me… I’ve never been interviewed like this before. I figured if there was someone out there who wanted to interrogate me, he must know something about me that I don’t, eh? I’m honestly no better off than you are, then. I came into this interview with absolutely no background information on you… And I was worried that this would be awkward! [I chuckle to myself] [laughs] It’s too bad I left my map to self-discovery at home, then. I guess we’ll have to start from scratch... Say, you don’t have a light, do you? [he pulls a mangled cigarette, seemingly from thin air, and wiggles it in my direction.] I—n-no, sorry. [I glance at the lighter shrapnel next to his bare foot.] Strange, I usually carry a lighter on me at all times… [his hands search the sides of his pocket less trousers again.] Oh, I’ve always got a spare on me, though! [he withdraws a grimy book of matches from within his boot. Then, with an astonishingly fluid movement 12
of one hand, he opens it, tears a match from the set, strikes it, lights his cigarette, and flicks the flame out with his forefinger.] [I hesitate] Tell me about your hobbies, then. What do you do for— --Hey, want to make a bet? I’ll bet you twenty bucks right now that I can finish this cigarette without dropping a single ash! Not a single ash—twenty bucks, what do you say? [I hesitate further] I… alright. Alright then, you’re on. He grinned and took a long drag, at which point, his entire decrepit cigarette broke off at the butt. His eyes widened in disbelief. His jaw dropped, and his demeanor took an immediate volte-face. He lurched forward, spit the remainder of his cigarette on the floor, stomped it out with his naked foot, and glared at me, accusingly. Best two out of three, then? [voice shaking with rage] Haven’t got another to smoke. Well, no harm, no foul. I didn’t expect we were making a serious wager, anyway. [grinning dumbly] Oh good! I haven’t got any money on me, at any rate. [he titters] Right. So, going back to what I was saying: What do you do for money? What’s your jo[flicks a booger] Alright, I’m bored. Is this going anywhere? We haven’t really gone anywhere, yet. Would you like to take a break? A break? Yeah, that sounds alri— He stopped mid-sentence with his eyes affixed to a spot on the floor. I followed his gaze, but could not discern his target. After approximately a minute of silence, I caved, and began to inquire. What are youSHUSH, YOU! FOR THE LOVE OF WHATEVER, MAN! YOU WILL QUIET YOURSELF THIS INSTANT, UNDER THREAT OF MY MIGHTY FIST UPON YOUR MOUSY FACE! [silence] [clears throat] Pardon. I simply caught glimpse of something that I do so despise more 13
than life itself—and life itself, I do so despise, my friend! Oh yes, I do so, so I do! [puzzled] And what is it that you saw? Legs. Leggy, wiggly insectoid. Curly one, oh the legs! A leggy insect? You mean, a centipede? [grabbing himself and shuddering violently] Nope. Spider—the worst kind. [scanning the ground sharply] What’s the worst kind of spider? Well, they’re all pretty abhorrent, to be fair. But the worst kinds are all the ones that I come in direct contact with. The rest are bearable, at best. He then began scratching wildly at his forearms, so I grabbed him by the wrists until he calmed, and offered to find him a cup of water. He declined, but made no further attempt at self-harm, so I let him free. He stared at me a moment, then his eyes returned to the spot on the floor. He looked back at me, his green eyes gleaming nervously into my own, and his lips quivered very slightly. I couldn’t help but chuckle, as this whole ordeal seemed to be turning into some sort of bizarre therapy session. [stifling a giggle] So why is it that you’re afraid of… [pause, anticipating another interruption] …Spiders? I don’t trust them, is all. Is there any particular reason? A traumatic childhood experience, perhaps? No, not at all—Nothing like that, no. It’s just… [waits] [twiddles thumbs and adjusts vest, while avoiding eye contact] Well? [spits in hand, and sleeks his hair back] [taps pen on the desk loudly] 14
[staring at wall] They’ve got too many appendages. I can’t trust a thing with eight legs, I just can’t. I don’t think I follow. [sitting upright and regaining composure] Alright. It’s got eight legs. You know how many things it could do at once? I’m just saying—I don’t trust anything that can theoretically eat a sandwich, wipe its ass, pick its nose, and play the full Moby Dick drum solo, all while flipping me off! I mean, provided it had the dexterity and limb independence, that’s entirely possible! Doesn’t that freak you out, in the least? [taken aback] I—well, I never considered it, I guess. I really…never… considered it. Should I squish him? Would that make you feel better? [shocked] Him!? What do you mean him!? No, you can’t squish him, now! Wait, why? You’ve personified it! It’s no longer just a bug! It’s not an “it”, anymore! Now it’s a “him!” You’ve engendered the thing! Now it’s conscious, sentient! We can’t just kill him! He’s probably just gotten off work, on his way to meet his spider wife and hundreds of spiderling children! He then bent down so close to the floor that I could swear I heard his nose pushing dust across the scuffed white tiles. He sat this way for a while, emitting the occasional inquisitive grunt, and scratching the back of his head. Then suddenly he sat upright so fast, I could tell by his dazed expression that he suffered a serious head rush. He stared at me, wide-eyed, and equally wide-mouthed, pointing straight toward the ceiling, akin to Plato in The School for Athens. A revelation? I was wrong. This spider here just got out of the bar. He’s stumbling home, the poor bugger. [stunned] And how do you… How do you figure? Just look at him! He’s obviously beyond tipsy. He’s just gotten out of the bar after a long day’s work. His spider-tie is all undone and his spider-hair is all disheveled! Don’t even get me started on the condition of his work pants, either. Anyway, he’s stumbling home to confront his spider-wife, as she’s threatening to take the kids and leave if he doesn’t grow a spine and stand up to his boss, who has been overworking the sap for the past year and a half! She says he’s hardly got time for the family anymore, and she’s completely right! She says that if he doesn’t find a backbone and take up against his manager today, 15
she won’t be home when he returns tomorrow. [I decide to cater to his absurd dramatization] Oh…Oh no! That’s terrible! Tell me about it! The worst part is, spiders don’t have the ability to grow backbones, either! They’re exoskeletal—it’s completely different from traditional bonery! He hasn’t got a chance! The sad life of an insect let me tell you! You know, spiders aren’t even really insec[yelling] SALVATION! [as he brings his booted foot down upon the spider.] [stares, aghast] [chuckling] Well, someone had to put the boor bugger out of his misery. I know I’d want the same if I were in his position. I can relate to him, you know? No. No, I do not know. Do tell. I’m really baffled as to how you could possibly relate to a spider, who you were just scared witless of. So no, no I don’t know— Family, man! Family man? Like a wife and kids? No. Family, [deep inhale] man. You have a family? Is that what you’re driving at? Yeah—a real big mass of two-faced human insects, if I ever saw one. I’m sorry to hear that. Would you…like to talk about them? [staring past me] You know, there really is a two-faced insect out there. Oh yeah? I wasn’t aware… Are you alright? Yeah, well—not literally. I mean, it doesn’t actually have two faces. It’s some sort of strange caterpillar, I think. The thing has an ass that looks just like its face! I’ve never heard of such a[throwing hands into air excitedly] Imagine it! You’re neighbors with this guy, or something—this ass-faced caterpillar guy—you’re a beetle or something. Not me, though—I’m a praying mantis—but you; you’re a beetle, his beetle neighbor. So anyway 16
you wake up one morning, bright and early, to go grab your newspaper from the lawn and whatever. So there you are wearing a bathrobe—newspaper in one hand, cup of coffee in the other, when you look over and see your neighbor bug, just sitting at the edge of your yard, smiling stupidly at you, like he just heard something funny. So now you’re curious, right? You go up to the guy and say good morning, you know, “the weather’s nice” and whatnot. This guy whispers something back at you and his grin widens. Now you reactively smile back and lean in closer, so to hear him better. You lean in, and smiling, you whisper back, “come again?” when suddenly his mouth opens right up, wide. Wider than any smile you ever seen, horrifically, disfiguredly wide—and then SPLAT! Projectile shit-vomit all down your beetle bathrobe, all over your beetle slippers, and all into your cup of extra strong beetle brew! Talk about diarrhea of the mouth, right? Turns out, the guy was facing the other direction, chatting up his wife the entire time. And to make it worse, he doesn’t even notice afterward! He just keeps talking, while you steamily—and I don’t mean that in an emotional sense—stomp back into your house for a second morning shower. Wait, what? Why—why would this bug person be defecating outside, exactly? He obviously has a house, and I’d think it would be equipped with a bathroom. Whoa, come on now. Let’s not get overly technical, here. It’s a bug we’re talking about! By nature, he’s got the liberty to shit where he wants—a toilet isn’t a necessary fixture in his bathroom. I really don’t think I can follow your thought process. And how bad would it be for his bug-wife, by the way? I think we’ve established that I don’t follow. Well, I mean, suppose one night he decides he wants to get adventurous—you know, with his wife. [nods unsurely] And suppose he wants the thing that no self-respecting woman would ever give to a man. Is this turning into a sexist joke of some sort? No, man. I’m being dead serious. I’m talking about a “rimmy.” A…what? [gestures vulgarly with a half-cocked grin] …and she wouldn’t even know it until it was too late, provided he’s a hygienic individual! She’d think they were just deep kissing or 17
something! Oh… And that’s not even the worst that could happen! At this point, she’s got no idea what’s going on, right? They’ve been married a while, so it’s not an incredibly passionate “kiss.” I mean, they’re going at it, but like an old married couple would. There’s no heavy petting or breathing all up in each other’s faces or anything—it’s just standard procedure by now—it’s all routine! So anyway, wifey here isn’t quite putting it together yet, but eventually she notices that something’s definitely different. She probably figures he’s trying some new technique with his lips or something, so now she’s getting all horny schoolgirl on him since he went out of his way to do something exciting for her. So she gets all into it, right? [extended pause] Sure, why not? So she gets all hot and heavy, and yells something that sounds sexy in her head. She blurts out, “Geronimo!” or something to indicate that she’s pushing the throttle. And you know what she does next? Can’t even guess… She slaps his “ass” as hard as she can. She wants it hot! [stares horrorstricken] And you know what? She gets it hot! [stares dumbstruck] You’re not following? The guy’s got a tongue to his ass, and now a slap to his face! If she didn’t realize what was going on before, it’s definitely going to hit her like a ton of bricks! [I break my formal tone] Your mind makes my own shit bricks. Exactly! I’d hate to know where you get such intimate and haunting knowledge. I have friends [he pauses and a sly grin creeps slowly across his face]…female friends, with no self-respect! [winks] I think this “interview” is over. 18
Aw, but I was just starting to come out of my shell! It was just getting fun! [Stops recorder] Yeah, well… [looks at me, worriedly] To be continued? We’ll see. All I know right now is that I desperately need something to cleanse my brain with. Oh, I know just the bar! [rubs his bare chest, as if searching for a breast pocket] I’ve got a list of my favorite drinks lying around here somewhere. [gropes his pants, seemingly having forgotten that they’re still without pockets.] Say, be a gentleman and buy a sweetie a drink, won’t you? [winks] He took my arm and whispered sweet nothings to me, all the way off the school grounds—which we departed from, much more conspicuously than when we arrived. I don’t know if he was honestly trying to flatter me or if he knew that I figured a few free drinks might finally shut him up.
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Hidebehind Jon Adams It was an afternoon walk in the forests near my hometown that led me to hell that summer day. Past or present tense? Ironic, whilst exploring these woods, darkened by the thick canopy, I fancied myself Dante Alighieri finding his way through the dark forest to find his beloved Beatrice, but to instead stumble his way to the Pit. Awkward sentence structure. Oh how Hell would seem comforting now in the face of this invisible aberration! Bones and an odd rustle of leaves were the only warnings I received before my instincts failed me. I turn and look for the source of the noise, and I see it. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. My mind is playing tricks on me. But living in this rural setting has taught me well, and to see so many bones littered around I could only think that I have stumbled upon a predator's feeding ground. Fancying myself knowledgeable of the goings on of the forest I knelt to investigate further. Bears tend to move around to hunt and mountain lions would not feed in this open of an area. Wolves dragging prey to their den is the only real explanation. The crunch of dead leaves derails my train of thought. I spin around to see my follower. Nothing. Wait! I see it in my peripheral vision, a black blur, a shapeless blob of darkness born from where the eye does not see and gone faster than a blink Overwritten. It must be my imagination. I turned too quickly and my blood ran to my head; the stars I see are testament to that theory. I shake my head to whisk away these will-o-the-wisps from my sight. That is when I see it. The bones strike me as odd before, a few deer and cow skulls were nothing if not expected where predators live; but, the skull of a bear in a feeding ground of what I thought to be wolves. That perturbs me: what in the hell lived in these woods that could kill a bear and, by the looks of it clichĂŠd phrase, tear its skull from its spine? I lean back and rest my hands on the ground to catch my breath. My adrenaline has been pumping since I first heard the crunching leaves. The ground under my right hand feels strange, smooth like a river stone. I brush away the leaves to see a human skull leering back at me. His empty sockets beseech me to flee, as staying would be to share this poor soul's fate. Anonymous death in the forest. Another family left with no closure, damned to wait forever for their child or parent or sibling to come home. Who was your family, poor Yorick? I ask the skull, the slack jaw gives no reply. Crunch. I jump to my feet. I know someone is here with me, some feral man, some Tarzan or Mowgli that seeks my skin. There is nothing. No one. Just the perpetual silence of the deep forest. Am I deaf? Is the man-beast merely just out of sight, lurking where my eye cannot see? Can I not hear his approach? I throw poor Yorick against a tree. The smash of bone 20
on bark seems explosive in the dead silence. I run. I have nothing else to do against this foe I cannot see. Flight is my only option. I see it move in the periphery of my vision, a shadow that so easily keeps pace, a wraith of the forest dogging my every step. Its voice is the wind howling in my ears and the wind screams for my blood. I duck left, then right, and into a small ditch. I scurry under the overhang, barely able to stifle my sobs of terror. I hear its passage over me, a wrathful gale hungry for blood. I see its black smudge of a body take form on a hill before me. It is not a living shadow; it simply moves too fast to see. It stands easily seven feet tall, its limbs are long and reedy, coated in coarse, black hair, dark as the space between stars. As soon as my eyes rest upon it, the Beast shivers. It feels me watching it. It knows I am here! It is only a matter of time until it finds me and makes me another anonymous dead man. Just as fast as the beast arrived, it vanished. In the blink of an eye something larger than me dissipates into thin air. I hear it scream as it dashes through the treetops. Run, I have to run. I can't stop! It is there somewhere, watching, following, its whispers like screams in my skull. It wishes to sate its great hunger, a hunger that no vegetable nor venison can sate. It craves tall pig; it craves human flesh. I weave between trees as I flee and in my blind flight I stumble. Momentum takes me down a hill. Something sharp pricks my back. Wet drips hit my neck. It slavers in gluttonous anticipation. I fall back to my knees and I hear rustling behind me, the drool drips faster and faster. The claws loosen as I sink farther to the ground in despair. Drool spatters in front of me, and to my right and left. Rain. There is no beast upon me! In my haste I had rolled into a briar patch. My flight then continues, charging through streams and over tree roots. Legs, heart and lungs burning with the primitive need to survive. I did not stop running even when I found my way clear of the forest. The rain has not stopped but I am safe at home, the doors bolted and windows locked. I am typing all this out so that others can hear from my horrifying experience and do their best to avoid the woods that the Hidebehind calls home. I can see something in the reflection on my monitor. Something is moving.
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Leaving Paradise L.E.J. Rasser “I was five when it happened. “I was walking down a set of magnetic tracks along the Palladium Line, talking with my friend Kay. Kay was five as well. “We talked about exploring other worlds—like the interplanary inspectors did on television—and we knew that it was easier to travel through the planarverse than it was to travel through the time machines made so many years ago. It takes thousands of gallons of Z-Fuel to spin a universe backwards or forwards in time, but it only takes a quarter of that to travel the planes—” “We know this already,” a dark voice declared. “Continue.” “Kay told me about the monsters he imagined on the other planes, and we laughed at what he came up with. But when I took a few steps to the right of the tracks, hearing the oncoming Delta Train, I thought Kay heard as well. But he didn’t. “I went through school and received my Working Class degree in Quantum Physics—the degree you’ve made a prerequisite for this position—but I could never get over Kay’s death. I hated people. Truly hated them. I didn’t want any parts of them. And remembering Kay’s stories—of adventure, of the travels we’d one day face as inspectors— that made me want this even more. “Gentlemen, that is why I want to fuvaroz.” Δ Click I immediately felt catharsis when I pressed the CONFIRM FUVAROZ? option on my operator. I never felt this before. I panicked. I darted my eyes to survey my surroundings and—I wasn’t attacked. I turned around, ready to press the button once more to escape—but nothing was there. No lion gods. No monsters to eat me. No tribes of heathens to butcher me. Nothing but a landscape of tall trees and sprawling green grasses. My hand-held FUVAROZ operator was sweaty in my left palm. Latched onto my hand via a synth-touch grasper, the slim device was warm, and stared back at me with its usual “WELCOME TO FUVAROZ, INC.!” title screen. I sighed, wondering how such a small mechanism could have such control over my life. Sweating underneath my suit, I took the survival telepack off of my back when I knew—absolutely knew—that my surroundings were clear of danger. I unlatched its clawlike tendrils from my hermetically-sealed suit, peering at its decently-sized synthescreen. I scoured the lists of commands that ranged up and down the open console: BATTERY LIFE RATIONS NOTE TAKER
OPERATIONS TOOL DECK TELECOMMUNICATIONS
22
None of these options was truly ever used, except for RATIONS. You never had enough time to take “notes” on the NOTE TAKER. You’d be dead if you tried. “How was your trip, Mr. Halcyon?” the automated voice on my telepack tried to say with human inflection. The voice was feminine and curt. I called her Lenore, though she didn’t have a real name. Just Unit 571. “Fine, Lenore,” I said to my hand-held machine. “Nothing’s happened yet.” I wanted her to say That’s a shock, Mack, but she—it—didn’t. “Good. Transmission sending to headquarters. Coordinates confirmed.” “Lenore—” I misspoke, “uh, Unit 571, tally count?” “Forty, Mr. Halcyon,” Lenore processed. “Any word from headquarters on the development of the yrandosaur plane?” I asked. Sometimes Lenore didn’t properly recognize my speech. That was something technology could never emulate. “One moment please.” While I waited, I finally had a chance to catch up with myself, so I sat upon what felt like a soft rug of marshy fur. It was cool to the touch, gracing my fingers like kings and queens greeting foreigners to a new and strange kingdom. And that’s honestly how this new plane was. Strange. Everything was calm. The trees didn’t have eyes, didn’t move on their own. Instead of five suns, or three suns or no sun, a lone yellow orb watched from the perch of an azure sky. For once, I could relax. I didn’t have to worry. That’s why it was strange. “Mr. Halcyon, the Bureau of Interplanary Exploration is sending a visual report on the yrandosaur tribe.” “Thanks Lenore.” After a few moments, I began watching a video transmission on file from the BIE (Bureau of Interplanary Exploration). I saw grand landscapes of white dunes, coupled with scenes of the yrandosaurs, a race of men that looked like lizards. Some scenes included the yrandosaurs being shackled by BIE operatives. A voice-over began: “The Yrando Plane was discovered by researchers in 2349, and established as a feasible coordinate for commercial trade and leisure by Inspector 571, Mack Halcyon, in 2588. The Yrando Plane is a desert version of Earth and, with less surface water, is abundant in minerals. The yrandosaurs, the native race to this version of Earth, has been quarantined and removed. The Yrando Plane is a viable site for human life. The transmission ended on a video clip of a yrandosaur village being burned. I paused for a while, and thought about Kay. I usually thought about him when I was deep in my work. I wondered what he would have looked like if he were grown. I looked around once more. Quiet. Tranquility. It was so unlike Earth, how it was verdant and untouched. A virgin to man, or anyone of his like. It would be like the “Yrando Plane.” A successful fuvaroz. Successful. “Lenore—” I wanted to ask when I would be returning home, to the real Earth. Though I had no home. Though I knew that I would return when the BIE deemed it necessary for me to come home to no home. Though I decided that it was better to be 23
here, as a vagabond. I enjoyed being alone. I lay down and, for once without worry, I fell asleep. —running through a desert of crushed amethyst crystals, fragmented over time by the raging windstorms of the biome, rushing, trying not to trip, without thinking, resorting to the only mode of escape I had left, the machine on my palm. It was night, and the roars of the lion gods were bellowing whip-cracks. My footfall was uneven, the dunes of the Third Plane inconsistent and coarse. The roars were closer, and the machine was—slowing? Why wouldn’t it load? Why wouldn’t it load on time? Why wouldn’t it just take me away—and then I saw one of the lion gods, a large four-legged hybrid with razor tusks and surreal patches of multicolored fur. It bore a glance of six eyes. It stared into me, and I knew it had tasted my scent. As it lunged at me, maw open wide, I saw Kay, in its mouth, screaming, screaming, screaming, screaming— I woke up and tensed into an upright position, my eyes dripping tears, my pits and back sweaty underneath the suit, my mind caught in a blurred frenzy. The sun had only slightly shifted. The sun was still there. There were no lion gods ravaging my insides, licking my blood off their barbed paws. I laughed. I laughed at the trees. I laughed at the grass. I laughed at the sky. I fell back onto that cushion of nature. The catharsis never left. It was still a strange feeling. The BIE would be pleased with this new discovery. There weren’t even troublesome races to annihilate. I thought about staying on this plane for a while. I wondered what it would be like to have perfection—possibly for the rest of my life. I grabbed at the soft petals of grass, my fingers almost touching their blades from beneath the suit, and I threw them into the air. I watched the cloud of green flutter down upon me. Once the petals had fallen, I thought about the lion gods. And I trembled. Δ Fuvaroz. One of the Hungarian scientists back home on Earth had concocted the concept—very brilliant guy—“freight,” it meant in English. Though I never understood how freight could be a verb. Fuvaroz. A means for interplanary transport. To set up ports along the planarverse, docks for travelers and cargo (or freight, I guess). When the machine first came out, prospective investors wondered how inspectors were going to deal with the spooky notion of void space, when another V.O.E. didn’t exist to land on. The creators had already thought of this. Sending preliminary sensors into the docks was the first step. Analyzing where the docks were established—that was the second. Creating equations for identification, managing the coordinates, all that followed as the studies reached years of post-production of this technology—that was the third step. I remembered the first training session at the Bureau. “There is a strong need for advanced trade!” they told me. “There is boundless opportunity in the reaches of unknown planes. But such a dangerous project needs a brave comrade as its test subject.” Of course, as a paid investigator of the Bureau of 24
Interplanary Exploration, I knew the benefits: health insurance for life, health coverage for all immediate family members, permission to have a marriage license, and paid living coverage under the “BIE Housing Policy of ’84”. I wouldn’t need the marriage license, however. I ate some of my rations hours later—thick sludge from the telepack—after reminiscing on past planes of exploration. I remembered sprawling black oceans of the Fourth, full of vicious and gargantuan sea roaches and pirate lords. If I hadn’t been saved by Captain Henz Fravleyander, a brutish three-legged humanoid, I would have been devoured by the giant aquatic insects. Though when he and his crew of fish-men tried to stab me with their scimitars—to steal my goods, I presumed—I easily confirmed a fuvaroz—pressing the button on my hand-mechanism—and warped into the next plane. The reason this account was so peculiar spawned from one of Fravleyander’s comments, just before he and the crew tried to kill me: “You enjoy this, don’t you?” I didn’t know what he meant. I never considered the thought, and I refused it. It was awful! Who would ever want to be eaten alive, or be killed by swashbucklers? It was an odd memory. I decided to make my way towards a small forest I saw a few kilometers away. The walk was light on my feet, though my toes were hindered by the tight grip of my suit. So were my fingers—feeling as though they were covered in blisters. A great mass of oxygen remained in the survival telepack, but— But I wanted to breathe the air of paradise. I had never accessed the TOOL DECK before. I never needed to; every plane had been too dangerous to access the option, except on the Yrando Plane. I took off my pack, and pressed the button on the synth-pad. Then, pressing AIRBORNE ANALYSIS, I waited until the pack had thoroughly tested the air. I imagined Lenore telling me that the air was “poisonous,” or “lacking enough oxygen to sustain human breathing conditions.” Some of me wanted just to take the suit off, without assessing any tests. Some of me wanted to die while I breathed the poisonous air— “There is enough oxygen present to sustain human breathing conditions, Mr. Halcyon,” Lenore said. That was all. I took off the suit, and I really did taste the air. Having been out of that suit for the first time since I began the FUVAROZ program, I grinned, extracting the telepack, and venturing forth. Once I reached the woods, I was enamored by the purplish shade of the trees. It was beautiful. The sun glinted—still watching—coming through the leaves of a halfcanopy. I sat at a tree’s base, resting my suit-free back against its grainy bark. The feeling was grand. I was content. I looked at my left palm, and saw that the fuvaroz operator had not yet left me. The mechanism still presented its regular “WELCOME TO FUVAROZ, INC.!” screen. That would never change. But I had the urge to grace the screen with my finger, and— No! I couldn’t leave. It was too perfect. I stood up, brushed myself off, and walked a little further into the woods. The trees were bland, having no unique flare other than a few knobs of unnecessary bark. They 25
appeared to be oak trees, and they were almost flawlessly spaced apart from one another. Each tree had a fair amount of space. Each tree could breathe, like I breathed. Each tree contributed its own leaves to the canopy. The unity of it almost sickened me. I tried to imagine what Kay would have said, but I couldn’t. I was useless when it came to thinking about Kay. I stopped. I realized I wasn’t alone. I saw a rock that had a face carved into it—very ancient. I immediately thought that I was on another yrandosaur plane. Almost excited, I thought of their statues, carved to emulate their awful gods. I had been with the yrandosaurs for a long period of time— understanding them, their strengths, their weaknesses, before reporting the data to the BIE, and moving on to the next plane. Analyzing the startling statue—was I alone?—I recalled a specific memory: me sitting in the company of the yrandosaurs, in a hut on the Twentieth plane. There were three to my left, and three to my right, each of the lizard people, adorning feathers, bracelets of carved stones, and skins of different animals they had hunted and annihilated. They spoke to me in ticks and clucks—a language I had quickly learned in my stay with the nomads—and we delighted each other with tales of the exploits of our travels, specifically of the hunt. Not of the kill, but of the pursuit. The feral attempts to destroy others. What a simple race of savages. One of the few that I loved. So reminiscent of my own race. It was a shame that they had to be purged. As we had talked, the conversation drifted towards the love of journeys. Circumstance forced the yrandosaurs to move from place to place, and their old settlements of huts soon became necropolises. The conversation focused on this for a while. Then, one of the older and quieter priests spoke, addressing the whole room. However, he gave me a glance, and I felt he was speaking directly to me. He knew enough about his culture to speculate on the invisible gods that graced his world: “When you travel for so long,” the priest said, looking at me with black eyes, “you wonder and wonder when the gods will take pity on you, and let you settle. You can only hope that one day, they will take the time to look at you, and realize in their own faults what has to be done—” After reliving the memory, I looked at the rock, and saw Kay’s face. “You enjoy this, don’t you?” the rock said to me. I violently shook my head, wiping my eyes, and saw that the statue was nothing more than a rock. I couldn’t leave. It was too perfect. Δ Was it the air? Was there something in the air causing me to hallucinate? They were minor hallucinations at best. I hadn’t been trained to be a chemist. Chemists understood air-content better than Working Class Quantum Physicists did. It was impossible—so many nights having been chased, having been terrified. What else was there on this planet? 26
I looked around, hoping Fravleyander would appear to stab me in the heart. But I saw no one, no one, no one— What did I enjoy? The pains of the nomad? The fear of predators? I certainly didn’t enjoy—paradise? I paused in my thoughts. I could only stare into the wavy lines of bark on a tree. I imagined living on this planet. I imagined using up all of the rations, having explored much of the simple flora, having discovered nothing at all. Enjoying lying upon beds of grass, alone. Or against the trunks of quiet trees that didn’t walk, that didn’t watch me, that didn’t try to eat me. I imagined the horrors of enjoying a perfect life alone. But how could I return to Earth? I wasn’t allowed to leave if a plane was hospitable. I wasn’t allowed! It was too perfect here. How was I supposed to die? How was I supposed to join Kay with the other adventurers after death? How was I supposed to live in paradise? I had to declare this plane unstable, hostile, teeming with monsters. I had to. How else could I leave? The BIE would never allow me to leave a feasible version of Earth. I’d be reprimanded! What would they do to me—what? They’ve executed others for lost profits. They’d execute me without thought! I had to deem it unsafe to live in this wonderful world. Paranoid, I ran and found the abandoned skin of my suit lying comfortably on the ground. I embraced the tightening pain of the suit, as it enclosed my body again. The hurt in my fingers was reassuring. I checked Lenore. I had full rations, and full oxygen. I grabbed the pack and pressed TELECOMMUNICATIONS. “Hello, Mr. Halcyon,” Lenore reassured me. “L—Unit 571. The Fortieth Plane is—hazardous, and is not a—viable trade port. The Fortieth Plane has been analyzed for—less than twenty-four hours. Unit 571 recognizes that this is a policy violation.” I stopped to catch my breath. “There are no—” I stopped. I couldn’t, but I had to say it all, to move on—“there is an immensity of other dangerous life-forms on this plane. No terra-based flora exists here.” “Anything else?” Lenore asked. I wanted her to ask Feeling lonely, Mack? But she didn’t. “No, Lenore. Nothing more.” “Notion confirmed,” Lenore processed. “Have a good day, Mr. Halcyon.” The automated responses resonated through my ears. I looked around at the perfect planet, and I knew that it was me who caused its soon-to-be misfortunes. I readied my palm operator. It didn’t speak like Lenore. It only gave me touchoptions. “WELCOME TO FUVAROZ, INC.!” FUVAROZ!—I pressed the option. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE? I pressed YES. ARE YOU SURE? FUVAROZ CANNOT BE CANCELLED WHILE IN PROGRESS. Dammit, I was sure! YES. 27
ONE MOMENT PLEASE. I waited for a few seconds, before the last message box appeared: CONFIRM FUVAROZ? YES. Click. Click Click. Click Click Click Click Click Click— The machine was broken. I began to sob. I wanted to join Kay on those magnetic tracks. I imagined him, watching me as he was trampled by the oncoming Delta Train. I saw the blood. I saw his limbs. The train paid no mind to his crumpled body. Only me. Now I waited for the Delta Train, to sweep me up from behind, as I clicked the broken machine over and over again. The train wouldn’t come.
28
IED Christian Belland Part I He knew he was running. To where, he wasn’t sure. He was sure, however, that it was the same dream as before. He could feel the sensation of his combat boots digging into the fine desert sand, the soft impact creeping up his leg in slow motion. He feebly reached for the morning sun hanging on the horizon. Its golden tendrils snaked over the far dune like the gnarled roots of some massive tree The ground shook again. A brilliant flash of light wrapped around his peripherals. An unrelenting force shoved him from behind. Burning hot jabs of pain relentlessly stabbed him. Before he could cry out, he was tossed over like a rag doll. The last thing he saw before he woke up was the ground hurtling towards his face. Δ The dream was over. He picked his head up and looked around. The whites of the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center were almost sickening. Rows of hospital beds stretched on in interminable lines in every direction. He noticed he was attached to some sort of beeping machine. The sound of clicking heels echoed down the hall. They grew louder until a tall, semi-attractive nurse stood over his bed. “Good morning, corporal.” She was tall for a nurse, he thought. A pleasant smile adorned her face. He made scratchy, guttural noise in the back of his throat. He wasn’t sure if the sound happened to form a word, or if she just conditioned to smile at everything. He sat up and tried again. “G—good morning.” He stretched his arms while she checked the IV drip. The nurse pressed a few buttons on his heart monitor, humming contently to herself. “You must be feeling better.” She clacked over to the end of his bed and pulled out a clipboard, flipping through a few pages of medical notes and nodding in approval. “You should be on your way out of here soon.” He laughed dryly in response. “I hope so. As pretty as you are, this place is getting old.” She blushed, but he couldn’t tell if she was just being polite. He considered the possibility—no, the fact—that she was flirted with constantly. “The doctor will be right with you, corporal.” She strode away on those long legs, disappearing into the white. She was soon replaced by a squat, graying doctor in an obligatory white coat. The doctor looked at the clipboard, then back at him. He waved a pen towards him. “Corporal Gavin Reynolds. Third battalion, fifth marines?” Gavin shook his head in the affirmative. “Let’s unwrap you and see how things are going on under there.” Δ The examination room retained the same motif as the rest of the hospital—white, 29
sterile, and cold. Gavin sat on a small bed covered in some weird tissue paper material. It reminded him somewhat of the old pediatrician’s office he went to as child. He imagined himself as that small, wiry, charcoal-haired kid, waggling his feet as they dangled over the bed, too short to touch the ground. The doctor was right behind. He entered the room with a certain quiet about him, as if the marine was asleep. He stared down at that clipboard one more time before placing it on the counter gingerly. “You were outside Kabul?” Gavin nodded. “My son is stationed in that province. I’ve heard it’s pretty—” he paused to make sure the door was closed. “Hellish.” “It is. What battalion’s your son in?” “Second. He’s a rifleman with a recon team in the mountains. Good kid.” “He doesn’t need to be good. Just lucky.” A silence descended upon the room, broken only by the rhythmic unwinding of the gauze wrapped around Gavin’s torso. The doctor finished with the bandages and placed the dirtied bundle into a HAZMAT container. Then, he eyed Gavin up like he was a horse at the races. “Can you stand up for me, Gavin?” Gavin complied, relishing the feeling of the open air on his skin. “How does it look?” “Turn around, please.” Gavin turned, facing the blank, white wall. He could feel the doctor’s gaze running up and down his back. “Yes. You’ve healed quite nicely, I must say.” A wave of relief washed over Gavin, who let out a heavy sigh. “So—I can get out of here now, right?” Gavin turned back around to the face the doctor. “Don’t you want to see? You’ve made marvelous progress.” Gavin nodded. “Sure, I guess.” The doctor pointed him towards a body mirror at the other end of the room. “Face that mirror, please.” Gavin stepped towards the mirror, his bare feet clapping on the cold, hard tile. The doctor produced a hand mirror and held it above Gavin’s right shoulder. Gavin saw a flood of tiny, jet-black marks stretching up and down his back. They began above his tailbone and terminated just at the nape of his neck. “The surgeons did a good job of getting it all out.” The doctor admired the scars proudly, while Gavin looked on in horror. “Th—these are permanent?” Gavin began to stutter. “You’re lucky to be alive in the first place. You’re the only member of your squad who can say the same.” Gavin’s knees suddenly felt very weak. “They’re—all dead?” “Except for you, of course. Lucky man, you are.” Gavin didn’t know what to think. All he could do was stare at those black marks creeping up his back like tiny ants. “I can put your paperwork through processing by the end of the day, if you’d like.” The doctor approached him and placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know if I’m ready to go back.” The doctor laughed lightly. “Back? The only place you’re going back to is your home, corporal.” Images of 30
Middle America flashed through Gavin’s head at a million miles-per-hour. “H-home? Gavin looked back into the mirror. Painted in the reflective glass were the faces of his friends and family. They stared at him with dark, cold, judgmental eyes. There he was, naked and scarred, standing before his loved ones. His face burned with shame as he tried to dodge their critical gazes. There was no escape. Δ “My goodness! Do you look handsome in uniform? Just like your father.” She wrapped him in a warm embrace, just barely making her hands around him. Gavin held her tightly. “Gavin—you’re going to crush me! You’re so strong.” She kissed him on the cheek lovingly, rubbing his arms. “Have you been eating? You know I get so worried when you don’t eat, Gavin.” “Let him breathe, for God’s sake.” His father’s even tone cut through the airport chatter. She let him go, and he took the chance to straighten out the creases in his ACUs. He enjoyed the security of the high collar and long sleeves. They ensured no one would see what he was hiding underneath the scratchy fabric. He turned towards the voice, a tall, lean man of fifty with hard eyes and sharp lines around his mouth. He examined Gavin with his pale blue eyes. Gavin thought he could sense a hint of paternal pride in them. “Corporal.” He showed a thin smile and stuck out a slender hand. Gavin reciprocated, just as he was taught years ago. “You look good, son.” “Thanks, dad.” Gavin smiled back and withdrew his hand. “Hey, stranger.” Gavin turned one more time towards the high-pitched, yet mature voice. A slender young girl stared at him with the same pale blue eyes he turned from, behind a frame of auburn hair. “Kelly!” He just managed to say the second syllable before she leapt with a bear hug. “You got so big.” He could hear her snicker in his ear. “You sound like Aunt Donna.” She let him go and resumed staring at him. “Mom’s right. You do look good in a uniform, Corporal Reynolds.” She raised a mock salute, and then laughed. “Glad to have you back.” Δ The kitchen was dark, save for a patch of afternoon sun pouring in through a window above the table. Gavin sat with his head in his hands. At the other end of the table, twenty miles away, was his mother’s concerned voice: “—he doesn’t like it. I knew he wouldn’t like it, George.” She rapped her fingers nervously on the tiles. “It’s not that I don’t like it, mom. It’s just—I’m not really the ceremony type.” She leaned forward and took his hands in hers. “But, honey, you deserve it! You’ve been over there for two years. The entire town is onboard, Gavin. As soon as I told them you were coming home, they all jumped at the chance to do something like this.” Gavin paused to think. He cast a cursory glance at his father, but locked eyes when he found those icy blues staring him down. “Mom, I—” “Gavin. Your mother went to a lot of trouble to set this thing up. This place needs a hometown hero to fall back on.” His father spoke in his idiosyncratic cool and even 31
tone. I’m not a hero, Gavin replied in his head. He couldn’t even stomach the thought of all those eyes bearing down on him, every ass in every seat just for him. There’s no way I can do this. I don’t deserve a hero’s welcome. He looked back at his mother’s quivering eyes, pleading. “Alright. I’ll do it.” “This is fantastic! I’ll call the PTA and order some flowers…I’ve got so many calls to make before next week…” She sat up and rushed out of the kitchen, firing off a list of errands aloud. “This is the right thing to do.” Gavin’s father intoned before following his wife out of the room. Gavin sat alone in the small kitchen, running his fingers along the creases between the tiles on the table, like he used to do years ago. He stood up and paced to the fridge, which, as always, was covered with various papers and photos, including an old Christmas card of his cousins. One of them was in college, while the other was in rehab. He wondered if those young children captured on the film had had any notion of what the future held for them. He opened the door, which was accompanied by the familiar sound of jangling glasses and containers. He searched for a drink, but paused when he heard a knock behind him. Pulling his head out of the fridge, he looked through the window behind the kitchen table. Standing in his backyard was a skinny young man wearing a tank top and thigh-highs. He knocked on the window once more, beaming like an idiot. He made a gesture with his thumb, pointing towards the front yard. Δ Arthur hadn’t changed a bit, he decided, as he looked at his old friend in the driver’s seat. “You do look dapper, I must say, Corporal Reynolds.” Arthur bowed his head politely, before pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. “Only the best for you, Arthur.” Arthur swooned and covered his heart, something that looked utterly ridiculous with a cigarette in his mouth. They made their way to the driveway and plopped down on the warm blacktop. “So. How the hell have you been? When I found out you were in the hospital—“ “I’m sorry. I scared a lot of people, but I’m fine now. Really.” “That’s good to hear, man. I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.” “Well, two years is a pretty long time.” Arthur took a particularly long drag from his cigarette, and then removed it from his mouth in a haze of thick smoke. “Fuckin’ tell me about it. This town sucks without you, man.” “What have you been doing with yourself? Are you still in school?” Arthur scoffed so hard he nearly choked on his cigarette. “Fuck no. Dropped that like a bad habit.” “Why?” Gavin was genuinely concerned. Arthur snuffed out his cigarette on the driveway and inhaled deeply. Gavin prepared for a long-winded explanation. “Well, the way I see it—what’s the point of suffering through community?” He uttered the word like it pained him to mention. “I’m really just disillusioned with the whole—I don’t know—college experience, I guess you could say. My classes are a joke. My professors are a joke. It’s thirteenth grade. What’s the point?” It was painfully 32
obvious that Arthur thought community college was far beneath him. “So, you haven’t been in school. You didn’t answer my question, then.” Arthur lit another cigarette and took a few quick puffs in succession. “The parties around here are just ill, man. It was—last Saturday, I think.” Gavin turned to Arthur, interested. “Me and Ryan—“ “Foster? You still hang out with him?” Gavin was surprised to hear that name. He hadn’t seen the kid since graduation. “Yeah. He’s not a total douche anymore. Well, not as much, I guess—anyway, we were, like, ten shots deep by the time we left Ryan’s apartment, which is right on campus, thankfully. We pretty much crawled over to this sick frat house-- Sigma Epsilon or some crazy shit like that—and got our cups, got inside, everything was going good and I was chillin’ on a handle of Smirnoff. I danced with this one chick, ran the pong table, maybe made out with the same or another chick, then…” Gavin leaned in, entertaining Arthur’s theatrical pause. “Well, I—really don’t remember past that.” “Really? You blacked out?” “I guess so, man. I woke up in some chick’s bed across campus, totally naked. I’m pretty sure we fucked. She kinda just kicked me out afterwards. Didn’t even get a name.” “That might be for the best. Was she hot?” Arthur turned away, cheeks reddening. “I—I plead the fifth.” Gavin groaned and shoved Arthur away. “You drunken bastard,” Gavin muttered. Arthur turned back sheepishly. Gavin could see the muscles in his bare arms contract and expand beneath his skin. “Want to know the worst part?” Gavin sighed. “What?” He smiled mischievously. Gavin knew that smile well. “I wanna do it all again. Tonight.”
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Forward, Always Adrien Bloom "Where are we going?" She was stumbling along behind him; the distance between them had increased subsequently over the last mile. He stopped and looked back at her, allowing her to catch up. "I need you to trust me." Her eyes looked empty and defeated, but looking into those eyes was enough to keep him going. She nodded and turned her gaze to the ground. They continued on. He slowed his pace for her. A couple of times he had held her hand, but in this heat the sweat on their palms was enough to keep them apart. He stole glances from her. He had done this to her and he was both grateful and sorry. There was no denying that he had saved her. When he found her, she had nothing left. All traces of the life she once knew was gone, lost in the ashes and the rot. They only had each other, and that was more than either of them could ask for. Δ "We're getting close," he said, trying to coat his words with a hint of joy. "We can stop for the night." The words fell flat and she carried on passed him. They veered off the dirt road and made for a rust old shack just beyond the tree line. They walked up onto the porch. There was no sign of life; no one had stayed here for quite some time. The boards sank and cried with each step. They kept their gaze away from the front door and windows. Whatever horrors that lied inside were enough to keep other travelers moving on. He took her pack for her and began to make her a small bed out of old, tattered blankets. She took a seat on an old rocker; most of it was missing but the parts that remained had decayed into an unrecognizable shape. She knew this would be the last time anyone sat in that old chair. "I'll be back soon." She nodded and he headed out into the trees. Δ He returned with an arm full of large sticks and branches. He could see her lying under the blankets, her dark eyes peering as he dropped the load down in front of her. She didn't stir as he prepared their fire, prepared their meal—just watched him. Like how one watches an artist paint strokes on canvas. He had become an artist, the way he got the fire to catch with a spark, the way he made supper from scarcities. She was lucky he found her. Δ They angled themselves to sleep beside the fire, to feel its warmth against them as they slept. The nights were cold, so bitter and so cold. The days boiled and the nights froze; nature mocked them for all their efforts to survive. They enjoyed what little comfort they could muster. The fire. It guided them through the night and drove them onward. And on cold 34
nights, as they would lay in silence, the fire would flicker and burn. Reflecting in their eyes as they thought of good things, old things, things that can never be again. Δ As the sun rose, they threw off their blankets, forgetting what little warmth it provided only hours before. The morning brought with it a new day; nevertheless, the days were short. They packed up and warmed their breakfast on the dying embers, afterwards leaving the shack behind them. Just as they had left their homes and just as they had left the sites they'd camped between. Nothing existed except forward, and so they went. They walked for hours down the old dirt road. Who knew how long it had taken, how many men had beaten the trail before this road came to be. The world spun round and everything died, but one long dirt road remained. And so they walked, never speaking, never doubting. This road and that man and that girl were all they had. Δ The sun rose high and the dark clouds passed slowly, their thick shadow lingering. But the brush was clearing and beyond the thicket was a new chapter. He didn't tell her, but he didn't know where he was going. Any progress was good progress, as long as they kept moving. "This way." He held a large branch to the side as she passed by, and they both gaped in wonder. A giant city stood as the only thing they could see. Streets were cracked and the power lines were frayed and dangling. The new modern jungles stood before them and he put his foot forward. "No!" She screamed and when he turned back to her, the face he saw was terror. "No! Cities are dangerous. We can't." She dropped to her knees and he retracted his step. He walked over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "It's okay—" She jerked away from him and hid her face in her knees. Δ He sat with her till the sun sank away behind the skyscrapers. She never spoke, just sat there rocking and wheezing. But he waited. Even when the clouds thickened and the wicked winds started to blow. He took out a blanket from his pack and he draped it over her. "Please. We have to go." Δ Their footsteps echoed off the stone walls and reverberated through the empty streets and alleys. After a few blocks the skies opened up and the rain down poured. He rushed her into a nearby building. The glass on the swinging doors was cracked, the sound of glass crunched beneath them as they pushed through. "What is this?" "It's a supermarket!" A large smile grew across his face. He walked over and unwedged a shopping cart from in between two checkout counters. She stood worriedly by the door as he raced up and down the aisles, throwing every-sized boxes and cans into 35
the cart. She made her way slowly inward, rubbing away at her upper bicep and looking rapidly around the store. He walked back to her, still smiling as he got up close. "Close your eyes,” he said. She raised an eyebrow to him. "Close your eyes and stick out your tongue." She closed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. He placed a colorful hard candy on her tongue. The sweetness engulfed her and as she opened her eyes he could see a sparkle, a small glimmer of something they hadn't seen in months. Δ They stood in the doorway with their now overstuffed packs and watched as the last drops of rain dripped from the street signs and light posts. The storm had left a thick haze that left the city in shadows. The buildings and statues were now just silhouettes in the thick fog. "Maybe we should wait." She took a step back, but he grabbed her hand before she could retreat. "We'll be fine." Δ They watched carefully as each shadow emerged and then faded slowly out of sight. With her hand in his, he could feel her trembling. He felt the terror pulsating within her, but he had to keep moving forward. Forward was the only direction available. The rusted street signs dangled loosely from the broken traffic poles. The whole of the city was silent as they passed. The whole world was silent. Δ "What was that?" She turned and stared down a small dark alley, unable to make out anything other than the sound she heard. "There's nothing, I didn't hear anything." He tugged on her arm to rouse her forwards, but she stood steadfast, watching that dark alley. "We can't stay here. Let’s go." "Shhh…" "Come on we have to—" "Listen!" He heard it. Resonating from the dark alley. "We have to go now." They took off running down the cracked blacktop, their pace didn't let up, but they could still hear it. The sound was growing louder and louder, flooding the streets. That sickly clicking howl. The combined sound of night crawlers and beasts. He pulled her along as she began to fall behind, half dragging her behind him. In that fog was uncertainty; any hope that they had gained from being here had shattered in an instant. He heard her wheezing for breath behind him, he couldn't stop, couldn't let her stop. 36
"Charlie—" She was ripped from his grip with such power that he was sent flying backwards onto the pavement. "No." He looked frantically around. Nothing. "No!" He couldn't hear it. He couldn't hear her. He was alone and silence had been returned to him. The world was still again, but he was alone. He had lied. She was supposed to be safe with him, but now she was gone. He turned himself to face the direction it had taken her. "I'm so sorry." He walked. Unrelenting, he disappeared into the fog.
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