Chaos and Order

PHOTOGRAPHYMorgan Williams

ILLUSTRATIONNate Chandler

MS.

By Josi

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Every day of Ms. Maxine Mayberry’s life is very much like the one

before it, and the one after, and the one after that, with

the exception of Saturdays, whereon Ms. Maxine uniformly

partakes exactly every other week in buying a loaf of bread and feeding it to the ducks at the park down the street. Today is not a Saturday, however. Today is a wednesday. She wakes up, showers, and the water pressure is low and the heat could be higher, but Ms. Maxine has stopped noticing. She towel dries her long brown hair, artfully applies her makeup in the pristine mirror, and tries very hard not to count her crow’s-feet. She puts on her clothes, laid out the previous night on the ever-empty right side of the bed. She fixes herself a cup of coffee with a tablespoon sugar and two and a half tablespoons of half-and-half and a piece of toast with strawberry jam and then she’s out the door.

Ms. Maxine counts her steps on her way to

the bank where she works. She’s always done it, and

it’s nearly always between 2,034 and 2,050, depending

on how she’s feeling. Today

her voyage to the bank is completed in 2,039

steps. She’s content with this total. It makes her

feel normal. She’s greeted from behind the counter by

Brian, a friendly clerk who’s taken a half-hearted liking

to Ms. Maxine. He thinks she’s relatively attractive,

despite her crooked nose and slightly protruding top teeth and frankly, she’s the best he’s ever likely to get. Ms. Maxine is aware of Brian’s affections and sometimes even receptive to them. She doesn’t want a relationship with the man, however, so occasionally Ms. Maxine makes a point to be somewhat rude to Brian at times. But today is Wednesday, and Ms. Maxine always tries to be pleasant on Wednesdays so that by the time the weekend rolls around and Brian actually occasionally works up the nerve to ask her on a date, she doesn’t feel so bad about deflecting his advances. She says hello to Brian and takes her place behind the counter.

Her boss, Mr. Paulson walks in from the back.

Mr. Paulson is physically much bigger than his

personality. His voice is slow and loud, and

Ms.Maxine’s always

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Customers come in and out, some vibrant, others half-dead with fatigue. Ms. Maxine is almost so caught up in the rhythm of her work that others half-dead with fatigue. Ms. Maxine is almost so caught up in the rhythm of her work that she doesn’t notice when two customers enter wearing ski masks. When they do catch her eye, she grows rigid in her chair.

Brian, she whispers. Brian follows her gaze curiously

before stiffening. Neither of them have ever experienced a robbery before. It’s one of those things that you know is bound to happen sooner or later, working as a bank teller. But you get so caught up in the mundane flow of things that it seems almost impossible, the notion that anything exciting could ever happen at the bank. But it’s happening now. One of the masked men approaches the counter swiftly. The other is blocking the door. Both of them have guns. Several panicked customers scream and drop to the floor, covering their heads and faces as if their hands were bulletproof.

The man at the counter makes his demands, but

Ms. Maxine is frozen to the

gotten the distinct impression that he thinks she is mentally retarded. She tries not to let it bother her, but sometimes it’s hard.

“Good morning,” Mr. Paulson drawls. His breath comes in large, loud huffs after the physical exertion of his walk across the bank. He breathes like that when he eats, as well, and it makes Ms. Maxine somewhat nauseated. She tries not to ever take the same lunch break as her boss, and when she does, she eats in the bathroom rather than the break room. Mr. Paulson walks behind the teller’s counter and leans over the papers Ms. Maxine is going through. A bulge of his flesh rests on the counter where his stomach hangs over, pushing her papers slightly. Unexplained rage flashes within Ms. Maxine, but she quickly quells it, running her fingers soothingly through her hair. He stares at her papers for a while longer, as if checking for arithmetic errors on a first-grader’s homework. Then he pats her on the shoulder with

a pudgy paw and returns to his office.

After that, for a while, not much happens.

spot. This isn’t how she wants to die. She hates this life. She hates this job. She’s not going to die here. Money has never meant less to her. Mr. Paulson comes out of his office before she can do anything. He freezes at the sight of the robber, and the robber looks at him, too. He points his gun at Ms. Maxine’s face. Nausea takes over her and her knees buckle but she steadies herself against the counter.

Let us into the vault r I’ll shoot,” the robber says. His

voice wavers a little. He doesn’t want to do this. This is the first time robbing a bank and he has no intention of killing anyone. Mr. Paulson doesn’t know any of this. Regardless, he tells the robber to go ahead and shoot, that he’s not giving up any of his money. And it’s the last thing he ever say’s. Ms. Maxine Mayberry snatches the gun from the robber’s hand and shoots her boss in the head.


Surfaboutby Chris Naughton

Screaming while I fallI pray to God this wave doesn’t wall

no time to take a peekBecause a barrel is what I seek

Fear and intimidation flyThe bottom of the waves is running dry

My on and only finWorks like a firing pin

A loose gun on a wild wave Is about to take me to my graveTruly out of controlI queue a drum role

The fin explodesAnd sprays loadsI turnPast the point of no return

Awe of the pitching topThere is no time to stop

Fly into a pipe And get spat out

That waves is just my typeOut of control on a surf about


ILLUSTRATIONTaurean Todd

ILLUSTRATIONSophie Hill

ILLUSTRATIONFelix Talkin

The day I lost control,I dropped my cereal bowl.

It hit the ground and shatteredNot that it really mattered.But it did, to meAs you can seeCause there wasn’t any laughter.All the milk swam outLike a golden troutAnd the cereal came following after.It was then, that control was lostAnd my tone turned cold as frost.I had no more cerealFor it was bacterialWhat a terrible cost.Now I had to clean it upWith a spoon and a paper cup.After I threw it awayI got a parfait,Regained my composure, And out of control was brought to a closure.

The Day I Lost Control

by Simon Reep



ILLUSTRATIONKaley Bales



A Chaotic Retelling ofThe Tell Tale HeartBy Edgar Allen PoeRetold By Kaley Bales

I had often caught glimpses of my room mate staring at me in such an unsavory way that I should have suspected something. But I put too much trust in him, he had never wronged me before, so what would warrant any suspi-cion? I was sure it was my eye that sometimes unsettled him, causing such a look of terror. It was one night in my youth while working in the stables, being out of sorts, I got struck by one of the horses in my charge, causing a mild concussion, and ablepsy in my right eye. After that many were frightened of my eye, it being glassed over, given an unholy look. But I never would have thought it a cause for such actions…------------------------- It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually --I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.--------------------------------Though I’m sure he did not know, I had many times thought I heard my room mate open my door and peer in on me while I slumbered. But because I had no proof, no sound reason he should. I ignored it. But he started to do things, that made me my suspicions more solid. Such as bursting

into my room, in the early hours to ask how I had slept in such a hearty manner it seemed to be un-natural. --------------------------------- Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers --of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back --but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --”Who’s there?” I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a mus-cle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; --just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall. Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepen-ing, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying

When I had waited a long time, very pa-tiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little --a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it --you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily --until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.It was open --wide, wide open --and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinct-ness all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot. And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? --now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how

to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself --”It is nothing but the wind in the chimney --it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influ-ence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel --although he neither saw nor heard --to feel the presence of my head within the room.----------------------------------------------It was on the eighth night when things took a ghastly turn. I heard the door creak open so I started up calling out “Who’s there?”. When I heard no reply, I did lie back in bed again, but only for a short time, until I heard him chuckle lightly--what a ghastly sound it was-- I rolled in bed but no sound would escape my lips. After listening for some time I convinced myself it was nothing--false hope to comfort myself-- telling myself such things as “It is nothing but the wind in the chimney--it is only a mouse crossing the floor” or “it is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp”. But all the while I knew, Death was there watching.----------------------------------------------

PHOTOGRAPHYMorgan Williams

steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart in-creased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! --do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me --the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once --once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no PULSation. He was stone dEAD. His eve would trouble me no more.-----------------------------------As if moved by some Hellish Force, he leapt into my room with a screech, throwing me off of my bed, and toppling my bed on top of me. I tried, I screamed, I struggled, but, to no avail.----------------------------------- If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the floor-ing of the chamber, and depositedALLbetween the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye --not even his --could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out --no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all --ha! ha! When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o’clock --still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, --for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect



suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises. I smiled, --for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search --search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my con-fidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ERe long, I felt myself getting paLE and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: --It cntiued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness --until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I now grew very pale; --but I talk-ed more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased --and what could I do? It was a low, dull, qUICCCk sound --much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath --and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly --more vehemently; but the nosie steadily incrseed. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men --but the NOISE Steadily increased. Oh God! what COUld I do? I foamed --I raved --I SWOre! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder --louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Wwas it possibbble they herdad not? Amlighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they spesuctd! --they KnEW! --they were mak-ing a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this dresoinn! I could bear those hprtoycail smiles no longer! I felt

that I must scream or die! and now --aGAIN! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder! “Vnaills!” I shrieked, “dimmessble no more! I admit the deedd! --tEarr up the pklans! here, hERe! --It is the bteanig of his hdeiaous heart!”---------------------------------------------Ture! --nveOUuss --vrey, vrey drdearflluy nver-ouss I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The dseaise had shpraned my sness --not dstreyod --not dllued them. Avboe all was the snsee of hiearng atuce. I hread all thgins in the haenvn and in the ertah. I hread mnay tihGns in hell. How, tehn, am mI mmad? HrkEan! annd osebsrve how htHEalily --hhow cmlaLly I can tlel yyuo the wOlhEe SSroty.

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Art is the triumph over chaos.-John Cheever

Chaos in the midst of chaos isn't funny, but chaos in the midst of order is.

-Steve Martin

Chaos is inherent in all compounded things. Strive on with diligence.

-Buddha

Design, in its broadest sense, is the enabler of the digital era - it's a process that creates order out of chaos, that renders technology usable to business. Design means being good, not just looking good.

-Clement Mok

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All art is exorcism. I paint dreams and visions too; the dreams and visions of my time. Painting is the effort to produce order; order in yourself. There is much chaos in me, much chaos in our time.

-Otto Dix

I'm interested in anything about revolt, disorder, chaos, especially activity that appears to have no meaning. It seems to me to be the road toward freedom.

-Jim Morrison

Living in continual chaos is exhausting, frightening. The catch is that it's also very addictive.

-Lorna Luft

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THE STONEBy Anonymous

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He walked slowly but purposefully this isnt to say his steps where eager in fact they where anything but, his feet dragged in the grey dust kicking it up creat'ing a small trail following him like a shapeless ghost that mimicked his reluctant steps. Kicking the occasional rock and stumbling as he moved forward. He knew with each step he took he drew closer to it. But he kept walking, step after step on the small dirt path that broke up the dry brush filled wilderness like a river of dirt, it cut through the low shrub taking the occasional detour around a bigger tree or gully. As he stumbled down the path he neared a wide open clearing where the thin river of dust he had been following widened and chocked out all the shrubs and trees until all that was left was a wide open expanse of dirt and small rocks covered in a knee high brown grass that looked dry enough to turn to dust. He left the path and slowly walked towards the middle of the clearing. It was burn'ing a hole in his pocket and got hotter and hotter heavier and heavier the closer he got to the center of the clearing. He nervously felt the stones shape in his pock'et its heat coming through his pants onto his sweaty palm. He had now stumbled his way to the very middle of the clearing. There was a small crater there broken down into the baked sandy crust of the clearing only about a foot wide but it was blackened with blast marks from the center of the crater that extended about 5 feet on either side of the small central hole creating a 10 foot diameter circle of blackened parched earth that couldn't even grow the dry dust grass. He stood on the edge of the crater and felt the stone object in his pocket now almost intol'erably hot and when he touched it in his pocket it was vibrating ever so slightly and gave of a charged electric feeling that made the hair on the back of his neck stick out on end. He grabbed the stone in his pocket and brought it out into the dry evening air it was a small dark black rock that was almost perfectly rectangular but slightly chipped around the corners It was now extremely warm and visibly vi'brating. His hand was getting sweaty beneath its black glassy reflective surface. He slowly bent over and placed the small black rock in the center of the crater that it had created weeks before. The rock was now standing vertically straight up out of the dust in the middle of the blackened crater. He took a few steps back and stared at that black rock like a tombstone sticking out of the dirt. It started to glow from the inside with a brilliant white light and the boy felt the air around him vibrating and a faint wind blowing outward from the crater moving the grass backward in pulse like gusts. He found his gaze was locked on the black rock he had placed on the ground, he couldn't look away from it, not for a second, he knew this, his whole body knew this. His stare intensified and he stepped closer to the black rock and sat down directly in front of it cross legged on the dirt in front of the crater. He stared at the black rock now getting brighter and brighter and yet staying jet black. The boys pupils expanded slowly as the light grew in inten'sity as if to accept the light into himself. Then his eyes began to glow starting first with a pinprick in the middle of his now large black irises and slowly expand'ing until his entire eye socket was giving of the same pure white glow as the rock. The light between them grew and grew until it started to envelope them both in an orb of complete light whiter and brighter than anything. It illuminated the entire opening.

Time Passes

The Glowing white of the orb slowly fades until the exterior of the previously pure white orb starts to harden and crack and then harden again the pure white light starts to darken as it hardens to a metallic grey crust that covers the whole orb as it hardens and crusts over……….It starts to spin slowly at first hardly notice'able and then gaining speed faster and faster until it was a silvery gray blur sus'pended about three feet above the crater and a pair of boys shoes. There it spun until suddenly it started to rise steadily upward into the empty night sky until it disappeared from view.

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NO SAY

A man without the will to live

He stares down from the edge

Juggling his thoughts inside

While on the sharpest ledge

He recollects his evil deeds;

The rumors he has spread

All the more reason for him

To stand true to his pledge

His successes are meaningless;

The business propagations

A man of great social status

Who spurned intimidation

But all this was a tactic mask;

A misdirecting guise

To make himself look innocent,

To cover all the lies

From day one he planned his life,

Paved his road to success

Until he got what he wanted

He would never rest

This moment he could not foresee;

A blemish in his plan

A determining factor

Lifting control from his hands

Story and Illustrations byTourean Todd

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At this he thinks

“If I cannot control my destiny,

then how can I even say

this life belongs to me?”

At this he jumps

Plummeting towards the ground below

Tenants on the lower floor would surly

get a show

Looking forward to a speedy end with

some excitement,

His plans are foiled once again with

life’s final enticement

His foot hits a balcony,

Thus causing him to tumble

Perfectly rotating twice

On a pole his spine did crumble.

Waking up to pastel walls,

A hospital bed fold

He goes to roll over

He feels like an empty hole

He moves not once and realizes that he

has lost control.

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Dear reader,Thank you for joining us on this exploration of chaos and order. I hope it has left you with more questions then answers, and if you would like to view a full color web version of this publication scan the qr code below or visit this website. www.issu.com/mag


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Chaos and Order