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Table of Contents A Letter from the President - June 2012 .................................................................................. 4 Poetry Steve Burns Purple Brain Fluid I ...................................................................................................................5 Lips.............................................................................................................................................7 Corey Watson Ode-iferous............................................................................................................................... 8 Heather Fesmire Iridescent Memories ................................................................................................................ 9 Salivation ................................................................................................................................. 10 Fiction Sarah Baginsky Iron John, an excerpt ............................................................................................................... 11 K. Forni The Troubles of Being a Relatively-Attractive Female in College ........................................ 17 Casey Murphy Finding Love in the City ......................................................................................................... 19 Kirstyn Weld Amidst ..................................................................................................................................... 21
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Frank Martini Pope Saxon, 1714 – 1769 ........................................................................................................... 22 Christian Belland IED ........................................................................................................................................... 25
MASTHEAD: Editor-in-Chief – Alex Grover President, Founder – Cody J Steinhauer Intern – Olivia Errico Cover photo – Elisabeth Stonaker
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 President - June 2012 Every life is a legacy lingering on the lips of the faces we meet. Every day is a chapter in an epic poem that only you can tell, created by a cast of characters met in everyday life. Only you can determine the genre, whether you write romance, adventure, or comedy. But in the end, the story is yours. Our magazine is here to help you tell your stories. We strive for the best submissions from up-and-coming poets, authors, and patriots of the cause of literature. Artisans of all timbres. So read the lips of your fellows, and find a legacy you’d like to follow. Best, Cody J Steinhauer President and Founder, Yorick Magazine
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Purple Brain Fluid I Steve Burns a warm sweater over but not on my skin fur embraces and dematerializes fabrics pen snakes, black juxtaposed, trickle into my eyes’ almonded c r e v i c e s on elbows and knees carpet yarns unspool their bodies milkily (uncorked) into me and the ceiling and room corners vents cuffs of on-sale shirts on ships of sound read to me blues, jazz; chronicles
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of life’s feared turbined cosmos (always confided)
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Lips Shy thing. Sly, subtle, leaning of the heart — and body was nervous as hell but it was the bravest thing either of us has ever done. We ignited. Met somewhere: softly misplaced. And it all cametogether.
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Ode-iferous Corey Watson Oh passing breeze, harmonious but not sweet. Sultry and hot, fragrant of rot. Like fire, it wafts. Hot smell of meat. But I do not take credit for thee. “From the dog it did come,” so I told her. “T’wasn’t me.” That is what I swore. Her eyes then bore right on through me, and her hand, it did point to the door. “Get out, foul beast,” that, she told me. And my gas was smelled nevermore.
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Iridescent Memories Heather Fesmire Lights a glow. Silence enchants hidden spirits. Reminiscent sights galore. Childhood dreams come on wings and time drifts into snow engrossed banks. Lost in wonderland.
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Salivation Sensual juicy love engage my every sense. Tendrils of engagement every last breath taste of supple moist sweet nothings with slight and ease twisting goodness make me me. Start sliding down my mouth play with my lips be my desire exist as my abyss find my zone dig in deep hold onto my hips bring me in you can take me there to that place It's beyond desire hit or miss feel me lose my grip I’ve slipped away one last kiss make me want more matter of fact make me want you just you all of you the sight of you your scent I want it now it makes me sweat get wet so wet I’m wet.
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Iron John, an excerpt Sarah Baginsky I missed my mother. I was quietly sewing in my room, attended by my handmaidens, occasionally making idle chatter to banish away the silence, and I missed my mother. The chair to my left was empty and had been for several months. Back when she had been alive, it had been my mother’s favorite seat in all the castle. And even though it was a bit morbid to leave it undisturbed and not allow anyone to sit in it, I couldn’t bear to change it. Sometimes I still hoped that she would just walk into the room with a sunny smile and sit in it, like nothing had happened and her illness had just been a horrible dream. I knew that was childish of me, but I didn’t have the heart to remove it or sit in it myself. My sweet maids said nothing of my odd behavior and acted as if all were normal. And they didn’t tell my father which made me love them all the more. “Your embroidery is lovely, Princess Elanor,” Sophie softly said. I looked up and smiled at her. “Thank you, Sophie, I could say the same of yours but I would not be doing it justice. It is sublime.” Sophie blushed at my praise and I felt my dreary mood lighten. I bent back down to my work and critically eyed the multitude of stitches. It was of a small pond with lily pads floating on the top. I only had the left side of the pond and only two and a half lily pads and I wasn’t very happy with them. In the forest surrounding my home there was a pond covered with lilies and it was my mother’s favorite place to go whenever she wanted to think. I wanted to do the place justice but I just wasn’t capturing its essence. The shape of the water’s edge was all wrong and I wasn’t getting the colors right. If I could only just go and visit the pond, I’d be able to capture it but my father had forbidden me from going into the woods. For the past few weeks, hunters and travelers had been going missing when in the forest and my father didn’t want to risk anything happening to his only child. I sighed and gently pierced the cloth to finish the third lily pad but was interrupted by loud shouting in the courtyard. Surprised, the maids and I paused in our sewing and looked as one to the open window. I stood with a frown and walked to the window and placed my hands on the cool stone sill. “We aren’t expecting anyone, are we?” I asked my maids as I peered out the window. “Father would have surely told me if we were.” The guards on the ramparts were waving down to some unseen persons on the other side of the wall while a group of men feverishly cranked the front gate open. It seemed as if someone extremely important had come to visit us. I could hear the frown in my maid Louise’s voice as she spoke from her seat behind me, “I had not heard of any visitors, Your Grace.” “Then this is very strange indeed.” I allowed myself to lean out of the window the slightest bit to help me get a better look at the gate while not being completely improper. Slowly the gate slid up and some excited huntsmen burst into the courtyard before it had even been lifted halfway. They began to excitedly talk all at the same time so I couldn’t understand anything they saying. I gave up trying and turned my attention back to the procession of peasant men streaming through the gate and— 11
I gasped. “Your Grace?” Sophie asked anxiously, walking up to me. “What is the matter?” I simply pointed out the window and watched her expression change from confusion to fear. “Louise, Carmen,” I spoke to my other maids, “You must see this for yourselves.” Obediently, they set their sewing aside and rose. Louise was stunned into stuttering. “I-I…” “My God, what is that?” Carmen exclaimed, warding off evil with a gesture. “I do not know,” I answered, “But I intend to find out.” On my way down the stairs from my chambers, I was intercepted by one of my father’s messengers. He led me down to the courtyard to where my father was waiting, standing beside a huge metal cage. My father, King Mace of Stormvale, looked as pleased as a tomcat that caught a particularly juicy mouse. “Elanor!” he cried when he caught sight of me. “Come see what our valiant huntsmen have caught for us!” I walked as fast as decorum would allow, although my heart felt sick with dread with every step I took. I refused to look at the cage and its aberrant occupant. When I reached my father, I curtsied and greeted softly, “Good morn, father.” He ignored my pleasantries and gestured to the cage. “We have finally captured the creature that has been terrorizing our forest.” When I said nothing, he turned back to me and he saw how I studiously ignored the cage. A wicked glint came to his eye and he softly, dangerously demanded, “Look at it, Elanor.” I tried to bring my gaze up but I couldn’t bring myself to look upon it. “You will look at it, Elanor, or you will never return to that puddle you love so much.” By puddle he meant mother’s pond and I would go mad if I was stuck within the castle’s grounds forever. So I swallowed my pride and fear, nodded meekly and looked up, directly into inhuman, frigid gray eyes. I froze as the unfamiliar eyes searched my own, glaring into my soul and pinning me in place. After a timeless period, the eyes released me to assess the rest of me and I stumbled back. My father roughly caught my arm and let out a coarse laugh. “Are you frightened, Elanor?” I knew that lying would not help me for he would test me. Honesty would not help me for he would toy with me. So I stayed silent. He didn’t like that. “I asked you a question, girl,” he growled, pulling me closer to him so I could feel his breath explode on my cheek. I leaned away from him with a wince and he laughed cruelly. “So you aren’t sure whether you’re afraid of it or not? You should take a closer look, my dear,” he said as he dragged me closer to the cage. “N-no, no! Please, Your Majesty!” I pleaded, trying to plant my heels into the cobbles. “Please!” There was a growling from the creature in the cage and I closed my eyes with a whimper as I was being inexorably pushed to it. “Please, please, please, please…” I whispered. “Open your eyes, Elanor!” snapped King Mace, gripping my neck harshly and tilting it up to face the cage. I opened my eyes, looking at the being in the cage head on. It resembled a tall, muscular man but he looked as if he was made of iron and in a few places rust bloomed on his skin. Rust colored hair grew almost to his knees and was matted together in most places. His large hands were gripping the bars of the cage and I imagined those long 12
fingers wrapping around my neck and strangling me. But the creature ignored me. It was glaring at my father and King Mace didn’t even realize it because he was so intent on enjoying my discomfort. “F-Father,” I choked out, trying to warn him. “Stop.” But he didn’t listen, he just pushed me forward all the harder. “Father, please!” I cried shrilly. I was now within range of the creature’s hands. King Mace turned me around to face him and I thought that he had listened to me. “Thank you, father,” I breathed, a small faltering smile twitching into life on my lips. My father smiled and then shoved me backward. I screamed, automatically starting to twist in the air to catch myself but stopping when I realized I was flying headlong into the monster’s embrace. I closed my eyes and prayed that the gods would be merciful and grant me a swift death as the iron hands came up and… Caught me. My scream petered out as confusion struck me. I hadn’t smashed into the bars of the cage. I wasn’t being ripped to pieces. I looked down at the large hands holding my arms and then I swiveled my gaze upward and nearly fainted from fright when I saw it staring down at me. Everyone in the courtyard grew silent when they saw it carefully holding me as if I were made of the most delicate of porcelain. My father blinked in confusion before barely suppressed rage marred his features. He reached forward to grab me, no doubt to punish me for escaping a painful demise, but was stopped by the iron man. It clutched me closer so the bars pressed deeply into my back and let out a roar in my father’s face. It roared so loudly that my father, the King of Stormvale, stumbled backward so fast that he fell onto his rear. For a shocked moment King Mace’s mouth flopped open and snapped shut and his face was whiter than snow. He looked extremely comical. No one dared to laugh. I hardly dared to breathe and even though the metal bars of the cage were digging into my back and the being holding me was terrifying, I was more afraid of my father. I tried to move as close to it as the metal would allow because after the creature’s outburst, I was sure that my father wouldn’t try to approach it again. My father’s menservants hurriedly helped him up and tried to dust him off but he shoved them away. My father straightened his jerkin with dignity and eyed me with cold eyes then surveyed the hands that still held me safely from him. I shuddered as his eyes lingered on the metallic fingers wrapped around my forearms and said fingers tightened. My father finally looked away and said to one of the guards, “When the beast lets her go, lock her in her rooms and don’t let her out.” Then he walked away, hands clasped behind his back. Once my father’s shadow disappeared from the courtyard, life burst back into the people who had previously been as still as statues. They sent wary and worried glances toward me but they didn’t intervene. A handful of guards stood around the cage but they ignored me. My father hadn’t said to keep me safe from a potential monster so they didn’t bother. I stayed as still as I could so as to not provoke the giant behind me. But after a few minutes my back was beginning to ache. I cautiously pulled forward and stumbled a little 13
when the hands suddenly let go of me as if they had been burned. I caught myself and then whirled around, expecting a fist to come crashing down on me. But the iron giant was only crouching, its fingers once more curled around the bars to hold it up. It was staring at me silently, passively, its metallic face giving nothing away. I glanced back at the guards to see if they noticed that I was freed but they were chatting amongst themselves and catcalling to pretty maidens running errands. I slowly took a step closer to the cage so as to not startle it again. When it didn’t move, I chanced another step. I was just within its reach but only just. I hoped that if it grabbed at me, I would be able to throw myself out of the way fast enough. But a foolish, naïve part of me knew that it wouldn’t harm me; if it hadn’t earlier, why start now? “Can you speak?” I asked softly, trying to keep it so the guards wouldn’t hear me but loud enough so that it would. I wasn’t really expecting an answer but suddenly it nodded its head slowly and deliberately. I felt my eyes widen and my mouth gape open. “Truly?” I whispered. Another nod. I waited for a minute but it remained resolutely silent. “Will you speak?” It shook its head. “Why not?” Its eyes growing fierce, it sent a pointed look over at the guards. Intrigued, I moved closer to it. “You won’t speak because of the guards?” I whispered. Nod. “I’d order them away but they never listen to me.” The creature gave me a look that plainly conveyed that it already noticed that. I felt my face flush in embarrassment. An abnormal creature noticed my powerlessness in my own castle within a span of minutes. I was a pitiful princess to be sure. “You noticed that already, have you? Though that is hardly surprising; it isn’t that hard to miss.” The cold eyes seemed to regard me with pity, though I couldn’t be sure. Regardless, I cleared my throat softly and changed the subject. “What are you?” Its head jerked back as if I’d slapped it. I jumped back in fright but then felt silly when it just gave me an affronted glare. I took a few small steps forward, my cheeks burning hotter than the noonday sun in the summer. “I-I’m sorry if I offended you, that was tactless of me. It’s just… I’ve never seen nor heard of anything like you and I’m extremely curious. I know that doesn’t excuse my rudeness, but I hope you’ll forgive me.” I found it a little odd that I was apologizing to a caged beast but I dismissed that feeling. It moved back to the bars, fingers slowly wrapping around the matching metal and my eyes were caught by the motion. How could metal be so seamless yet supple? Its skin looked like iron yet acted like flesh. I wondered what it felt like; metal, skin or something in between? When it had caught me, my sleeves had separated its skin from mine so I hadn’t— I abruptly realized that I had been intently staring at its hands. We made eye contact and my already deep blush deepened. “Oh, s-sorry. I… I just—” I decided that silence would be the best tactic as the gray eyes laughed into mine. 14
I looked away to gather my wits and compose myself before asking, “I don’t want to offend you again, so please bear with my coarseness for there is no tactful way of asking this.” It waved a hand for me to continue, its eyes still laughing at me. “Are you…” Oh, this was awkward. It minutely tilted its head at me in question. I sighed and asked quickly, “Are you a man?” It looked stunned at the question and I quickly rushed in, “What I mean is, you look masculine. But I meant are you a human? And male? You look like one albeit with metal skin and I just don’t know—” It held up a hand to stop me. Looking deep into my eyes, it nodded twice. Just to be sure, I asked, “Yes, you are a male human?” Again, the double nod. “Oh. That is—” Suddenly a hand grabbed my wrist and spun me around. The creature growled threateningly but the guard holding me ignored it. “Unhand me,” I ordered, but my voice quavered. My father’s guards always frightened me, though I could never place why. The guard just began to pull me away from the cage, saying over his shoulder, “The King’s orders were to lock you in your room when that fiend freed you.” “I can walk on my own,” I argued and the guard let go of my wrist but continued to march without looking behind to see if I was following. If I didn’t we both knew that I would be punished for his carelessness. So I trailed miserably behind him but before I stepped through the door, I looked behind me at the cage. Gray eyes were staring after me with worry and I put on a brave smile. Its face darkened and I suddenly realized that it wasn’t an it. It was a he. Δ By locking me in my rooms my father meant that I was to be shut away until he could bear to deal with me again. Which meant; no visitors and no food. Which was fine by me, I wasn’t hungry and I wanted time alone anyway. I wanted to mull over my conversation with the cre—the man in the cage. He said—well, nodded that he was a human. If he was a human with a strange affliction we shouldn’t be locking him in a cage, we should be out actively searching for a cure. When my father was in a better mood, I would approach him with what I had learned. For now, I would try to occupy myself. I picked up my sewing before setting it down without doing a single stitch. I leafed through a prayer-book without actually reading anything, just hoping that something would catch my eye. Nothing did. I braided my hair over and over and over until I could plait it with my eyes closed. I pulled out all my clothes and rearranged them in my wardrobe. I straightened up the rest of my chamber before glancing toward my window and feeling dismayed when I saw that it was still bright out. When would my father lift this punishment? I collapsed on my newly-made bed, rumpling the blankets. After minutes of blank staring at the emerald-colored canopy I felt my eyes begin to close and soon I was asleep. Δ When I opened my eyes again, it was dark in my room and I was confused. I sat up and tried opening my door. I frowned when it wouldn’t open and I tried pulling harder but it refused to budge. And then I remembered. I backed quickly away from the door, 15
hoping no one had heard me trying to get out. If they reported it to my father he would make me suffer even longer for insubordination. I sat back on my bed and was startled when my stomach began to gurgle angrily. I pressed my hand to it as if my touch would quell its heated protestations. I wanted to distract myself but the candles hadn’t been lit and I knew without checking that my father had ordered the matches to be taken out of my room. No visitors, no food, no candlelight. I turned my face to my open window, watching the silvery moonlight stream in. I stood and leaned against the sill, looking down to the man in the cage. He was leaning against the farthest metal corner, his head bent down in sleep. I propped my chin on my hand watched him. With the light of the moon bathing everything in the courtyard with a metallic light, he looked like an ordinary human. As if that thought had been spoken aloud, the man’s head jerked up and his glinting eyes immediately found mine. Leaping backward into my room, I pressed my hand instead over my heart to soothe its wild racing.
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The Troubles of Being a Relatively-Attractive Female in College K. Forni In college, you only need to be relatively attractive to get hit on. When I say relatively, I mean, you just can’t have a second nose growing on your neck or a tail hanging out of your pants—actually, scratch that—you can even have a tail hanging out of your pants. In college, anything goes: mustaches, unibrows, even velociraptor finger nails. As so long as you are a female, you will have no trouble getting hit on. In my travels at my college I cannot go out one weekend without attracting some type of attention. It is absolutely hilarious too how these “men” choose to hit on you. Besides for the fact that they wait for you to be slightly intoxicated they spy on their prey in some dingy basement that smells like a mix between alcohol, vomit, mold, and cigarette smoke. Oh, I’m sorry, I guess you won’t be taking me out to dinner first? I recall one time as a freshman in college a wannabe Jersey Shore reject had hit on me. Let me describe to you what I looked like, just so you get the idea that every girl gets hit on. I had a pair of bold red pants with cheetah print that were skin tight on, a loose fitting black t-shirt and rust colored sweater boots that when mid shin. My hair was a humid mess and my makeup was running. The basement could be compared to a cave because of how wet it was in there. So the Jersey Shore reject sees me talking to my friend. Oh wait—was this friend hitting on me too? If you guessed yes… you are correct. He comes up to me midconversation and takes my hand. At this point he has already started dancing. “So I thought this was a dance party…I don’t see many people dancing…Want to make it one?” asked the Jersey Shore reject as he proceeded to spin me around and start dancing with his junk all up on me. Good thing I have no shame and walked away after all of two seconds of dancing. Although the free Natty Light was nice, I then decided I really hated parties. Sometimes I make it into a game of how many people I can get to hit on me in one night and I rate their methods. Between “men” straight asking me “Yo you wanna hook up,” then the others just trying to slip me their tongue while we are having a conversation. It never gets old. My wingwoman—as I would describe her—loves it too. She sends me in as her bait and I provide the entertainment for the two of us for the night. Sometimes I dance with these “men,” and sometimes I chat with them. Often I do small things that would seem like flirting to the desperate male, but are actually just normal things to the average male friend. “Men” often confuse friendliness with flirtiness. On my breaks between dancing with these guys and leading them on, I love, absolutely love to watch it happening to other people. There are the awkward “men” trying to hit on girls when it’s clearly not working, and there are the intoxicated people and the stupid things that they do. It is amazing how many hilarious pairs team up and start making out. You can’t make this stuff up. In the beginning of college, I should have started collecting photos of awkward drunk kids hooking up and then published them in a book upon graduating. It would have made millions and the book would have over 500 full color photographs. 17
I swear, it would only lead to me getting hit on more in all the wrong ways.
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Finding Love in the City Casey Murphy Siigard sat on a stool that rocked dangerously under his weight in front of the bar in a rundown diner. His upper two teal hands held his head, while the lower two drummed lightly on the bar counter. As a wet rag was dragged across the counter in front of him, Siigard frowned and his reflection frowned back. “Yo Siggy, what’s up my alien friend?” the diner owner, Chuck, greeted him in his thick New Yorker accent. Siigard grumbled in reply. Chuck stopped wiping the counter and looked closely at the alien. “What’s wrong, Sig? I haven’t seen you this down since the Yankees lost the World Series.” Siigard continued to stare blankly at Chuck. Humans, he thought as Chuck’s smile didn’t fade, they never understand. Without a word, Siigard pushed himself up from the stool, which tumbled backward and clattered against the floor, and headed toward the door. “I’ll catch ya later, Sig!” Chuck called after him, his arm raised in a goodbye gesture, as the little bell on the front door jingled. The ground was covered with sleet and slush. Siigard stood outside the diner door, staring at the passing cars. He could try to hail a cab, but it was rare when any stopped for him. Even if they did, Siigard didn’t have money to pay for one. He shoved his upper hands in his jacket pockets, his lower hands in his pants pockets, turned right, and started walking. Although the city was at its noisiest with all the working men and women leaving the office, rushing home to their families and pets, Siigard barely noticed the din of honking horns and people shouting obscenities. Instead, he kept his head down, focusing on his shoes, feeling more disconnected from the world as ever. Nearly three blocks from the diner, Siigard looked up for the first time as he waited at a cross walk. The orange hand shone bright against the darkening sky. He felt like it was mocking him, as if it was saying, ‘Stop. What are you doing? You aren’t like them.’ He closed his eyes, but the orange hand remained. “Hey, mom, look at that guy!” a little boy shouted. “He looks weird!” Siigard closed his eyes tighter, wishing he could plug up the holes in his head without making it obvious. He could feel the boy’s outstretched hand, the finger pointing, mouth agape, eyes wide. There might’ve been a faint smile on his lips as he giggled at the sight of the alien walking down the street in front of him. “Billy, don’t point! It’s rude.” the boy’s mother said. Siigard’s eyes opened. It was the first time he ever heard someone scold their child at his expense. He glanced over his shoulder at the boy and his mother. The boy looked exactly as he pictured him. The mother was looking down at her son, her lips pressed into a tight frown. Her eyes rotated from her son to Siigard. He tried to smile, worked the muscles and forced them to move. Then her eyes grew wide. She obviously hadn’t noticed him before.
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“Come on, Billy.” And the mother dragged her son across the street, even though the hand was still telling them no. The smile fell from Siigard’s face. Afraid he would catch up with them if he continued the way he was going, he turned the corner instead. The street was empty. Anyone who lived down here was probably already shut in their homes, trying to take the winter chill off with coffee and blankets. Siigard shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. He didn’t know how long he had been walking, but by time he stopped the sky was pitch black and no street lights were lit on the block, making the night seem darker. Siigard looked up at the sky and caught glimpses of stars. Home. Where was home? It was a question he constantly asked himself. Earth was definitely not home. He hadn’t been on his planet in 15 years, and with its constant motion and fast speed Siigard doubted he would ever catch up with it. It was a foolish, young alien dream to leave his planet, Lichtgeschwindigkeit, in the first place. It was a very desolate place, with very little game, and he was determined to find another planet for his race to land on. He had heard of Earth, but never thought it really existed until he accidentally fell into its gravitational pull. Half his ship burned up in the Earth’s atmosphere before the rest was destroyed by the rocky surface. By the time he reached New York, Siigard had come to the conclusion that, unless his planet could launch a surprise attack, they had no chance in undertaking the small, but strong, planet. “Can I help you with something, honey?” The voice was a little too sugary sweet and sounded forced. It belonged to a woman dressed in tight, thin clothing. Make-up decorated her face, but it couldn’t hide the rotting teeth that showed when she smiled. She stepped up to Siigard, and although she tried hard to hide her fear he could see it in her eyes. “You look rather lonely out here all by yourself. You want some company?” Siigard paused before nodding. The woman’s smile grew. “Great.” She held out a thin hand, which Siigard took in one of his lower ones. He had encountered prostitutes before and they never ceased to amaze him. How could any woman walk up to a stranger and offer him company? Not only was Siigard lonely, but he was hungry as well. An over-trusting prostitute was exactly what he needed and the darkened street gave him an advantage. As they headed down an alley, she never saw the shadow of his tentacles as they sprouted from underneath his clothes.
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Amidst Kirstyn Weld The first day of spring is dark and rainy. It makes sense when you live here. The sun never seems to be able to truly break free of the clouds that hang in the sky, selfishly never moving. They just become bigger, eating up everything around them. The sun seems to be in a constant fight with them, every so often it will break through, but the clouds always manage to push it back. They’re the bully you were always so afraid of in school; just when you think they’ve forgotten they pop back up, proving their dominance. I dress accordingly for though the clouds are out, I never let that fool me. Everyday, no matter the season, it is dreadfully hot. You could cut the air with a knife here the humidity makes it so thick. With my shorts and plainly colored t-shirt sticking to me as soon as I step out of my door, I head to the path. It is time to head into the center square. The day is beginning once again. I make it there on time, lucky for my skin, literally. In five minutes time, the whippings will start. Everyone gets a watch implanted into their skin when they turn ten. You get a decade of freedom. The same thing happens every day except for Tuesday. That is our day of rest. The week starts on Wednesday. The screaming starts at twelve oh one. At least we don’t have to get up as early as they did in the histories. Nobody has cars. Nobody has bikes. It is rumored people used those in the histories. They used to kill people. That’s why they took them away—because beating people until they’re half an inch from death isn’t the same. We all walk and our feet are callused so that they can fight against the earth. According to the histories, the earth seems much cleaner today. This is mostly becuase they have control over everything. They have cameras everywhere; there is no such thing as privacy. That is a myth that has turned into a running joke these days. If you can find a place where they won’t catch you to say such things. We are all in place except for the ones bleeding in the tent. If they know what’s good for them they won’t scream. They’ll move their hands up to their mouth if they can and make sure no sound escapes. It is beginning.
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Pope Saxon, 1714 – 1769 Frank Martini Saxon Reid watched from his window, gazing out into the gloomy grey that enveloped the surrounding buildings. It had been raining for almost a week and the heavy skies were finally beginning to show signs of clearing. He could still see the roads below, dampened from the drizzle of the night before, or perhaps from the tears of the masses who gathered to mourn for the loss of their beloved Pope. Yes, it had to be the tears. The swords were lowered. The death knell sung to him, distant bells, echoing, a reminder of their beloved’s passing. Reid licked his lips, collecting the small, salty beads of sweat on his tongue. He closed his eyes, resting his large forehead against the glass, smiling to himself as he ran his fingers along the windowsill. Spurts of rain pattered the glass, blurring his vision of the mourning public below. “We did it, Fat Rack. We won.” The light taps of rain against the window grew louder, calling Reid’s attention back to the crowded streets. Hot breath began to gather on the glass as he watched, his bulbous eyes pacing, scanning the crowd. With a loud creak, he struggled to lift the window open to get a better view of the ceremony taking place below. Through the multitude of black umbrellas emerging from the crowd, Reid could make out the scarlet cassock of Pillus as he performed the last public funeral rite. Reid felt eyes on his back from across the room. He thought he heard a mumbled voice, but he didn’t care to make out the words. He breathed in deeply, his nostrils expanding to fill with the sweet scent of the Vatican rain. His own cassock was getting wet, the scarlet fabric turning to a dark, dampened wine. A vein bulged in his forehead. “This is it, Fat Rack.” He wheezed, coughing up a pile of yellow phlegm and spat it out over the crowd. His mucus landed among the sea of umbrellas, disguising itself among the falling rain. Thick, sticky phlegm dripped from one of the black umbrellas below, as a salty combination of rain and sweat slowly trickled from Reid’s black matted hair above. “The last day of the Novendials is finally over. The rest of the cardinals will soon gather to vote. We must prepare.” A sobbing howl escaped from the corner of the room. Reid swayed his massive figure, neck bones creaking as he turned his gaze from the window to see Fat Rack huddled in the corner of the room. Light from the fire flickered across his pale skin, which hung off his frail skeleton. Reid lumbered to the center of the room, standing between his fellow cardinal and the fire, casting a cold shadow over him that stretched out beyond the entire wall. His gaze shifted downward to the man on the floor, eyebrows narrowing as Fat Rack let out a melody of feeble sobs, his entire body shaking and shivering under his cold stare. Reid’s eyebrows lifted, making room for his bulging eyes to stretch his eyelids, taking in the full sight of the shaking mess on the ground. “You know what to do.” Reid wandered through Sistine Chapel, his footsteps echoing throughout the empty halls. His eyes scanned the floor, his hand spaced over his forehead, yet he could not help but steal a glance at the magnificent ceiling. Hundreds of figures, eyes black beads, always watching, arms outstretched, as if ready to grab him by his cassock, pull 22
him in, and strangle him. He shivered, eyes returning to the ground, until at last he reached the door of the meeting hall. He turned the golden knob and pushed open the door, sending a startling creak echoing throughout the silent halls. Reid was the last of the College of Cardinals to enter. He paced himself, walking slowly to the long wooden table, feeling each of their eyes glaze over his thick body. He joined the other cardinals in their nest, taking his place in the empty chair next to Fat Rack. Pillus cleared his throat. Reid chewed on the insides of his cheeks, scowling. The papal conclave was about to begin. He glanced at Fat Rack out of the corner of his eyes. Fat Rack sat with his head down, looking at the grooves of the wooden table, running his fingernail through the thin lines. Reid’s eyes returned to Pillus. The Carmelengro. Temporary head of the church. Temporary. Pillus spoke first. “We, the Cardinals of Holy Roman Church, of the Order of Bishops, of Priests and of Deacons, promise, pledge and swear, as a body and individually, to observe exactly and faithfully all the norms contained in the Apostolic Constitution Universi Dominici Gregis of the Supreme Pontiff…” Reid’s eyes darted around the room, watching the other cardinals, their eyes glued to Pillus as he went on and on, reciting the oath of secrecy. How they sat with their open mouths, eager to digest each holy word uttered from his lips. With such gentleness and authority he spoke. They strained their ears to hear his soft sound, those disgusting rasps that incessantly scratched and tore at Reid’s eardrums. Reid shifted in his seat. “…or those which, by their very nature, during the vacancy of the Apostolic See, call for the same secrecy.” At last! The reciting of the oath was over. Reid glanced over to Fat Rack. Pillus raised the Communion wine. Each cardinal followed in unison, raising their golden chalices. Pillus brought the chalice to his lips. The other cardinals began to drink. Reid gulped his wine, his thirsty eyes passing between his chalice over to Fat Rack, trying to make contact. Fat Rack slowly sipped his wine, the bitter drink almost visible as it trickled down his emaciated throat. Reid grunted, his thick neck laboring to turn his heavy head, shifting his view toward the beloved Pillus. The Carmelengro set his chalice down, running his fingers through his thin grey hair. He cleared his throat and the rasps returned, worse than before. “We, the Cardinal electors present in this election of the Supreme Pontiff promise, pledge and swear, as individuals and as a group, to observe faithfully and scrupulously the prescriptions contained in the Apostolic Constitution of the Supreme Pontiff…” Reid wanted to cover his ears. The voting was about to take place! Fat Rack. Reid looked back, trying to meet eyes with the frail man. No luck. His pores opened, small beads of sweat began dripping down his soft face. He hesitated, and then stepped on Fat Rack’s foot, hard. Fat Rack let out a senseless squall. Reid gave him a nudge, but Fat Rack sat staring forward, seemingly lost, deeper and deeper with each circle that hung under his eyes. The other cardinals paid no attention, for they too were lost in Pillus’ holy words. On and on he went. “…the munus Petrinum of Pastor of the Universal Church and will not fail to affirm and defend strenuously the spiritual and temporal rights and the liberty…” Reid wanted to scream. The rasps were growing louder, more high-pitched. He felt a bubbling sensation arise from deep within his stomach; an amazing pressure 23
building up from within. Opening his mouth, he let out what he thought would be a burp, only to be surprised by a red stream of wine that poured from his mouth, dribbling down his chin, staining his cassock. He glared at Fat Rack, who sat staring forward, inhaling the foul smell of the wine. The other cardinals turned their heads, gasping as the holy blood dripped from Reid’s mouth. Reid grabbed Fat Rack’s shoulders and shook him hard, his weak head shaking back and forth as if ready to snap from his neck. Reid’s hands found their way to his throat. He squeezed Fat Rack’s tiny neck as hard as he could; Reid’s bulbous eyes were bloodshot and ready to pop, but not before Fat Rack’s head. The cardinals screamed. Chairs screeched against the floor. The cardinal next to Reid struggled to pull his arms from Fat Rack’s neck. Reid let go, pushing the troublesome cardinal back into his nest. Fat Rack fell to the floor. Pillus jumped up from his seat, shouting from the head of the table. Reid let out an agonizing scream. He smashed his head repeatedly against the wooden table. The cardinals stood still, eyes wide. With each time he brought his head to the table, a macabre mixture of blood, tears, and drool leaked from his face, splattering the nearby cardinals. Pillus scrambled over to him, struggling to pull Reid away from the table. Those awful rasps, high-pitched now. Reid wailed, pushing the blessed Pillus to the ground. He drove his fingers deep into his ears, digging frantically through the yellow wax, trying to cut out his eardrums. Pillus yelled from the floor, shouting, screaming, gripping and pulling at Reid’s cassock. He kicked Pillus away. The high-pitched rasps encompassed all of his senses. Pillus pulled himself to his feet, yanking Reid’s arms from his bleeding ears. Sound waves emitted like leeches swimming through his body, piercing through his head. Reid was dizzy. All was silent but the sounds of screeching static frequency. He fell to the floor, collapsed before Pillus’ feet. Reid forced his head away; his thick gurgling neck now a passageway for trails of blood and foam that leaked from his stomach to the floor. As he opened his eyes, he was met by the stare of another man, and a pair of dark, swollen eyes. Fat Rack’s smile was the last thing he saw.
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IED Christian Belland Part II His room seemed smaller than he remembered. Gavin stood in front of his tiny closet, peering into the miniscule space filled with his old clothes. He felt the ceiling slowly start to press down on him. A few more inches, and he were sure he’d start to brush his crew cut against it. He inserted a hand into the closet, leafing through the myriad of faded band tshirts, wrinkled sweaters and old jerseys from his youth basketball league. He spotted a plaid button-down and paused. The shirt was slightly faded, but it had long sleeves and a high collar. Gavin ripped it off the hanger and paced over to his mirror with purpose. He tried to stop himself from recoiling as he looked at his reflection, but those dark, ugly things crawling up his back captivated him. His eyes were transfixed on the macabre breadcrumb trail, tracing every line, every twisting tendril of inky black scar tissue. He followed the grisly tattoo all the way down his back, and suddenly felt very angry. He was surprised at how easily the mirror shattered as his fist passed through it. The pane of reflective glass fell into a million fragments of refracted sunbeams, showering his bare feet like a summer rain. Gavin withdrew his arm from the empty frame as he began to bleed on the floor. “Gavin?” Startled, Gavin turned to the door. Kelly stood in the hall, staring at him. “I—I heard glass shattering.” She took a tentative step into the room, still slightly perturbed. “Is—” He realized he was naked, his shame out in the open for her to see. A rush of embarrassment flooded over his uncovered body. He felt helpless, like the young boy who used to reside in the room years ago. “Get out,” he yelled, louder than he meant to. “Those scars—“ Gavin took an aggressive step towards her. “Get the fuck out of my room, Kelly!” Fear filled her wide, blue eyes in a way he’d never seen before. Wordlessly, she ran into the hallway and slammed the door behind her. Gavin turned and leaned his back against the door with a heavy sigh. His bloody hand started to throb with pain as the adrenaline subsided. He lifted it up and gazed at the crimson glove, rotating it so the tiny glass knives glinted in the light. The blood began to pool at his feet. Somewhere in the far reaches of his mind he noted that his mother would likely kill him for staining the carpet. Δ “No, I like it—really. It’s a nice shirt, but--” Arthur took the burning cigarette from his mouth and proceeded to use it as a pointing stick. He ran it up and down the fabric, admiring the pattern. “—Its hot as hell out, man. I haven’t worn anything with
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sleeves since, like, March. Hey, uh—what happened to your hand?” He motioned to Gavin’s bandaged hand. “I fell.” Arthur raised an eyebrow quizzically, then spun around and headed for the bathroom. As Arthur turned, Gavin noticed a dark hickey at the base of his neck he hadn’t noticed earlier. “Beer’s in the fridge. Help yourself.” Arthur tried to sound coherent through a mouthful of toothpaste. Gavin opened the off-white refrigerator door. His eyes wandered over its contents—expired milk, a few Chinese take-out boxes, and, of course, an army of PBR standing at attention. “Do you just drink beer all day? There’s no food in your fridge.” Arthur laughed in the bathroom behind him. “You say that like it’s a bad thing!” “Just an observation.” Arthur raised an arm and rolled on some deodorant from a red shell. “Great. Now, observe me flipping you off.” With his free hand, he stuck out a bony middle finger in Gavin’s direction. Then, he pulled his shirt back down and meandered over to the kitchen once more. He swiped a beer out of the fridge and attacked it with ferocious gulps. Gavin observed the way his pharynx expanded and contracted beneath his bare skin, tracing the motion from his neck down past his collarbone thanks to the plunging neckline of his tank top. Arthur lowered the beer, empty. “This party is gonna kick ass. Oh—guess who’s gonna be there?” Gavin shrugged. “Who?” Arthur tossed the empty beer can at him playfully. “Come on, guess!” Gavin let himself smile. “I have no clue.” Arthur rolled his eyes. “You’re no fun. The military turned you into a goddamned robot.” “Just tell me, bitch.” A gigantic, stupid grin spread across Arthur’s face. “Mary McDermott.” Gavin was genuinely surprised. “Really? No way. Why the hell is she back here?” “I don’t know. Heard she’s living with her parents for a little before heading off to grad school.” “Shit, has it really been that long?” Gavin could still remember when they went to the same pre-school and kicked sand at each other at recess. “It’s been a long time since high school, man. At least she has something to show for it.” Arthur grabbed a plastic bottle of vodka from the freezer. “Shots?” Gavin wasn’t listening. He was too busy remembering Mary McDermott, the way her hips shook when she walked down the hallway, the way her golden hair bounced with each step, the way her fierce green eyes shimmered behind dark aviators. He wondered if she missed him. His stomach turned as he remembered his reflection in the hospital mirror. Doubtful. Δ The house was some dirty rancher on the far end of town. It was a squat, brownish thing with a small raised porch and a detached garage across the cracked driveway. The 26
grass was long gone, thawed from the winter only to bake in the summer. Patches of sickly yellow patterned the lawn like jaundice. The revelry was well underway by the time Arthur and Gavin arrived in his beat-up old Civic. Arthur parked in front of the house, squeezing in between a dented red Taurus and some patchwork Saturn with an off-color quarter panel. Gavin threw open his door and stepped out onto the dead grass. “Where the hell are we?” Arthur slammed his door and locked the car. “This is Ryan’s house.” They headed for the front door. “Where are his parents?” “Fuck if I know. His mom got re-married and moved out, so he just kind of hangs around. She blows in every few weeks, leaves money for groceries and utilities.” Gavin looked over the house with jealousy. As they got closer to the front door, the thump thump of dance music began to kick him in the chest. He could see flickering strobes and LEDs pouring out of the windows into the night air. Sounds of debauchery were locked in a shouting match with the electronic drumbeats. A stout, barrel-chested young man who almost looked imposing under the harsh light of the porch floods stopped them. He had a stack of red cups cradled in his arms in an oddly maternal fashion. “Five bucks for a cup,” he stated, brusquely. “I’m not paying you shit, Robby.” Arthur stared him down, and then broke out in laughter. “Give me a goddamn cup.” Robby handed him a cup, smiling. “Should’ve recognized those ridiculous pastel thigh-highs from a mile away,” Robby said. Arthur curtsied gracefully. “Just showing off my best asset. Trying to get laid tonight, after all.” Robby grinned. “As usual.” He turned to Gavin and eyed him up suspiciously. “This is Gavin. Used to go to school around here a while back.” Robby nodded, but still looked tense. “Yeah? When did you graduate?” “Oh-eight.” Gavin looked over his face, trying to recall any of his features. Robby’s face lit up. “You’re—uh, Reynolds, right?” Gavin suppressed his surprise. “Yeah. Do I know you?” “Probably not. You just got back from Afghanistan, right?” Gavin sighed. “Yeah.” Robby smiled and stuck out a hand. “Wow. You’re a real hero, man. Enjoy yourself tonight.” Δ He watched the way they danced. They were rocking back and forth, drinks in hand, careless and free. The hot air was thick with the stench of alcohol, sweat, and marijuana, but that didn’t stop them. They were crowded into a single knot of daring mini-dresses and wife beaters. Fluorescent body paint glowed in the blacklight, twisting and contorting with each step. 27
Gavin took another swig of the beer in his hand, desperate for a buzz. He glanced to his right and spied Arthur wrapped around a petite redhead, groping drunkenly as their lips pressed together. One hand was on her back while the other was sneaking up her skirt, revealing long, slender legs. She ran her nails down his back in ecstasy, leaving long red streaks in his skin. Gavin wondered if Arthur would have anything from the encounter in the morning besides a few scratch marks and another hickey. If he was lucky, maybe they’d even exchange names. They were giving themselves wholly to each other, between impassioned kisses and heavy breaths. At that moment, they were two human beings with nothing to be ashamed of—or, at least, no inclination to feel it. He muttered a silent intercession on Arthur’s behalf before walking back into the kitchen where empty bottles of vodka, whiskey, and other pernicious concoctions lined the sticky counters. Gavin stepped over a skinny young man lying on the cheap linoleum floor, crying, as he made his way towards the keg. He passed a rather intense game of flip cup that nearly ended in a fistfight, which he gave a wide berth. One of the players, clad in a lacrosse pinnie, thrust a cup of jungle juice at him, spilling some of the contents on Gavin’s sleeve. “Take some of this, man. It’ll fuck you up.” Gavin shook his head, as politely as he could. “No, thanks. Gonna stick with beer.” “Fuck you, then!” The flip cup champion returned to his game. He began to fill his cup when he reached the keg. He shook his head and blinked a few times to clear his eyes. His buzz was finally evolving into something a little more manageable. He hoped the next beer would reach the far corners of his mind, where the stern rationality his father implanted in him liked to hide. He wanted to forget. Just for one night, at least. He cast a sidelong glance down the hall, growing impatient as he pumped the tap a few more times. Then, he saw Mary McDermott for the first time in four years. She was still beautiful. The way she moved like water through the crowded hallway was more intoxicating than the entire keg at Gavin’s feet. He dropped the hose onto the dirty floor as he watched, enthralled, at the way she carried herself with a tantalizing mixture of confidence and sensuality. She held her head up high, shoulders back, chest out—she walked just like he remembered. Gavin’s eyes followed her as she stopped in front of a shorter guy with sweaty, matted hair and an un-buttoned shirt hanging from his shoulders. They began to speak as he assumed an aggressive posture. She threw her hands down in what looked like frustration. He raised an arm to fix his crucifix necklace. Gavin could’ve sworn he saw her flinch. It was a very slight reaction, barely a fraction of a movement, but it was there. It was probably just the alcohol messing with his head. Just as he was wondering what Mary was doing with such a punk, the quarrelsome pair hugged. Her cool features shifted to surprise as she made eye contact with Gavin over the sweaty guy’s shoulder. She just looked at him for a few seconds before she realized who he was. He wanted to yell out to her, scream her name at the top of his lungs, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Seeing her with that schmuck sent his heart to his feet. 28
His eyes soon followed. He told himself it was ridiculous to think she’d be single after all these years. Someone like him didn’t deserve someone like her. It was that simple. In some sort of drunken, jealous, angry haze, he made his way back over to the kitchen table. The occupants were locked in another intense game when he reached them. He tapped lacrosse pinnie on the shoulder brusquely. The entire table stopped playing to stare at him, but he didn’t care. “Hey. Give me something to drink.” Lacrosse pinnie, the tan little runt, gazed at him with glassy eyes. “Sure thing, boss.” Lacrosse pinnie picked up one of the half-full cups on the table and handed it to him. “Enjoy.” Gavin nodded and took a hearty swig. It burned, but he finished the cup and tossed the empty vessel aside as he lowered it from his lips. “Feels good.” A thin smile spread over Lacrosse pinnie’s lips. “Just wait, man. That wasn’t just alcohol.” Before Gavin could process what the kid meant, the world was already spinning. The ceiling became a merry-go-round and Gavin stumbled backwards, arms flailing in an attempt to right himself. He hit the counter and knocked a few crushed beer cans onto the floor. The house was spinning up and down at the same time. His hand slipped off the counter and he fell forward, into darkness. Δ “It’s so goddamn hot out here, sergeant.” “It’s still morning. Just wait ‘til noon.” “Why the hell are we even out here? This sector’s been quiet for weeks.” “I’m not going to answer that.” “Years of training are really being put to good use. This dusty old road doesn’t stand a chance against killing machines like us.” They walked in silence down the road—barely a road, more or less a raised bunker of orange dirt. The only sound that accompanied the lonely wind was the rhythmic clink of their equipment, rifles against thighs, canteens against hips. A few yards up, the burned out chassis of some cheap European car sat, overturned, like a charred skeleton. “Hold on. I saw something moving in that wreckage.” The sergeant halted, held up a hand. “Reynolds. Check it out.” Gavin rushed over to the mechanical corpse, his sharp eyes dancing over every detail, scanning for threats. A slight movement caught his attention, underneath a blackened piece of steel. A weak moan managed to escape the metallic prison. “There’s someone in here. Gimme a hand!” The three others rushed over and placed gloved hands on the wreck. With some effort, the four of them rocked the scrap over onto its side. The sergeant knelt down and began to dig through the ribbons of sheet metal. Underneath, a fleshy, mangled body lay on the ground. The surrounding sand was caked with dark, dried blood. A few feet of his long intestine were strewn about haphazardly. The wounded man’s eyes grew wide as the sunlight spilled over his face. A harsh northern dialect of Pashto began to stream out of his mouth, punctuated by fits of bloody coughs. The sergeant cursed under his breath. “Anyone here speak ‘haji?” The others 29
replied with varied forms of the negative and began to dig the wounded man from the carnage. Gavin saw it first. A mess of wires ran from the native’s legs all the way up to his chest, where they terminated into unmistakable bars of Composition-Four. He didn’t have time to let himself think. He didn’t even have time to warn the others. The animal instincts, buried deep in his mind, told him to run. And, he ran. He ran as fast as he could.
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