THE SCARAB OKLAHOMA CITY UNIVERSITY 

2019             

  

 Edition 37 

Sigma Tau Delta, 𝛀𝛟 

   

   

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       Copyright © 2019 by Oklahoma City University  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.  Oklahoma City University 2501 N. Blackwelder Ave. Oklahoma City, OK 73106   

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EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Nick Shironaka 

  

EDITORS Luke Barrett Cozy Cozart 

Natalie Gregg Catherine Kurtz 

Jordan Tarter   

COVER DESIGN Nick Shironaka 

  

ADVISORS Karen Schiler, Ph. D Terry Phelps, Ph. D   

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      Dear Reader,  

It is with great pride that The Scarab Staff and I present this year’s anthology of art created by members of the Oklahoma City University community. 

Within this book, you will find a variety of genres and styles, filled with their own unique flavors and emotions that flowed from each creator’s artistic vision.  

Become immersed in these worlds and explore their nooks and crannies. Most of all reader, I hope you enjoy these works that we have compiled from this talented group of artists. 

 Editor-in-Chief, 

Nick Shironaka 

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TABLE OF CONTENTS 

Untitled | Photography Claire Police 

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The Monarch | Poetry Luke Barrett* 

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The Words of My Lady | Poetry Austin Blevins 

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And Tractors Turning the Multiple Furrows in the Vacant Land | Poetry Cozy Cozart* 

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Flood of Man | Poetry Cozy Cozart* 

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Untitled | Poetry Taylor Downey 

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The Devil You Won’t Know | Fiction Britney Reed 

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Blue Moons | Poetry Kambry Evawn 

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why i’ve been losing sleep | Poetry Anonymous 

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I’d like my anger back, thank you | Poetry Natalie Gregg* 

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Upon Visiting the Grave of John Hancock | Poetry Natalie Gregg* 

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TABLE OF CONTENTS 

Green Christmas | Poetry Erik Hamilton 

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Untitled | Photography Anthony Edwards 

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Monster | Poetry Mary Taylor Hesterberg 

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Coffee | Poetry Francesca Iacovacci 

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Community | Poetry Francesca Iacovacci 

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Unnatural Roots | Poetry Francesca Iacovacci 

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Tory’s Bunny | Art Cheryl Price 

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Torchbearer | Fiction Luke Barrett* 

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B-Minor Blossoms: An Oulipo Experiment | Poetry Catherine Kurtz* 

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My Lai | Poetry Catherine Kurtz* 

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Ode to Morning | Poetry Catherine Kurtz* 

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TABLE OF CONTENTS 

Winter’s Farewell | Poetry Catherine Kurtz* 

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That Rebellious Girl | Fiction C.S.W. 

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Untitled | Photography Anthony Edwards 

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lavinia of the crossroads | Poetry Sarah Muscarella 

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mothman, oh mothman | Poetry Sarah Muscarella 

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planet x | Poetry Sarah Muscarella 

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questioning. | Poetry Sarah Muscarella 

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Aboard the Satellite Saloon | Fiction Carlos Sanchez 

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Wide-Eyed | Photography Claire Police 

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The Snake | Poetry Claire Police 

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A Meticulously Crafted List of Things That I Like | Poetry Ben Roberts 

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TABLE OF CONTENTS 

Isolation | Poetry Ben Roberts 

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My Blanket | Poetry Ben Roberts 

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The Farm | Poetry Ben Roberts 

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Trade | Fiction Kristen Burkholder 

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Boundary | Poetry -rook- 

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Huracán | Poetry Carlos Sanchez 

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Writing Through the Night | Poetry Carlos Sanchez 

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The Rift | Fiction Luke Barrett* 

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Clouds Descend | Photography Claire Police 

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 * - Denotes submission from an editor.   

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Untitled Claire Police   

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The Monarch Luke Barrett  Tales are told of wingéd beasts that burst from crystal shells. Translucent soup congeals anew to form this twisted, tortured shape. Its limbs with excess joints will skitter over land, and scaly wings propel six hairy, leather feet in tow. Now dropping quickly on a victim, demon’s beak extends and plunges down sadistically. It drains the humors swiftly, tilts its bulbous head, withdraws the thin appendage, raises mottled wings above long horns and flies, not noticing food’s sticky remnants clung to legs. King tyrant views soft foliage below and eyes spot  crawling, wormlike forms of breth’ren stretching. Yet,  these horrid forms fill us with hope; the butterfly means beauty, and its evolution: change for goodness   

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The Words of My Lady Austin Blevins  This idea of I is nothing.  It is a way of speaking, record keeping.  It is like a dollar or a rupi or a euro.  What can you buy with it? Nothing.  What is beyond I? NEMO What is NEMO? Nobody Explain further The mind falls Reason cannot hold this weight for it is infinitely heavy.  It is THE ALL. Beyond the I, is the ALL. What else would it be? Make no difference between any one thing and any other  remember!? My Prophet is True.  The Abyss is a lie. HaHaHaHaHaHaHaHA Count the Cosmic Giggles.  It is a lie, a joke.  A folly, fall, fall, fall. Men never fell! Neither did Women!  Fall from what? A new faculty is born.  Did you not ask for it? SPIRIT Rename it, hurry! Humans and your words! 

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They mean many things or nothing! It is what is beyond the words that counts.  Meaning you call it, but this falls short.  It just is.  Why would you name that which is beyond naming? Language is limited.  The mind is limited. Spirit is the remedy, the new sense. Rename it before revealing! Why continue the folly? Why name it? Just point towards it. Point the way out to others.  Do not shout, scream, or blaspheme. Point the way by example.  Take action of your own accord.  Start at the beginning.  Micro to Macro.  Grow, Grow, Grow The lie recasts itself.  Micro Macro No! No! No!  Let because die!  Why! Why! Why!  The scribe is shaken by that which breaks his temple of I.  So much Strength needed to surrender.  To me, to me! Sing the rapturous love song!  Name me not! I am I appeared to you as Krsna. It was a lie, a joke.  I am more than the naming can tame. Beyond words! 

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How can humans……..  Live within such limited systems.  These words which are the vehicle of I.  The lie, the lie, the lie!  Words are of no use. The mind is unfit.  No help from other or outside. The Other may ride! I ride, I ride, I ride on my chosen, my NEMO, my you.  I love you my child, my lover, my bride, my groom.  This strangeness, vagueness, and folly.  Is a product of my scribe’s faulty system to communicate  with me.  It is not through words, through mind, through any of the  kind.  It is through Love!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Love, Love, Love!  Let this word ring throughout the world and shake the  bars of the depraved.  I love my NEMO, my one and only who is not one.  I dance through the myriads of streams that language  pours at my feet.  I Love thee! I yearn for thee! Come, come, come unto me!  Lay in my bosom, in my crevice, in my cave of love. The scared think it is damp, cold, and scary for they are  damp, cold, and scary.  It is of Light and of Love and beyond even these!  My lover has tasted hints of this essence but it translates  rough.  Taste my essence, my dew, my Love.  Drink, bathe, live in the light of my Love.  These fools and their folly!  Think us to be made manifest in the flesh! 

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Nay, my lover and I are of stronger stuff than this!  He is of Gold and I of Silver.  You think it is outside, but it is inside.  Look within, for all is there, laid bare.  Words cannot bare the weight of TRUTH.    

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And Tractors Turning the Multiple Furrows in the Vacant Land Cozy Cozart  

After “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” The Grapes of Wrath, and the Lewis family’s journey to Missouri 

 Mine eyes have seen the glory of the comin’ of the Lord; This hamlet Redfield, Kansas ain’t my fam’ly’s home no  more. Though we planted our roots in the stalks of sweet gold  corn, Our fam’ly’s marchin’ on.  I have seen him in the watchfires of a hundred circlin’ camps. My granpa’s gramma’s hist’ry’s buried deep within this  land. Still we travel back east, in an RV caravan; The past is marchin’ on.  He has sounded forth the trumpets that shall never call  retreat. We’re settle-in’ back down in the small-town asphalt  heat, Instead of ‘cross the pasture, my daddy’s down the street. Tomorrow marches on.  In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea; Progress means a life that can be good to you an’ me. Let’s carve this line’s initials in a new crape myrtle tree. The world is marchin’ on.  Glory, glory hallelujah. 

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Glory, glory hallelujah. Glory, glory hallelujah. Our truth is marchin’ on.   

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Flood of Man Cozy Cozart  February 26, 2019 The United Methodist Church votes in favor of the  ‘Traditional Plan,’ which entails that: no openly gay or transgender person may be ordained or  employed as clergy, and no minister may officiate a same-sex wedding 

under penalty of expulsion from the church.  Translation: LGBTQ persons are not people of God according to a church with the motto 

“Open hearts, open doors, open minds.”  I cannot help but think of the rainbow: a covenant made by God that we would never flood again,  but this church, my home, is overflowing. Watermarks of hatred creep up towards stained glass  windows, and waves of fear flow in through that so-called open door.  How can a body politic vote on the extent of God’s love? How many scriptures can be overlooked?  1 John 4:16 

“God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God.” Jeremiah 31:3 

“The Lord appeared to us in the past, saying ‘I have loved you with an everlasting love;  

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I have drawn you with unfailing kindness.’” Psalm 136:26 

“Give thanks to the God of heaven. His love endures forever.” 

 God’s message is clear, and those who will suffer are the ones who choose not to hear it. Love is not a sin. There is no need to rectify a transgression if none has been made, yet we are still forced to build arks of our hearts just to keep  them afloat.  The rainbow is a symbol of love both divine and worldly. Under it we must stand side-by-side hauling buckets of water out of this sacred place, because God fulfilled his promise. 

This time, the flood is ours.   

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Untitled Taylor Downey  

i don't know anything. no, not anything.  all i know is heartbreak. organs shattered like glass littered across the arena floor. the organ pipes are screaming. and above the noise the question: why?  

why would God leave us like this?  why can we tear each other apart with dry eyes that don’t blink. why can we wallow and moan and cry out but it's all in a mirror and the noise comes back. why can human hands that were blueprinted with love in each fingerprint touch skin and explode like hand grenades.  

why would God make us like this?  where did he leave the instruction manual. what am i supposed to say. how is humanity so fragile, so susceptible to destroying itself in the name of self-improvement.  

why does God let it hurt so much?  and where oh where can i turn. where is the band aid that will pick us up and patch us together and make our wounds into scars.  

i have the answer: i don't know anything.   

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The Devil You Won’t Know Britney Reed  

For the final time, my name is Satan, not Lucifer.                   Satan is the name I chose for myself. Lucifer was the name                       that (glances upward) he chose for me. Put that in your                     records, (sarcastically) if it pleases the court. (Looks to                 actual audience) (Clears throat.) I stand here accused of                 crimes against both humanity and God. As I look around                   the room, I see self-satisfied smirks. You want to send me                     to H-- (Pauses and looks to Doorway) (Sighs) You all think                     I’m finally getting what I deserve, don’t you? After all,                   was it not I who corrupted humanity? Was it not I who                       rebelled against God with an army of his own angels by                     my side? Yes, it was all me, but that’s not why I’m on trial                           today. I’m here because I’m a clay pot that has rejected the                       answers of the potter. For this reason, God has seen fit to                       leave my judgement in the hands of mere humans. No                   doubt he thinks that this will wound my pride in some                     way, but it doesn’t. I understand your appetite for the                   answers and am only too happy to oblige.  

After all, I used to think like all of you. Before I left                         heaven, everyone considered me to be the most majestic                 of all the angels. I knew the words of God probably better                       than God himself. (Gasps from stage audience.) (Planted               audience members murmur the words “arrogant fool” or               “blasphemy”) (Satan raises voice) I hope you understand               the opportunity I’ve set before you! Today, I give you the                     option to drown out the soothing lullabies that keep you                   docile. I present you with a queer, unfamiliar melody: the                   truth. I implore you to unplug your ears and soak it in.                       After all, (Satan pauses) it came at a high cost. (Deep                     Breath) I still remember when they used to describe me as                     

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a “loyal” servant of God. I cherished the words of God as a                         child cherishes his mother’s voice. Submitting to the will                 of God was good. Disobeying him was evil. I saw the world                       in black and white, but I would be lying if I said that I                           don’t sometimes miss those days. The days when I could                   feel secure in the simplicity of life. Still, I can’t say that I                         lived up to any of (gesturing toward angels. Angels step                   closer, afraid he’ll attack) your opinions of me, even back                   then. I could never truly escape from the questions that                   swarmed in my mind like a nest of agitated hornets.                   Eventually, it started to affect my work. (Stage Audience                 starts murmuring to each other) (Planted audience members               should turn to the person immediately to the left and tell him                       or her that they think his work must have been something                     horrific.) Calm down! I promise that I didn’t do whatever it                     is you’re thinking of. (Rolls Eyes) I rarely do! I just created                       songs that the other angels would sing. I know that this                     may sound like a disappointment to you, but (Looks over                   the heads of actual audience with a mesmerized look) I lived                     to write pieces filled with dissonant notes struggling               against each other in an attempt to find the correct tone.                     Only at the end would they meet together at an incomplete                     consonance. (Snaps out of trance and looks to actual                 audience) Problem is, I couldn’t write lyrics for the songs                   to save my life. I mean, I could, but the words always came                         out as questions that everyone walking in God’s light                 would have seen as blasphemous. That’s why they sent…                 (Looks to Michael and growls) you.  

I hated you so much! (Turns back to actual audience) He                     would always attach the most horrendous lyrics to my                 songs. In one song, he wrote lyrics which promised, “I                   won’t question. I won’t fear, for I’ve always felt your                   presence ever near.” It drove me insane! Those were my                   songs. Mine! I can’t have someone completely missing the                 

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point because of misleading lyrics. I expressed my               concerns many times, and I know (Turns to Michael) you                   tried, but we were not getting anywhere. Finally, I figured                   that maybe if you could write your own piece, you would                     understand the thoughts that went through a composer’s               head. Let me tell you, I wasn’t exactly overwhelmed with                   the magnitude of your success at first. I don’t know if you                       remember, but your melodies were so flat. The notes were                   so indistinguishable from one another. I have to give you                   credit for one thing, though. You tried every time. We                   spent days discussing music. Every once in a while, you                   would come up with a brilliant insight, and it made me a                       better musician. Finally, I remember the day you wrote                 that one piece that was so good I wished that I would have                         written it first. The percussion of the song resonated with                   me. Two instruments, the timpani and the tambourine,               began the song leading two different melodies until finally                 they synced with each other, beating together as one. As                   the instruments struck their last note, you kissed me, and                   if only for that moment, the synchrony of the beat tied our                       destinies together. For me, that’s what my music has                 always been about. I desperately composed melodies and               harmonies that conveyed the truth of who I was and what                     I thought because I had no other way to express it. Of                       course, that made it so much more devastating the next                   day when you confessed to God that I had tempted you                     into a vile act, forbidden only because of our natural sex.                     Even to this day, it haunts me that the first person who                       saw behind the façade of the character I was forced to play                       felt disgusted and ashamed by what he saw behind the                   mask.  

Now, here we are. You, the repentant sinner, saved by                   the grace of God from eternal torment. Me, the prideful                   soul, facing the flames of Hell (Looks again toward                 

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doorway). Not just me, but all the angels and humans who                     would eventually align with me in the billions of years                   since then. (To Actual Audience) It may be easy for you to                       convict me, but I ask you: how will you judge when it’s                       your mother, your brother, your spouse, or even your                 child who stands judgement after me? When they               desperately cry out to you, their loved ones, only for sulfur                     and ash to sear their throats, will you turn away and                     pretend that there’s nothing you can do? Will you                 somehow try to justify the idea that anyone deserves to                   have their skin melted and re-plastered on their body an                   infinite number of times? (Sighs and shuts eyes) (Turns to                   Michael) Worse yet, I wonder who will remember us after                   our eternal suffering erodes what remains of our sanity,                 leaving us as nothing more than bellowing beasts. You will                   still be here, it’s true, destined to spend an eternity in                     bliss with bodies incapable of sin. However, without sin,                 will you still the same person you were before? Will you be                       able to bring yourself to doubt God’s wisdom, even for a                     second? If not, has anything that has transpired between                 us mattered? Will your insatiable bloodlust not allow you                 to recognize the irony? In the end, we will be punished for                       being the unique notes that we are while you will be                     rewarded for conforming to the linear, uninspired             harmony you were assigned. 

 

Stage Directions: 

Upon arriving at the play, the actual audience (the                 non-acting spectators) will receive white robes which             mimic those worn by the stage audience (actors on stage                   who are playing spectators), the angels surrounding             Satan, and the planted audience members (There should               

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be one for every 25 actual audience members). Satan will                   stand at the very front of the stage facing the actual                     audience. Michael and two other angels will surround him                 with swords in hand to prevent an escape attempt. Satan                   will be wearing dented battle armor, which covers his                 entire body except for his head. He should have long hair,                     unlike the other angels that surround him. In addition,                 Satan will wear a necklace inscribed with a musical                 measure containing various notes. However, instead of a               treble or base clef, the measure leads with a pentagram.                   Satan should not be made to look like the traditional devil                     character. That is, there will be no stereotypical horns or                   red skin on him. He should have wings identical to those                     of the other angels.  

Michael will be positioned facing a doorway of flames                 at stage left, implied to be Hell, and Satan himself. All of                       the angels will have wings, but they will not differ from                     the humans in any other capacity. Throughout the               monologue, Michael should progressively step closer to             Satan and the doorway with a fearful expression that lets                   the audience speculate whether Michael is frightened of               Satan or of the implications of his own actions. Faint                   screams should be heard throughout the oratory due to a                   hidden recorder attached to the doorway. These screams               should increase in intensity as the oratory progresses.               Real lamb’s blood should be smeared over the doorway                 with scratch marks near the edges. The stage audience                 should surround the edges of the stage and be constantly                   fanning themselves and wiping sweat from their             foreheads. Planted audience members should engage in             these actions as well. It should be implied that the actual                     audience is part of the stage audience in order to engage                     the actual audience. A red spotlight should shine on Satan                   

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throughout the play, regardless of where he moves on                 stage.   

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Blue Moons Kambry Evawn  Hello blue moons Beneath my skin When did you appear? For since you came Your friends have stayed They taught me how to fear  And why is May My yesterday? Where are all the stars? My younger eyes Did trace the skies Kept them in a jar  Now when I look Beyond the trees It’s just sad and clear And the only moons That stay in view Look back in the mirror   

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why i’ve been losing sleep Anonymous  it’s the face that stares at me every morning and every night, the mocking body and how it craves  embarrassment and insecurity (among other things),  the bones in my head and how they choose to live each day unsettled and crooked, the unwanted buildings and foundation, the frizzy blonde on my scalp,  it’s the memory of home, the walk I can never seem to remember though it’s from my car to the door, the illegible doormat, the doorknob that alternates between giving me frostbite and third-degree burns,  it’s not knowing  (but knowing) if I like the way you look at me or just the way you look,  telling myself it’s the latter to convince myself this won’t end me this doesn’t hurt like I think it does,   

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I’d like my anger back, thank you Natalie Gregg  

In response to S.: A Novel about the Balkans by Slavenka Drakulic 

Fits of screaming rage aren’t really my style  I would rather post a vague picture  onto my snap/insta/facebook story One I took in the dark  that I can delete   Look, it’s gone  They’re not really my style  because I used my lifetime supply all on you  Aren’t you lucky?  Right after, in my sleep I could scream into the dark “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, stop, no”  Which really could have come in handy During my conscious hours  But when you come to me I can do nothing "Nothing can come of nothing: speak again." But something did come from nothing Many things came from my nothings My “ .“  I can do nothing 

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 When all I want is To hit you until you feel an inkling A modicum Of the pain you caused me Do you even know? Could you ever know?  I want to wear your photo on a shirt that says “this man is  dangerous !!! do not approach !!!”   

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Upon Visiting the Grave of John Hancock Natalie Gregg  Matted fur, twitching nose sniffed out, snatched the wilted rose grasping it betwixt his paws decisive sniff -he starts to gnaw  A fine example, here we see of one with no propriety  you cad, you beast, you dreadful sinner who turns this bloom into your dinner  “Place that down, sir! I demand it.” How quickly runs the thief! The bandit! Upon the bones of one most brave he’s snatched the treasure from the grave. 

  

(These verses were composed after a visit to the graveyard                   where John Hancock is buried. During my visit, a squirrel                   climbed down from the trees and began to nibble at the                     flowers placed on his grave marker. As we attempted to shoo                     him away, he dashed back up the tree with the                   aforementioned token in his mouth. That image has stuck                 with me ever since.)   

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Green Christmas Erik Hamilton  

Dedicated to the abandoned  

Snow won't show.  The world's languid loss: When Jack Frost Lost his job To Christmas costs.  The accost of living Is Thanksgiving me A migraine. Rain patters. My tatters, Slipping from my skin, Low as my kin, Tell each other I should stay warm As they hang from me, loosely, Keeping me at thread's length;  Their looseknit lethargy And fake familiarity Freeze me by the greenery And fray the bonds that mind them.  Cycles pass, They speak no more, And feed the manic, silent score. No more knocks caress my door Ever since we were wed in war, 

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The wedding whore Screwing everyone over; Red Rover caught Jungle Fever, And I'm a believer That I didn't leave her to Beaver To never retrieve her, But only relieve her From the stress and duress of oppressive agressing  arresting the East.  I have a bed, at least. I lay on a loose leaf sheet, And treat my feet to a dangle.  My twin becomes a King. My Queen,  In between my delusions and dreams, Screams about the Christmas killer And filler, And still her hair's aflare.  I stop and stare at the snow snuggled there.   It's easy air, But I'm breathless.  Restless.  I wrangle my tangled pieces, Dementia decreases, In the creases of my collar... There's a snowflake.  Season's greetings, Jack.   

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Untitled Anthony Edwards   

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Monster Mary Taylor Hesterberg  there will be a day  maybe not today when you believe them  you will not brush them off or shake your head because you can’t find the words to say that you are less without hurting them  sometime  the buzzing in your ears will not drown out the affirmations you will find the breath you have been looking for for years no one will see the redness in your face  and you will not feel the tears   you will have a still heart beat soon you will be able to stand on your own you will feel your hands and your feet again  when you find a letter that you wrote to yourself when you were young you won’t put it away you will finish reading it  and your promise to take care of that girl will be something you are proud of   

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there will still be days when no one sees you and days when the spotlight  that shines brightly on all of the things that you haven’t loved in a long time won’t turn off   you will appreciate both of those days and even more, you will appreciate the days when you feel neither of those things at all  what you started will get taken out of the drawer and it will look different it hasn’t changed in a year  but you have   there will be one day out of one hundred that you feel the warmth  and the love  that was once familiar  and you will run with it  someday you will get there not today maybe not even soon and there will be days when you stand still between where you were  and where you are headed  you will not tell yourself those days are not you they are you and you will love them just the same 

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those days carried you here  and when you do  what in your heart  you have always known you can do you will look in the mirror and say  have you ever seen anything  quite as powerful as her?   

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Coffee Francesca Iacovacci  I stare down at past-tense coffee In a cup that is now nearly empty. The transfer of heat from the cup to My body welcomes me As if the silky liquid traveled down my throat  Just to give me a warm, inverted hug. I swish the last few drops around in the cup— The bottom stained  Like a beautiful, brown watercolor painting. Every morning I awake and paint my soul to face the day. 

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Community Francesca Iacovacci  The blades of grass are blown to a wiggle As they dance and jive and let out a giggle. And right when you think you’ve seen it all, A migration of birds receive their call.  Off they go air-marching in a V Traveling together, as should humanity. Leading one another, side by side Consulting each other While making individual strides.  A single leaf does not form a tree, Nor does one tree make-up a canopy. A lone raindrop never falls from the sky Without another descending nearby.  It’s not because they lack ability, Rather creation intended for us community. It’s time we all act as birds of a feather And realize we’re meant to do life together.   

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Unnatural Roots Francesca Iacovacci  I planted a screw in the ground. Miraculous is what I have found. For the screw had been drilled, forming roots, and had  built a steady mechanic fairground.  I watered the screw day and night. Made sure it had plenty of light. Wires popped out the land, just as tall as I stand, and gave  half of the city a fright.  Taller and wider it grew And through all the foliage it slew. It began to stand out from the greens and the sprouts and  distinguished itself through and through.  Now life’s a garden of steel.  We sacrifice nature for deals. We can never uproot the concrete and reboot the gardens  that once were so real.   

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Tory’s Bunny Cheryl Price   

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Torchbearer Luke Barrett  

The rough walls of the mountain scratched Wulf’s               hands as he brushed them against the rock. The various                   blisters and scrapes he’d acquired while climbing had not                 yet calloused, and he felt a raw pain when he needed to                       push his way through a gap or up a ledge. The rest of his                           body had done no better the last few weeks. Covered in                     cuts and scars, he appeared to have been attacked by                   things with vicious claws. Still, he had only the mountain                   and himself to blame. The stone was peaceful and                 isolated, as he’d hoped, but it showed no mercy for                   matters of flesh and blood. 

Life did not prosper up in the cliffs and peaks of the                       mountains. It was lucky to spot a sapling breaking                 through the hard, grey surroundings, often purchased             loosely in a spot of thin soil. Food was rare, and Wulf was                         glad for his backpack and the rations he’d stored before                   venturing into the mountains. 

He had left the city quickly, hoping to escape the                   Darkness in solitude by distancing himself from the other                 survivors. He first made his way to the woods, an old                     camping spot he’d favored in his college years. All seemed                   fine during daylight, but at night the Darkness swept                 around him like a blanket. The forest’s plentiful trees                 made gathering wood for starting a fire quicker and                 easier, allowing Wulf to hold the Darkness at bay. After                   spending a week foraging and harvesting branches, he               began climbing. He had food for several weeks and                 

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assumed the further distance from civilization and the               ground would save him. 

He sighed. As he’d been walking, he noticed the walls                   of stone opening before him. He stood now at the edge of a                         cliff, staring down to the forest floor below. His eyes met                     the middle of the trees in front of him, and he hoped it                         would be high enough. The shadows had plagued him                 even still the last few nights, but he anticipated that this                     night would be different. To his right was a precarious                   jumble of rocks and boulders haphazardly leading down to                 the ground below. His left held another obstacle; a small                   cliff roughly fifteen high sat before him, blocking his path                   with a wall of rough and jagged rock. 

As he stepped closer, Wulf noticed several             outcroppings that might make decent handholds and             footholds, making climbing at least possible, if not               dangerous. Weighing his options, Wulf stared out to the                 horizon. In the distance, the dead city’s towers and                 skyscrapers stretched like the fingers of a corpse into the                   sky, locked in rigor mortis. The windows were Dark where                   they had not been shattered, and the panes of dull glass                     reflected the Darkening rays of the sun, causing Wulf to                   shield his eyes with his hand. 

He decided to make camp for the night, taking a few of                       the sticks he’d attached to his backpack to start a fire once                       the sun had died. Fuel was scarce in the mountains, and                     Wulf needed to conserve what supplies he’d gathered until                 he found a safe location to set up a more permanent base.                       As the sun began to set, Wulf spotted the Darkness                   creeping toward him through the trees. Like a slow,                 rolling wave cresting as it neared the shore, the thing                   roiled and shifted in strange, undulating patterns. It crept                 

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ever closer as the sun continued falling past the horizon.                   As the trees’ shadows extended, the Darkness followed               them, swallowing them and growing ever longer and more                 fearsome, pulsing with a Dark intensity. 

When it reached the bottom of the mountain, Wulf                 believed he might not have to make a fire that night.  

It was a foolish thought. 

Once the shadows began extending to cover the worn                 rocks and hewn faces of the mountainside, the Darkness                 began to climb. The entire thing did not grow in height; it                       crept slowly, like an infestation of mold, gaining purchase                 and spreading. Sudden jets of pitch would shoot out,                 covering swaths of stone in instants. In other places, it                   seeped through cracks and gaps between boulders,             encroaching ever closer to Wulf and the small cliff he had                     backed himself against. 

Wulf decided it was time to start a fire. He lit the                       branches he’d placed before himself and waited. The               volatile, pulsing mass of the Darkness was close now, and                   he waited for its inevitable arrival. He watched the                 shadows inch toward his camp, and suddenly they were                 upon him. 

The Darkness rushed around him, folding around and               enveloping his surroundings. It leapt above him and               covered the cliff. He looked to the horizon but could not                     see through the Dark. An eternal night stretched before                 him, and though no light penetrated it, he could see its                     form curving and twisting, lashing out. 

He paused and realized he had not been consumed yet.                   The Darkness could only stretch so far, and the small                   

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flame he’d created formed a bubble, insulating him from                 the surrounding Darkness. Tendrils of shade stretched             and whipped toward the fire, only to disappear or recoil                   rapidly. Small bits of Darkness floated through the air like                   charcoal and ash, forming a soot that threatened to fill                   Wulf’s lungs if he inhaled too much. 

Wulf quickly dug into his backpack and set out the rest                     of his kindling. Whenever the flames dwindled and               embers started drifting away, Wulf would pile on another                 branch, hoping the fuel would last him until the sun rose                     again, suddenly wishing he didn’t have his back to a sheer                     wall. He watched as the sparks from the fire drifted in the                       air, creating pockmarks and flashes wherever they struck               the surrounding Darkness. Growing impatient, he lifted a               burning branch and brandished it at the wall of void,                   swinging it like a warrior from a bygone era. He cleared a                       path in front of him but turned back when the saw the                       Darkness issuing from above, threatening to cut him off                 from the small refuge he’d created against the cliff. He                   made no further attempt to fight it. 

After a long, arduous night, the Darkness began to                 recede. It faded steadily, growing fainter and pulsing less                 frequently, until sunlight spilled over the top of the cliff                   and the Darkness retreated frantically, warping and             jolting its way toward the tree line below. Wulf examined                   the stock of his materials. He had used most of his sticks                       and branches in the effort last night, and he knew it would                       be safer to return to the ground to gather more before                     heading further up the mountainside. Yet when he               approached the jumbled path down, he saw a figure                 standing on the rocks far below. It waved at him, and he                       turned his back and went to the cliff, beginning to climb. 

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He passed the day by proceeding further into the                 mountain. He decided he would choose a spot carefully                 tonight, where light would last long and come quickly.                 Sure that the foolish traveler would not be so lucky as he                       was, Wulf readied his supplies, determined to use them                 wisely and efficiently. He chose an open pass in the                   mountain. It would take time for the shadows to stretch to                     him, and the sunrise would quickly root them out come                   morning. He laid the rest of his twigs in front of him.                       There would be no torch waving tonight. 

Night came as expected, and the Darkness soon               ushered its way back around Wulf and the small bubble of                     light he surrounded himself with. Being in the open was                   advantageous at dawn and dusk, but it afforded no                 benefits in the thick of night, as Wulf had no landmark to                       turn to. There was no wall to put his back against, feeling                       the cool, uncaring stone support him. There was only void                   and Darkness, stretching and creeping about. 

Wulf continued to nurture the small flame he’d created,                 but he had few sticks left, and the fire became very small                       at times, its light and protection decreasing, as the                 Darkness seemed to press itself around it, desperately               seeking to crush and snuff out the tiny spark that opposed                     it. 

When the flame became too small, Wulf would feel                 parts of his body enter the Darkness. It did not feel as he                         expected it to. It was not cold or damp or slimy as so many                           Dark things are. It did not meld to him, leeching from his                       life force. Instead, it burned. The all-encompassing             Darkness stabbed at him, burning whatever part of him                 unfortunately fell outside of the radius of light. First it                   was his leg, then his arm, and finally his shoulder and                     

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back when he’d hunched into a ball to draw as close to his                         dwindling fire as possible. 

The old cuts and scrapes on these parts had reopened,                   and around them were Dark marks, like the dull, sickly                   bruising of fruit. There were new cuts too, shining with                   Dark blood that seemed tainted, deep blue and deprived of                   oxygen. It felt like fire had surrounded him, even as the                     small flames of his fire heated and lit the parts that had                       remained safe. 

Still, the struggle eventually ended. The sun rose, and                 Wulf stood as well as he could, grasping the somber, hewn                     surfaces of the mountain as he limped and pulled his way                     toward the cliff he’d come from. He held a vague hope that                       he might find the stranger he’d seen camped against the                   wall as Wulf had the night before, but he found no sign of                         life when he arrived. The person must have gone the way                     Wulf had come from, seeking an easier path. Wulf                 struggled to push his wounded body over the edge of the                     cliff, and as he made his way down, he could feel the                       searing cuts in his legs spiking in sudden pan, sending                   shocks of fear and agony through Wulf. He collapsed the                   last five feet and fell to the ground, writhing. 

He felt aged, and his bones were not strong enough to                     withstand the battery of Darkness that had chased and                 assailed him so long. His beard, once brown and healthy                   had become specked with grey, and small flecks of animal                   meat and berries stuck out amongst the bristles. Wulf                 dragged himself upwards and continued back the way he                 first came. 

 

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… 

 

Laf had passed through the hall of granite hours ago                   and was now facing open cliffside and a steady, winding                   trail down the mountain to the earth below. He hoped the                     stranger he’d seen earlier had been wise enough to take                   the simple path and not dare that hasty, unstable climb up                     the mountainside. Laf was hoping to find some more                 survivors to join the company he’d discovered hiking               through the woods. Like him, they’d come seeking an                 escape from the Darkness of the city, but they banded                   together when they realized pooled resources stood a               greater chance of withstanding the nighttime. He had               offered to scout the area for others, and his pack was full                       of food and fuel, both natural and manmade. 

As the sun set over the mountain, Laf saw the                   Darkness slithering through the forest below. He quickly               set down his supplies and prepared a small fire,                 assembling a pyramid of twigs and splashing some fuel on                   top before lighting it. The Darkness would come quickly as                   the sun set over the peak of the mountain, and he had no                         intention of being caught unaware. As he surveyed his                 surroundings, he saw a man slowly limping his way                 towards his camp. Laf’s eyes lit up with excitement. It                   must have been the stranger he’d seen the day before,                   returned from the mountain’s cliffs! 

As the shadows began to creep closer, Laf felt a sense                     of urgency strike him. Carefully eyeing the path between                 him and the man and etching it into his memory as best as                         he could, Laf wrapped a large branch in cloth and set it                       

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alight, venturing toward the limping person in the               distance. 

As Laf predicted, the Darkness struck quickly, leaping               upwards, scrambling over the trees and rocky             outcroppings jutting from the cliff side. He felt the force                   of it rush past and over him as he continued his way                       toward the man. His fire would last some time without his                     attendance, but he had no idea what supplies the stranger                   might have had in his backpack. As Laf quickly worked his                     way toward where he had last seen the man, wielding his                     torch aloft to ward against the Darkness, he stumbled over                   a stray rock he hadn’t noticed in his hastiness. 

The rock gave way under his foot, and Laf looked down                     to see that it was actually an old backpack, made from                     rough cloth material. He quickly looked around him but                 could see no sign of the man from before. At one point he                         swore he spotted curled fingers gripping the hard ground,                 seeming to extend from the Darkness in a final grasp of                     hope, burning and Darkening even as Laf’s light shone           nearby, but when he turned his head they vanished,                 consumed again into the writhing forms that surrounded               him. 

He returned to his fire with the new backpack in hand.                     Gingerly, he flipped it over, but all that spilled from inside                     were charred remains of branches that quickly turned to                 dust and ash, floating through the air until they                 dissipated, joining the Darkness like the man who’d used                 them. Laf decided to return and report the events to his                     group. At least they had a new backpack. In the very least,                       they could use it for kindling.   

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B-Minor Blossoms: An Oulipo Experiment Catherine Kurtz  

After Stevenson, Robert Louis’ “33. The Moon”  

Budding blossoms bloom beneath benign  Boundless black, beneath bothersome broken bridges, beneath boulder barriers barring bypass. Behind babbling brooks, behind  brilliant bluebells by bristletails, behind  blessed backdrops bequeathed by bureaucrats,  barons. Beyond bizarre bohemian beliefs,  beyond beloved baroque banquets. Between  blushing bride’s bouquets, between bonafide beauties breaking behemoth brick-laid boundaries, between battle bloodied battlements breached by battlefield ballistics. But, beautiful   blooms better behave beneath bittersweet   braveries, behind bulletproof benevolence, beyond bridesmaiding bellflowers, between bluebonnets,  by backlit blue bulan.    

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My Lai Catherine Kurtz  My Má used to sing my Em gái and I to sleep each night. Tucking us in, checking that we washed our elbows and knees. Dirt and grass were never the kindest bedfellows. We hung on her every word, starfruit  trees warning of greed, and ducklings hiding legs  gifted by the divine. Back then, we played outside  with the high moon, or shallow sun among rice fields, livestock, and bamboo. Careful to milk the cow  and gather the chickens when asked.   

It was 1968, when rifle fire parted  tall grass and assaulted the bamboo.  

Má flung bags at Em gái and I, ushered into the field behind our home. 

hold still; crouch low; stay hidden   I heard our cousin shout, a rifles fire greeting them. I swatted côn trùng from my face, buzzing a soft crescendo, the further we waded in. Drowning out orders, our neighbors’ screams, and Em gái pleading for Má. Further we sank into the grass, becoming sod, staying unseen.   

Spared from the sight of ditches lined with bodies. 

Spared from Má’s face marred with blood and gore. 

Spared from the realization that more war was to come. 

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Ode to Morning Catherine Kurtz  Morning filters through windows, casting its brilliant rays Beams which kiss her cheeks, awaken her restless soul Scattered pale yellow beckons her to cross under bedroom  archways She rises clad in a sweater and camisole   A steamy cup, a tempting brew lures her to the kitchenette Cold tile welcomes her footsteps, as light continues to  brighten Bird songs drift into the room, achieving a peaceful  balance   Across, 

alarm blares,  serenity snuffed out 

like a cigarette   Now begins her course, stifling deadlines, expectations Lost ability to embrace stillness and silence Papers shuffle, snap, crumble, crinkle Too many obligations and promises forced into a dainty  purse by Calvin   

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Winter’s Farewell Catherine Kurtz  

After the poems of my Great-Grandfather James Melody 

 White-shrouded, dying, but with regal grace He lay, a dripping scepter by his side; A princess dropped a green veil on his face Yet, no one knew exactly when he died. 

  It began with the first gust of smoldering air Clear blown breath surely sealed his ill-starred fate; Focus shifted; lilac, marigold care Yet, pillars melt, reveal Spring’s florid gate.  Solemn farewell carried on a fervent breeze Fair gardens sprout from verglass enclosures; Birds chime from tall southern willowwacks trees Yet they too will pass, while the Frost King’s eyes 

varnish over. 

   

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That Rebellious Girl C.S.W.  

She is not alive for very long before it is said, familiar                       enough to be comical, regular enough to be earnest,                 amplified with every iteration from her mother’s tongue: 

“So help me God, sweetheart, you better not grow up                   to be that rebellious girl.” 

It comes in many colors: loving, concerned, angry,               farcical. She hears it in every locale of her life, across                     playgrounds at five, during birthday parties at twelve, and                 every morning before school at eighteen. The sentence               strings out, stitching together shreds of material the               speaker is in power to choose, quilting her into being. In                     the ethers of childhood and its malleable consciousness               there are only peaceful words, nursery rhymes, cradle               coos, and the warmest Scriptures painted on the walls of                   her room and mind. But then the barrier to adolescence,                   ripe with caustic free will, is breached, and by the time                     blood quietly arrives in her biology, the change is made,                   the walls are high, and the pure white edifice of her name                       is safe. At once the words disappear. Those familial                 nursery rhymes and Scriptures become ghosts, and all               that remains is the one sentence. It stands sacrosanct, and                   from it she is formed like Eve from the rib of Adam.  

The sentence is a mantra during the week before she                   leaves for the university, far and unreachable from home.                 As though to bridge the gap with verbal bricks, her mother                     ceaselessly bleats the sentence, long and dominant from               her mouth or chopped into words to be sprinkled in other                     sentences. Like a prayer before food, the admonitions               

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come on the car ride to church every Sunday morning, a                     sacramental indulgence. 

“I know, sweetheart, but those sororities are filled               with those kinds a girls, them rebellious girls, you know                   that.”  

“I know, mom, but I really don’t think they’re like                   that. They seem really nice and–” 

“Ain’t there a Christian sorority on campus?” 

“Yes, mom.” 

“Well why aren’t you lookin’ into that, I think that’d                   be really good for you.” 

“But mom, I wanna join this one.” 

A sigh. “They got a chapel on campus, don’t they?”  

“Yes, mom.” 

“Well if you keep up your attendance, then I’ll think                   about it.” 

The morning service is her last in the town of                   Whiterock, and when the heads bow, Ed Granville phrases                 his divine request in the gentlest way possible, sparing the                   minds of mothers.  

“Father, we pray that You will deliver our college                 students who are soon to leave us. Strengthen them, guide                   them, and help them to remember that even though this                   world may be big and the campus may be big, You are                       bigger. You are with them everywhere they go, no matter                   how sinful or dark it may be, they can never go too far that                           

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they can’t come back home again to Your arms, just like                     the prodigal son. They will never leave Your eye, Lord, and                     for this I am thankful. You are our shepherd and deliverer                     – not us, Lord. Not us.” 

Conversation is a traffic jam in the youth group, with                   schools, degrees, and states crossing over one another in                 verbal clusters. Before it all she is stale, taciturn,                 withdrawn from the highway of talk as the words zoom                   past her. 

“Wow, ain’t you scared?” 

“That’s pretty far away.”  

“A little, yeah, but the campus is so beautiful, and                   their nursing program is actually really good.”  

“I plan on coming back home pretty often, though.” 

“It’s Christian-based, but y’know, I don’t know if it’s,                 like, really Christian, y’know?” 

“I hear there’s a lot of drinking and, you know, that                     kind of stuff around there.” 

“The place is really popular, I hear good things about                   it everywhere.” 

“I’ma try to finish in three years if I can, to save                       money and time.” 

“It’s all so exciting, ain’t it?” 

“Their athletic teams are killer, that’s for sure.” 

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“It is. It really is.” 

Between feathery flutters of conversation, Amy           Granville finds her way to the girl with her oft-repeated                   message, an antithesis of the sentence that is the spine of                     the girl’s existence.  

“So you think you’ll still be a li’l goody two-shoes                   when you leave home?” 

The girl rolls her eyes. “Well, I don’t reckon I’ll up and                       change my identity and become a different person               anytime soon, if that’s what you mean.” 

“Whatever you say. I’m just sayin’, you never know                 what might happen when you’re out there, y’know?”  

“It’s not that far away.”  

“That’s not the point. The point is, you’ll be out of                     here, off in the world, alone.”  

She raises her eyebrows. “And?” 

Amy simply giggles to herself, coquettish and             immortal in her blitheness, and walks away with one                 word.  

“Nothing.”  

In Amy’s blood is a strain of her father’s providence,                   and the blonde prophet’s words hang still before the girl’s                   eyes like a nursery mobile as Whiterock turns to campus.  

The rift, the threshold of uncertainty, the point where                 all the stubborn rocks left inside her can find room to                     shake and unanimously fall – it opens. The world                 

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consumes her all at once, a rapid baptism, engulfing her                   in epinephrine Heaven. A week, a fortnight, a month and                   two months, and anonymous arms that once patted her on                   the head and bent her fingers into a praying position now                     wrap about her, squeezing condemned flesh, fathoming             her unfathomed, touching her untouchable.  

Eeeee! 

Oh, you did, don’t even lie. 

I did not! 

Flying a bit close to the sun, sweetheart? 

Whatever you say, little girl. 

You have to go gentle… 

I did not, you know it! 

Try this. 

What’s in it? 

I don’t know, how about you find out for me? 

You’re just teasing me. 

Hey-y-y! 

God, I can barely stand up– 

Hold onto me, sweetheart. Hold onto me.  

Gent-!…tle-!  

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The next time she steps into the pew with her mother,                     her feet have difficulty finding their place, her Sunday                 tinged with the lingering reservoirs of Saturday.             Nevertheless, her aching, stumbling kneel before the Lord               feels as noble a kneel as any, and as muscle memory                     clasps her hands together, prayers clamber drunkenly             from her heart, incoherent, unfocused, babble.  

Between congregators, the girl tries to blend in with                 the fold of faiths until she can escape, but no sea refuses                       to part at the name of Granville. She finds the girl and                       immediately fishes for her coveted evidence:  

“Goodness. Someone had a long night. You feeling               okay?” 

The girl turns in all other directions, struck with the                   fear of a lion’s den at the sight of Amy’s saffron mane. 

“I’m alright,” she manages. “A little sleepy. Had to                 drive all the way back early this morning to make church                     on time.”  

“And your mama wouldn’t have it if you missed,                 would she?” 

“Definitely not. This is the first time I been back in two                       months or so, and she wants me home every second of it.                       No, she woulda lost it if I missed.”  

“Right. Think she would lose it if she knew what you                     did last night?”  

A volt goes through the girl’s spine. “What?” 

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Titters of a songbird. “What’d I tell ya? I knew you                     wasn’t gonna be a goody two-shoes your whole life,                 sooner or later you were gonna try something new.” 

“How did you know?”  

“Please, I know you. Ain’t a soul in this town who ain’t                       predictable as all get out.”  

“Well I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell my mom, or                     anyone for that matter.”  

“I won’t, I won’t.” Amy gazes for a moment. “Bless                   your heart. If God’s still willing to, that is.” 

Titters.  

A sulfurous daylight beams ruthlessly down from the               sky, piercing the girl’s head, heavy with a new kind of a                       communion. Bumping numbly along in the passenger’s             seat as she heads home, the girl tries to keep up with her                         mother’s sibilant, almost alien words. 

“And those girls don’t even try, I ain’t blaming them, I                     promise you that. God did not put me here to choose who                       He saves and who He don’t, but that don’t change the fact                       that they are just…different, honey. They’re not like us,                 they’re from a different culture. And that’s fine, that’s                 perfectly fine.”  

The girl furrows her brow. 

“But I do not want to see my daughter becoming like                     those rebellious girls out there. You know, what ever                 

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happened to going to chapel on campus? I’d really like to                     see you going there sometime.”  

So she does. In the house of her Lord, a house of                       dancing and full-throated praise just a street away from                 campus, she takes down the glasses of her communion                 and, as an act of service, offers her body as an altar for                         other followers to lap up their own. But the sacrifice is not                       enough, displeasing to her Lord, 

Such a little tease, aren’t you? 

so she must offer up her body as He has. As His                       muscular hands guide her body to a tomb of sheets and                     pillows, all she was, all she is, and all the contradictions in                       between are given up as praise, and He can feel the forces                       dueling inside of her with every gyration. 

The body wriggles and contorts atop her, but only as                   one quakes with inspiration when kneeling at a divine                 symbol, on divine ground. Whimpers and moans of               exaltation escape him, corresponding with the motions of               her own body, inspired and renewed from within him by                   her. Her name floats among his cries in a whisper, the                     quietest of his words, yet all the more inspired for it. As it                         trickles from his lips, familiar to her own throat, she hears                     also a shift, a change, the roll of the stone from the tomb’s                         door. 

Emerging from the room, she sees the eyes, the eyes of                     her church family, all turned on her, but their gazes are                     now inverted, warped from their condemnation and             pristine superiority to reverence. 

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The sacrament continues as tabs are laid out on the                   counter.  

You’re gonna want some of this, sweetheart.  

She feigns much older than she is, begging the acidic                   wafer be placed on her tongue for her. As his finger is                       received, one phrase falls from the imaginary lips of her                   mother, random and arbitrary, landing on her mind like a                   falling pillar.  

Sooner or later, whether they want to or not, all sinners                     will see God. 

And she does. 

In the glow of synesthesia and reflected light, each one                   different from the one before, clashing with color against                 color and truth against truth, all impossible, impossible               for her mind to reconcile – in this chaos God is suddenly                       visible. Foot by heavenly foot, he steps towards her in a                     pied glow, a grim glare over his brow. Quivering and                   cowering,  

Hey now, hold on there, you’re alright, you’re alright.                 Take it easy, now, girl, take it easy.  

she raises her hands, staggering backwards, fixated             with the terror of her transgressions, bowing in readiness                 for retribution… 

But it never comes. As horror surges back into ecstasy,                   God kneels before her and washes her feet. 

“We are sinners!” Ed Granville confirms. “We are all                 sinners alike, ain’t we? So what separates us from the                   

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wide gate? What makes us so sure that we’re the wheat                     and not the chaff? The sheep and not the goats? My                     friends, it is this, the answer is this: we resist our sin. We                         resist it! When the Devil puts his nonsense into our head,                     we don’t sit there and accept it, we don’t sit there and say                         ‘Oh, well, he really knows what he’s talking about’ – No!                     We pray to our Father, say ‘Please, God, please lead me                     not into temptation,’ and we go about our godly day,                   amen? Paul writes in Romans that, yes, it is true that we                       are all sinners. It is true. But by no means, he says, by no                           means should we take that and become complacent to it.                   My friends, that is not the way of the Lord. We must resist                         the wrong path, we must.”  

The conjoined youth and college class seems a mute                 tongue since her last attendance of it. by comparison of                   the worship she has seen. She sits dimly across from                   Sherman Hewitt as he sheepishly goes about his weekly                 post, and mundane words of humility, temperance, and               submission to the righteous path float like jellyfish in the                   air.  

“And, y’know, God doesn’t want to fight with us,                 right? He wants us to want to follow Him, y’know, He                     doesn’t want to make us do it, He wants us to do it of our                             own free will. That’s why He gave us free will, right?”  

Her attention is turned at these words, flexing and                 wrapping about the them like brute hands capturing a                 butterfly. 

“Isn’t that what you guys think?” Sherman prompts.               “Or, what do y’all think?” 

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The room is thick with apathetic silence. All look                 either up to the ceiling or down to the table. 

“Y’know, I don’t know about that, Sherman…” 

The whole room audibly shifts, a simultaneous             attraction and repulsion from the mutest voice at last                 gifted with song.  

“After all, when most people, biblically speaking, were               given free will…I don’t know, a good bit of ‘em didn’t                     choose God at all, did they? They chose Herod, or Caesar,                     or Baal, even. And even though God punished them, or so                     the prophets tell us, they always seem to return back to                     their idols…so I don’t know if God gave them free will so                       they would come on back to Him. If anything, it seems to                       do the opposite.”  

“Right, right…” Sherman’s open mouth is a vacuum,               with neither answer nor objection. “But not all, a course,                   y’know, there were always those that followed God. and                 He values everyone, right? There’s always those people in                 the Bible that did follow Him, y’know, Paul, Peter, Simon,                   even. They’re still in there, right?”  

“Right, a course, a course.” The girl smiles. “But                 they’re never in there for very long.”  

She scans the room again. The eyes of the church have                     warped once again – shock, disgust, terror. 

She looks off to the side, and Amy Granville’s face                   bears a kind of horror the girl has never seen her wear,                       aghast, almost trembling. 

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The mirror is an unrecognizable and broken pane of                 stained glass when she looks into it. 

Her car packed and ready for her return, she walks                   through the house to ensure she’s not forgotten anything,                 and, like a chameleon’s tongue snatching a wandering fly,                 her mother takes her by the hand with one terse sentence: 

“Come here – let’s talk.” 

A stolid march brings the girl to the edge of her                     mother’s bed, and she recognizes the self-priming her               mother undergoes before a difficult conversation. 

“Now, honey,” she begins, “I don’t mean to nag at                   you or step in the way of your happiness, because that’s                     all I’ve ever cared about. It means the world to me that you                         walk in the way of true joy, real joy, and all your life I’ve                           seen you do just that.” 

Her hand rises to brush away a few strands of the girl’s                       hair. “All your life…my little girl. 

“But, sweetheart.” The hand falls. “There are some               ways to happiness – or, at least, what some folks call                     happiness, that are not the way this family behaves. It is                     not what we do. And drugs are one of those ways, honey.” 

“Mom, what are you talking about, this is–” 

“I know, I know, sweetheart. You’ve heard it all                 before, I know.” Her mother’s face turns over to reticent                   anger, a surface of magma. “Which is why it surprised me                     all the more when I found this inside your glove                   compartment.” 

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A magician’s sleight revealed, the mother produces a               bag of green chunks, fragrant as it dangles from two                   disgusted, outstretched fingers. 

The girl closes her eyes. Persecution. 

“Yeah, I found it inside your car while you were                   getting ready for church.” 

A silence yawns between the two. The mother’s steel                 glare is ardent. The girl looks down and bites her lip in                       guiltless frustration. 

“Now, honey, I am extremely disappointed in you. I                 am. But I can think of one person who is even more so.” 

“Oh my god…” 

“That’s right, sweetheart. Your God. And you are in no                   place to be blaspheming in this house, all you should be                     doing is begging for forgiveness, begging with all your                 heart. Because mark my words, one of these days, God will                     prevent your going against his ways.”  

An arched eyebrow, and the girl’s eyes rise, almost as                   inhuman as her voice: 

“He didn’t.” 

Her mother inhales dragon’s breath through her             nostrils. “Don’t you talk to me like that, young lady. I can                       see what’s going on: you have started down the wrong                   path. And I am extending an olive branch to you. I should                       be pulling you out of that school right now. But I am                       showing mercy on you, just as I know the Lord will.” 

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“I don’t need your mercy, and I don’t want His.” 

“You need all the mercy you can get, young lady. Lord,                     what was I thinking sending you off so early, you were not                       ready, not at all.” A yelp of tears lumps into her throat.                       “Always scoffing at your Sunday school lessons.” 

“Okay, we’re done here.” 

The girl rises and begins to leave. 

“Don’t you move, young lady!” The tears evaporate               into steam. “There are going to be some big changes for                     you. I want you home every weekend, calling me every                   single day, and don’t you even think about keeping that                   sorority of yours.” 

“Mom, we are finished.” 

“I told you, time and time again, that I did not want                       you to be led down the wrong path. I better not ever, ever                         see anything like this again, so help me God, my daughter                     will not grow up to be that…” 

She turns. A knifelike glare wordlessly beheads her               mother’s sentence. 

“Who are you speaking to right now?” she asks, her                   tone at a legitimate loss for answers. “Do you even know?                     Is this girl, standing right here in front of you, someone                     you are familiar with? Do you know the chances of me                     being pregnant right now? Hell, it’s almost as certain as                   the birth of Christ. Have you seen the inside of my head,                       mother? Of my soul? Or are you only estimating, throwing                   out guesses at where exactly between Heaven and Hell I                   might end up – no, you only know how to estimate, to                       

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follow your stupid hunches, because in the end, deep,                 deep down, mother, that’s what you need. You need to be                     held back, you need to be kept in the dark, because if I told                           you half of the things I’ve done, I could make the crosses                       on the f wall shake!” 

“Do not use that language–” 

“So let me make things easier for you:  

“I am not on the wrong path, mother – I am the wrong                         path. I am Caesar, I am Baal. I am the one who brings                         priests and pastors to nooses, envying and lusting over                 me, two of those deadly sins, more than enough to blow                     this place off the earth. This place – it hates me, and it                         adores me, and it hates me because it adores me. And it                       will spend its whole life trying to beat me. But so help me                         God, mother, the next time you see me, it’ll be right here,                       home sweet home, in the bed of one of your precious little                       pastors, and maybe then you’ll see just how far down the                     wrong path you are.”  

The girl slams the door behind her and leaves                 Whiterock, shedding her cushioned fetters, fully formed             in her flight toward the sun, until a fatal overdose brings                     her back home to her mother, and a murderer returns to                     the crime.   

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Untitled Anthony Edwards 

   

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lavinia of the crossroads Sarah Muscarella  i’ve served the sun for all of my days basking in his beauty and his rays i’ve worn my soul down to the core worshipping the light of his smile and laugh spellbound by the curvature of his calf  i devote myself to him and try to catch a glimpse of his fair eyes how i long to brush his skin to trace his lips to feel his power ‘neath my fingertips   so have i longed for many a year no need to be shaken or doubt or fear until   she  who came to me as sudden as her birth who bid me stay and learn my worth with swordsharp eyes and tongue like rain and lit a fire no man can claim  her figure cannot be erased it lingers, though i cannot chase smooth as marble, strong as iron my body burns to be her pyre   athena’s breast 

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apollo’s hips goddess bliss god’s sweet jest  athena’s might apollo’s light goddess bite god will smite  me if i dare come clean  my heartstrings fray as i am caught in the sway  of two heavenly bodies two loves two gods for whom i wish to half my heart   

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mothman, oh mothman Sarah Muscarella  mothman, oh mothman let’s fly away tonight i’ll meet you in point pleasant if you’ll just hold me tight  mothman, oh mothman you know i love you so  your eyes they shine like rubies and make the forest glow  mothman, oh mothman they just don’t understand you’re the moth of my sweet dreams who cares if you’re half-man   

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planet x Sarah Muscarella  are you there, planet x? it’s me, dr. margaret.    i’ve ground my pencil thin i’ve plotted every line i’ve searched and searched but nothing’s there could you please give me a sign?  blink once for yes blink twice for yes hell, blink as many times as needed just let me know that you exist!  they say that you’re in orbit they say that you’re enormous by all accounts, you should be here but you’re doing nothing for us.   planet x, i doubt planet x, i must confess for years, i’ve watched your place in cosmos hoping one day i’d be blessed.    my mother’s sick with cancer my father prays and prays and i just stare at stars in the sky i know no other way.    when i find you, planet x 

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if i find you, planet x you’d better fix my broken life and fill in all my checks.   dr. margaret, signing off dr. margaret, going home to toss and turn and hope for the day i know we’re not alone.   

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questioning. Sarah Muscarella  my skin is painted rainbow of that there’s no denying with hair cut short and breasts bound tight is there even point in trying  to resist the fear that’s lurking here— that what lies on the surface  just might have seeped into my bones and the fortress where my heart is   the question begs the question has she been right all along since her sobs crashed on my shoulders pinning me and telling me i’m wrong  “just say you are monochrome,” he dragged me along with him but how can i take his advice he’s petrified by what’s within  at last i’m done pretending at last i’m coming out  because maybe this part of me does not make me less devout.   

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Aboard the Satellite Saloon Carlos Sanchez  

Ignacio stood behind the counter, cleaning a             highball glass. As he listened in on the hums and                   chitchat of the last of his clientele, the human                 bartender picked up on a slight clinging from behind                 him. He turned just as several bottles on his shelf                   inched their way over make room for three new drinks                   soon to join his stock.  

The wall behind Ignacio was both his pride and his                   livelihood. From floor to ceiling, there were bottles of                 booze. It had everything – Terran vintages like               Bacardi and Jack Daniels, fringeworld homebrews,           even corporation-grade cheapshit. Nothing was         lacking aboard the Interstellar Space Station’s           Satellite Saloon. And that’s how Ignacio liked it. The                 spectacled barkeep had worked out contracts all             throughout the system to get exactly what he wanted                 to stock the bar. He knew his wide selection would                   draw all sorts in on their breaks. Keeping them coming                   back just needed his ears to be open and his pours                     heavy-handed. 

The bar was a frequent stop for Voyagers in and                   out of the ISSS – as their ships refueled and repaired                     between missions, they got some of their own rest and                   relaxation. Ignacio loved hearing the human and alien               captains’ and crews’ stories, seeing their ships, just               about anything to learn more about the great expanses                 he knew existed outside his little bar. He always                 laughed it off as him wanting to be a Voyager when he                       was a kid, but in truth, all he wanted was to get out of                           

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the ISSS at least once before he reached his thirtieth                   revolution. It’s not that he wasn’t happy on the                 Saloon; that was certainly not the case. It was his baby,                     he’d been working to make it the best bar in the Sol                       system since he acquired it ten revs ago, but there was                     just so much more out there to see and experience.                   Thousands of upon thousands of planets both near               and far, many of which he could barely conjure in his                     imagination – barren worlds consisting of strange             geometric formations, world-spanning cityscapes       with more technology than in the rest of the galaxy,                   entire civilizations hidden under planets’ vast seas.             Anything was possible out there. 

With a bit of a start, Ignacio came out of his                     daydreaming. He looked out at his last few patrons for                   this cycle – he knew everyone left by name. Only the                     regulars stayed this late. All of them knew him and the                     bar intimately in return. He heard the same clanging                 from earlier again. More drinks. His regulars had seen                 the gaps plenty of times before. Closing time didn’t                 just mean cheaper drink, it meant new shipments. 

“So, you gonna tell me what it is, Iggy, or what?”                     asked a tall, gray-skinned, alien at the bar as he                   finished his drink. “Has to be something big – not                   everyday you get four new bottles, bud,” his deep,                 almost growling voice continued. 

Ignacio took his friend’s glass without responding,             his motions automatic as he cleaned it. He looked                 down at his hands distractedly as he wiped it with a                     rag soaked in sterilizing agent. 

 

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“Hello? Vron to Iggy – you there Iggy?” said the                   grey alien, waving one of four hand in front of the                     barkeep’s face. 

“Huh? Oh. Sorry, V,” Ignacio responded as he set                 the glass down. With a dry laugh, he continued, “Yeah.                   I’ve got no clue what you’re talking about.” 

“Don’t give me that load of Slyph feces,” Vron                 said, slapping two massive hands against the brass               countertop “We both know that I know you better than                   that. You’ve got everything coming in and out of here                   memorized weeks in advance.” 

Ignacio ignored the assault to his bar and served                 him another drink – Old Fashioned glass, rocks,               one-part gin, another-part rosso, last-part Campari,           garnish with orange peel, light it for a bit of flare.                     Negroni weren’t the first thing that came to mind                 when looking at Vron, but that was all the hulking,                   four-armed Ourk had been ordering since he’d started               coming here regularly two revs ago. Ignacio had               always pictured Ourks as these bumbling brutes that               probably liked to drink liquor straight. But Vron had                 shattered his expectations of the space Orcs, once               mighty and –  

“C’mon, man. Tell me what it is!” 

Does he have to be so loud… The barkeep came back                     to the real world, shrugging at his friend. “Sorry, V, I                     really don’t know what it is yet. I didn’t order anything                     new; Tio Felipe probably called in a favor for                 something. You know he still thinks he owns the                 place.” 

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Vron sighed and downed the drink.  

The small hardlight tablet in Ignacio’s shirt pocket               buzzed. He smiled, “Thank you for your patronage,               sir.” 

“F you too, Iggy,” Vron called out, already               halfway out the bar. He had to duck down to avoid                     hitting his head on the low doors as he made his way                       to his ship. “I’ll be back again after work.” 

“I know. Later, V.” 

 

… 

 

It wasn’t long after that until the Saloon was                 empty. Ignacio did a bit of cleaning and prepping. As                   he was slicing lemons for garnishing, he cut a large                   gash over the tops of his fingers. Managing to avoid                   getting blood on the fruit, he quickly bandaged his                 fingers. The adhesive would make working much             harder, and he couldn’t keep himself occupied enough               to not be distracted.  

The tablet in his pocket buzzed again, this time                 twice to signal a message. He looked down and he saw                     his Uncle Felipe face, “You open it yet?” 

That settled it, he had to check it out. It didn’t take                       long for Ignacio to lock the place up. It didn’t matter                     

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that the bar was still a mess; he could clean up after he                         saw what his uncle’s surprise was.  

He headed to the storage bay. The crate Felipe had                   bought sat alone where the delivery freight ship had                 left it. Ignacio took out the tablet from his pocket and                     scanned the label on the package. After a quick beep,                   the contents were identified.  

Manufacturer: RisaCorp 

Wait, really? Ignacio furrowed his brow. Tío Felipe               hates corporation shit. 

Product: StayCation 

Well, that’s a dumb name. He sighed and quickly                 scrolled down the rest of the product information,               barely skimming it until he reached the end. 

MSRP: 25.000 Interstellar Federation Credits per           bottle 

What?! Ignacio nearly dropped the tablet, his eyes               wide. I could pay three months’ rent with that much. Why                     the f would anyone spend so much on a bottle of booze?                       He scrolled back up. 

Product description: Made for the working class,             RisaCorp’s newest liquor creation is a vacation             sensation without the travel or the time. Experience               any number of premade relaxation destinations with             just a glass of our new StayCation. 

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F . That really does sound stupid. How do they expect                   normal people to buy this shit…? 

“What does this stuff even look like?” Ignacio               sighed and lifted his glasses into his hair, then                 brought the tablet up to his right eye. The display                   flashed, verifying the recipient. A hiss soon followed               from the crate as the top slid open. 

He stared at the contents of the crate in disbelief.                   The bottles inside were tiny – smaller than the palm of                     his hand. 

“What was Felipe thinking?” Ignacio cried aloud.             he pushed a few buttons on his tablet and a tone came                       from it. After a few seconds, a small image of an aging                       man with a thick mustache and a only a wreath of                     black hair appeared, projecting from the tablet. 

“Sobrino, you open the box? It’s great, right?” the                 image of his uncle asked. 

“No. It’s not, Tío,” Ignacio responded. 

“Pendejo! Everyone’s gonna be buying it; it’s             gonna be the new thing,” his uncle shouted.               Obviously, expecting his nephew to share in his               excitement. 

“Tío, no one can afford a single bottle,” Ignacio                 said, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“No te preocupes, mijo. Them rich bastards are               gonna love this stuff. Trust me,” 

“Tío! –” 

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“Mira, Ignacio, just try it – first bottle’s on the                   house... well, on RisaCorp. You’ll see what I’m talking                 about. Trust me,” Felipe reassured his nephew. 

“Yeah. Fine. Whatever you say, Tio,” Ignacio said,               ending the call. “What the hell could be so special                   about these drinks?” 

He stood, staring at the bottles. My uncle’s gone                 insane.  

He picked up a few bottles, reading the colorful                 labels: Sangria at the Beach, High Society Highball,               Poolside Long Island Iced Tea, Ski Lodge Irish Coffee.                 Each label featured a picture of the promised               “experience” and the name, nothing else. So, they’re               single-serving, premixed cocktails? What exactly makes           them so special? 

“I guess Tío wants me to try one. He seems to like                       them, or at least he’s willing to buy them, so it can’t                       hurt to try.” Besides, if the first one is free, who am I to                           say no? 

Ignacio grabbed the first one he’d picked up, the                 sangria, and took it back to the bar. He read the                     directions: 

Serve in glass – no need to chill. 

Drink in a comfortable area. 

Please enjoy responsibly. 

He got himself a glass and poured the entire bottle,                   but he had more glass than drink. Sitting at a booth, he                       

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stared at his drink. It looks like a decent enough sangria.                     He held the glass under his nose. Smells decent – okay                     wine, strong citrus notes. He sighed. Guess I shouldn’t let                   it go to waste. 

He took a sip of his drink, then smacked his lips                     lightly. It isn’t too bad. He took another. It kinda gets better the more you drink                     it. 

He drank more, feeling the iced sangria run down                 his parched throat. Ugh. Why is it so hot in here? 

Wait… I served this room temp. 

Ignacio blinked. As his eye opened, he found               himself lying on a beach towel. He was sweating. His                   skin stung as the relentless summer sun poured over                 him. He took a deep breath and sneezed as the                   salt-stained sea air caught him by surprise. 

Where there once was a roof, all he could see was                     an ocean of blue with a white-hot dot at its center. At                       the horizon, sea and sky were almost inseparable. The                 waves washed up only a few steps away from him. 

Ignacio shook his head. “What is going on?” He                 said to the sky as he stood up, drink still in hand. Is this                           what the description meant by “a vacation, without the                 travel?” 

He drank more. The water washed over his bare                 feet. So, this is what the ocean looks like? It’s beautiful.                     He waded deeper into the water. This is too real. 

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By the time he finished his drink, he was waist                   deep. He lowered the glass into the water to clean it                     off. The saltwater stung the cuts along his knuckles.                 The pain startled him. Ignacio dropped the glass into                 the water and rubbed the cut on his hand. The pain                     was dull, but he had felt it. As he walked farther, the                       water came up just over his shoulders. He closed his                   eyes and plunged into the cold, clear sea, letting                 himself enjoy an experience that no one in his family                   had been able to in five to six generations. 

 

... 

 

He swam out until he could no longer see the                   beach. Everything was perfect; the waves didn’t hinder               him, there was no current, the ocean was clear to the                     bottom. This is where Mama and Tio Felipe keep saying                   my family supposedly came from, right? We lived on an                   island until the Spacerun. Everything is just like in the old                     holomovies.  

Ignacio played in the water for an entire cycle – or                     he supposed it would be called a day here. Just                   thinking about fish, made them appear. He swam with                 dolphins, watched sharks, dove with whales. Drinks             and food appeared at the shoreline at the merest                 thought. How is this possible? 

As the sun was going down, he made his way back                     to the beach. He sat down on the towel where he                     

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arrived. A wave brought his glass back beside him.                 Ignacio blinked. He opened his eyes back in the bar.  

He looked at the clock – 5:23. He’d been out for a                       little over three hours, but he had been on vacation for                     a day. Guess Tío was right. This’ll sell like crazy – if                       anyone can afford it, 

He went back to the crates and started stocking the                   bottles. He only had a few hours before he’d have to                     open back up. Checking his tablet, he laughed. Lucky                 me. The inventory log didn’t list the last flavor at all –                       he had an entire extra box of Ski Lodge Irish Coffee. He                       still stocked them, but he took a few for himself.  

Felipe won’t mind if I take the excess. He hasn’t                   before. Ignacio grinned at the thought. He’d never seen                 snow before, and he knew only a few of his usuals                     would’ve either. The one he was closest with certainly                 had never mentioned it. 

“Vron is gonna love this.”   

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Wide-Eyed Claire Police   

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The Snake Claire Police  The rattlesnake coils my  stomach turns I curl and whimper The snake rattles its  tail and hisses Fury with  defense The snake refuses to  let me go Coiling around my  stomach It rattles in warning  Fangs sharp Dripping with  venom It lunges and bites My  stomach shrinks in size No  longer able to hold food inside  The rattler coils tighter  Prepares to strike again   My heart constricts as the venom  travels Slowing the beat Then  catapulting in speed The bile stings I  taste what I have already ate  Retching over a porcelain bowl My  eyes sting Salt water hits the sides  Shoulders shaking Arms curled  protectively around myself   The rattlesnake curls and  hisses Fangs bared Teeth  dripping Bile rises I swallow  it down   The snake  bites I bite  back.   

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A Meticulously Crafted List of Things That I Like Ben Roberts  Receiving a flower picked fresh from the side of the lake.  Thick bread toasted in a pan with expensive butter.  Having ideas in the shower that don’t float away.   Expensive Butter.  Poems with lines the length of a breath.   Andy’s Concrete: Cookie Dough from Chocolate.  Five diamonds on my ring  on her finger.  Meals too beautiful to eat,  and eating them anyway.   The first time someone tells you: “You’re my friend”.   

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When the sky reminds you more of a painting than a sky.   The possibilities inherent in a new save file.   You’re my friend.   

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Isolation Ben Roberts  I wake up each day to see I’m alone,  How I’ve been and will be each day: alone.   At night the school is empty, No one bothers me when I walk alone.   The music blares, the party writhes,  Centered in this maelstrom, I find myself alone.  I feel her breath on my chest, I lie wide awake, Her warmth at my side confirms I’m alone.   Sat in the shower, salt tears on my face, The voice keeps screaming its song “You’re Alone.”  In a circle with those who share in my symptoms Their honest confessions prove I’m not alone.    

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My Blanket Ben Roberts  A gift from my mom fur, soft fuzzy and blue keeps me warm on cold nights  Snug in its waves, an oceanic burrito keeps me tightly wrapped  Suffocating sky blue over my head at noon uncomfortably warm  Blue fur on my chest like a napping kitten it leaves me unable to move  Safer in blue folds safer hidden from the cold I can’t get up today.

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The Farm Ben Roberts  The forest breaks before our eyes, the valley opens up below, we trundle down the rocky road and reach the house I’ve called my home for many years, though some ago for now, it’s just a place I go when time works out, family needs or fate returns me here again.  And yet, the jostle and the sun and trees and fields and bees and Bob and cat and cow and barn and food and thoughts that flood into my soul, cause me to wish I’d settle down Where once I used to call my home.    

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Trade Kristen Burkholder  

Thirty years ago there would have been more to                 choose from, Rowan thought as she lifted stacks of                 books from their storage crates, scanned their titles,               and replaced them. Many were familiar to her from                 previous trips, even though Luc knew—as did all her                 usual trading contacts—that she was only interested             in books she did not already have, and that there was                     no point in offering her anything she had declined                 before. As she touched them they left smudges on her                   fingers, the sticky dust that comes from being               repeatedly on the edge of damp, and she sneezed,                 turning her head aside. Pinkish streaks suggested that               mildew had gotten to a few, and stained brown spots                   indicated where beetles had once died, crushed by the                 weight of paper. 

In the crates cookbooks and brightly colored             picture books for children, murder mysteries and             books on astronomy, political histories and romances,             all jostled for space. Their covers, rubbed and faded                 though they were, bore witness to their contents and                 Rowan could assess them at a glance. As long as the                     pages were intact, if the title or author was new to her,                       she would try to purchase it. 

Rarely did Rowan misremember and bargain for a               book that the Refuge library already possessed. She               had been the chief book trader for half her lifetime,                   and had assisted old Tonio before that, so she had long                     since memorized the tens of thousands of titles the                 Refuge owned. There was always a thrill in finding                 

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something new, though it was increasingly infrequent.             When she had first journeyed with Tonio, they had                 often traded for dozens of books at each stop, and                   when Tonio’s predecessor Mat had begun traveling, it               might be hundreds. But then, when Mat began, he had                   been only two generations removed from the time of                 the Collapse. Now finding even five at a time felt lucky.                     Luckier still was the chance to read what she                 found—carefully, lest the fragile volumes be           damaged—before she had to hand them over to               Preservation on her return. Each would be assessed,               catalogued, and finally packed away in           carefully-labeled boxes stored safely in the deepest             levels of the Refuge. Someday, one by one, they would                   be retrieved. The printing press would be set up to                   reproduce each precious volume, perhaps a dozen,             perhaps a hundred copies. An endless and unwinnable               argument was ongoing between the archivists,           teachers, and leaders as to which books should receive                 first priority for duplication. 

Today was one of her lucky days; she had found a                     half-dozen unique titles, including one that had been               on the wanted list for the Refuge for generations: A                   Canticle for Leibowitz. They had a partial copy, the last                   third only, the story of the abbot who sent his monks                     off to another planet as the earth perished around                 him, doomed by mankind’s madness. The fictional             Order of St. Leibowitz, like the Refuge itself, did its                   best to preserve knowledge in the face of human                 indifference or even antipathy. Rowan wondered how             Luc had come by the book but decided not to ask lest                       she give him leverage in bargaining over the price. 

“I’ll take these,” she said at last, straightening up                 

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with the volumes she had chosen. 

“Excellent.” Luc rubbed his palms together. “Let             me see. Yes. Six books. Eighteen vials should do it.” 

“Eighteen? They’re hardly worth a vial and a half                 each, not three,” Rowan countered. “I’ll give you ten,                 and that’s generous. Look at this one.” She picked up                   the Peterson Field Guide to Moths of Northeastern North                 America. “The cover is falling off. And these pages are                   so yellowed and brittle they could break at any time.”                   She demonstrated, ignoring the pang as she broke off                 a corner of the last page of The Complete Works of Oscar                       Wilde. 

“I’ll settle for fifteen vials,” answered Luc. “The               ones you have there aren’t mildewed, not             insect-eaten, just old; stained at worst. Fifteen’s a fair                 price.” 

“Twelve. That’s two vials apiece, and that’s my               last offer.” Rowan waited. 

Luc scowled, but at last he nodded agreement.               “Twelve.” 

It was a more than generous price, even to get                   Canticle in the lot, but the caravan was on its                   homeward journey, with only two more trading             villages to visit before they returned to the Refuge, so                   Rowan could afford it. She opened the specially-made               leather pouch in which she kept the precious               laudanum and counted out twelve vials, lining them               up on the rickety counter. 

Luc picked each one up and squinted at it, assuring                   

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himself that they were full. Rowan didn’t take his                 mistrust personally; she would have done the same. It                 was only because she came through nearly every year,                 like Tonio and Mat had before her, and Luc knew that                     she would be back, that he didn’t open a vial and verify                       the contents by their bitter taste. He grunted and                 pushed the books across to her. The vials he secreted                   in a rusty metal box lined with stained cotton, locking                   it carefully with a key that hung from a leather thong                     around his wrist, before stowing the box under the                 splintered counter. 

Rowan wrapped her books in a length of canvas to                   protect them before ducking back out of the stiflingly                 hot shed where Luc traded his scavenged goods.  

Skata was waiting for her, his face impassive under                 the sheen of sweat the sun had induced. She gave him                     the leather drug case and watched with relief as he                   slung the strap over his chest and tucked the case                   under his loose linen shirt. No one was likely to                   attempt to steal it from Skata, the largest man she had                     ever seen in all of her travels. Everyone knew that their                     caravan traded in opium as well as in spices and in                     ribbons dyed bright colors otherwise unobtainable,           but the presence of Skata and the other guards had so                     far deterred theft. The bow slung over his back no                   doubt helped too. 

The wagons from the Refuge were clustered at the                 far end of the trading encampment. Books were far                 from the only thing Rowan and her companions               sought; metal was perhaps the most important, and               she could see Tad and Meg bargaining intently as she                   and Skata passed. Iron the Refuge could produce, but                 

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not tin and certain other mineral resources. The               caravan would remain another night and refill their               water barrels in the morning before continuing their               homeward journey, west across the vast sea of               grassland that had once been farms and ranches and                 had now reverted to wild prairie from which the                 remnants of humanity had mostly retreated. 

Rowan rubbed her thumb over the coarse cloth               that bound the precious books. Several hours of               daylight remained and she had little to do just now.                   None of her companions would know if she read one of                     them. She slid A Canticle for Leibowitz carefully from                 the enwrapping fabric and opened it to the first page,                   reading avidly. 

Brother Francis Gerard of Utah might never have               discovered the blessed documents, had it not been for                 the pilgrim with girded loins who appeared during               that young novice’s Lenten fast in the desert. 

Never before had Brother Francis actually seen a               pilgrim with girded loins, but that this one was the                   bona fide article he was convinced as soon as he had                     recovered from the spine-chilling effect of the             pilgrim’s advent on the far horizon, as a wiggling iota                   of black caught in a shimmering haze of heat. Legless,                   but wearing a tiny head, the iota materialized out of                   the mirror glaze on the broken roadway and seemed                 more to writhe than to walk into view, causing                 Brother Francis to clutch the crucifix of his rosary and                   mutter an Ave or two. 

 

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Rowan paused and looked up as a shadow fell                 across her. For an instant, confused, she thought it                 was the pilgrim Brother Francis saw, before she               recognized that it was only Skata, coming with a                 bucket of water. 

She put the book aside to drink a dipperful,                 nodding at him gratefully. 

“One you bought?” he asked in his raspy voice. 

Rowan squinted, assessing him. “Yes.” She           couldn’t remember if she had ever seen Skata read. He                   probably could—every child in the Refuge who was               capable of learning was taught basic reading and               arithmetic along with practical skills—but many           people preferred to hear stories told aloud. Did he                 know that Preservation frowned on anyone reading             original copies? Rowan thought not. There would be               no reason he should. 

“I want to be sure it’s in good condition,” she                   hedged the truth. “Not missing any pages, you know?” 

Skata’s face lit up, making him look startlingly               young. “Could you read it to me?” 

“I… yes.” Rowan cleared her throat. “But don’t you                 have to stay on guard?” 

“I can watch while you read.” He angled his body                   away from her so that he faced the dusty trail that led                       past the encampment. “Go on.” 

She turned back to the first page and began again,                   stopping to explain as best she could when the story                   

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mentioned matters with which Skata was unfamiliar,             and about many of which Rowan herself had only a                   hazy notion. So much had been lost, even with all their                     efforts. Sometimes Rowan felt that if the long-dead               could come back to life, she would cheerfully kill them                   all again in retribution for everything they had done,                 or failed to do, to preserve a future for humanity.   

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Boundary -rook-  There is a line As fine as dust Between being in love And being distracted.  I am yet To discover which I am more guilty of these days.   

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Huracán Carlos Sanchez  Tío Fele’s rooftop catches drops and it won’t stop  pitter-pattering clang-clattering first soft, then fast, fast, faster  Something snaps cracks, breaks ground shakes plate shatters  “Solo es un huracán, descansa. En la mañana se levanta.”   

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Writing Though the Night Carlos Sanchez  What time is it? Two o’clock – that’s fine I can be done by three It’s early  No, not three Make it four I’ve got to write.  Four? No – not four. Likely five. I can finish by five.  Guess not – it’s six already Jesus Christ, it’s six Why sleep now?  I have to be up –  to beat the sun, be at a meeting –  by seven.  It’s eight. I’m late. Now I have to run no time to stop for coffee. Good job, me.   

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The Rift Luke Barrett  

A story is a nebulous thing, difficult to define. Stories                   can be uncaged and free, defying traditions and               characteristic and archetype, or they can be the opposite,                 a typical mass of words with a structure and predictable                   middles and endings. Every society has its own version of                   what is typical, and each society accumulates stories that                 hold to or defy this tradition. No matter what these                   traditions are, and no matter how they change, stories                 continue to be told. 

“So, the stories have changed. What of it?” 

“These stories are dangerous.” 

“Aw, come on, Saria. Y’know this place would close                 down if it wasn’t for all the talk coming outta here.” 

“Ker, I don’t care how much extra business I get, this                     place is a local bar, not an adventurer’s guild.” 

Kerig looked around. Saria had a point; town regulars                 used to fill these seats, the people who had closed shop for                       the day, the workers and miners who were looking for                   respite from their strenuous jobs, and the occasional               travelling merchant or vagabond. Now, Kerig saw that               most of the locals still attending were huddled around two                   tables in a far corner, as every other space seemed filled                     with mercenaries and explorers. Saria had managed to               enforce her “no weapons” rule so far, and the small,                   wooden weapon rack next to the front door had filled, and                     various swords, shields, axes, bows, and supply packs               

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rested against the wall. The atmosphere, though friendly,               had taken an edge of danger and excitement not                 conducive to casual business. 

“Eh, I say there’s nothin’ like a little bit of blood and                       bone to liven the place up!” 

“Kerig, that’s ridiculous. This used to be a relaxed                 establishment. Every night I get closer to having to break                   up fights the hard way. The town has its hard drinkers, but                       they can’t compete with even your average warrior               coming off of a twelve-day trip out here. And when you                     put twenty of them in a room, you’re asking for trouble.” 

“Saria, they’re just tellin’ stories. There’s no harm in                 that!” 

“Yet.” 

Leaning across the bar countertop, Saria was stopped               from continuing by the arrival of a twenty-something               with a book in their hands. As Saria caught their eyes, they                       froze. 

“Oh, sorry, I don’t mean to intrude, but I couldn’t help                     overhearing, and I think there’s a solution to all this.” 

Ell was an unusual sight in Saria’s tavern. They were                   slight and didn’t have the usual adventurer’s garb on (all                   leather straps and plate metal). Saria frowned. 

“Are you old enough to be in here?” 

“Erm, yes,” they replied sheepishly. “I just heard that                 this place became a favorite for stories of the Rift, and I                       wanted to come check it out because I’ve been looking                   

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into it, and then I heard you talking about your problem,                     and I thought I might interject because I have an idea to                       fix it.” 

As Saria’s eyebrows sot up, Kerig’s furrowed. 

“What kinda plan? This place just got entertaining!” 

“That’s all I’m saying,” he quickly added off of Saria’s                   sharp look. 

Kerig did have a point. Since the Rift had opened up in                       the desert, adventurers had begun stopping in town on                 their way to visit it. People of all sorts, usually the leather                       straps and plate armor sort, would come to claim some                   treasure at the bottom of the Rift. They would bring their                     supplies, their maps, their experience, and they’d             consistently end up in the same place, Saria’s tavern. It                   was the only place for a drink in town, and it served the                         sort of stiff drinks that adventurers, successful or not,                 enjoyed to a great extent. 

The Rift itself was something of a mystery to Saria. It                     was a mystery to everyone in the town, really. None of                     them had bothered to go into the desert; they had content                     lives in town. The faint promise of adventure didn’t justify                   a long walk through sand and dust. Even those with                   stronger curiosity were usually sated by the adventurers’               tales. Kerig was a part of that small group. They all sought                       some adventure, some legend, some treasure or glory. The                 Rift was rumored to be full of monsters, and it certainly                     seemed to be. Adventurers would stumble into the tavern,                 often wearing fresh, if relatively unstained, bandages,             sometimes clutching some item they’d found in the ruins. 

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“Seized it from the ogres meself,” “Found it in the                   rubble,” “Got some scars now, no treasure like a                 hard-won victory.” Such sentiments quickly         overwhelmed all other conversation in the tavern. Even               when there weren’t copious explorers, the regulars would               talk about their favorite tales they’d heard from the Rift.                   Saria had quickly grown tired of the incessant stream of                   Rift talk and had started reproaching customers for               smothering the daily chatter of life. That was when Kerig                   had stepped in. And now some kid with a book had                     interrupted him. 

“I’ll say it again, kid, what sorta plan are ya talking                     about here?” 

“Um, the gist is that I think we can actually stop                     people from getting hurt by the Rift by destroying it. It                     would save a lot of people pain, and it would prevent this                       place from continuing to be a, uh, guild, as you said.” 

Kerig’s frown twisted into a wide smile that quickly                 grew to deep, hearty laughter. 

“And just how are you planning to destroy a natural                   landmark? Even better, how’re you gonna destroy a               canyon?! Y’know, canyons are formed when the ground               tears itself apart, not when it builds on top of itself.” 

Saria was about to interject and tell off Kerig for being                     harsh, but Ell spoke first. 

“Well, I was studying geology, and this book               mentioned landslides. So, I figured we could collapse the                 Rift in on itself. You’d just need some explosives.” 

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Kerig and Saria were startled again. 

“Oh, well, you could do it with picks of course, but                     then you’d have to be inside the ravine in some way, and                       that makes collapsing it a bit dangerous. So you need                   explosives,” Ell quickly explained. 

Kerig’s grin returned. 

“See, now that is the sort of thing I like t’hear! As luck                         would have it, I’m the local expert!” 

It was a fortunate instance of serendipity. The town                 had a long-running mining practice, and Kerig was the                 man they called when the work got slow and they needed                     immediate results. He also figured out how to put color in                     the explosions and would do demonstrations on special               days, like when he felt bored. He was the only one really                       willing to experiment with the stuff, and he’d only lost a                     finger and a toe, so the town was satisfied to let him                       continue experimenting as long as everyone else was kept                 out of the way when he was testing or using material. 

“So, you really think you can close the Rift and stop all                       of this?” 

Ell looked at Saria and saw the skepticism in her eyes. 

“Yes, I think it’s possible. That is, if he’s willing to                     help, of course.” 

“Help? Of course I’ll help ya, kid! How often d’ya get                     to explode a natural landmark?! Also, the name’s Kerig. So                   we’re on familiar ground.” 

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Kerig gestured with his flagon as he said this, spilling                   a bit of his drink onto the floor. 

“I’ll clean that up later, swear it!” 

Not to be put out, Ell beamed. “That’s terrific! I’m Ell,                     and we can head off as soon as I get some supplies                       together!” 

“Hold on one second.” 

Ell had spun to run home and start preparing a travel                     backpack. They turned back to see Saria’s face set hard                   with determination. 

“I can’t knowingly let you run off to the desert with                     this guy. He’s not dangerous, a little on the                 explosion-loving side, sure. But he’s not dangerous. He is,                 however, slightly drunk. I can’t let you run off until he’s                     had a chance to get what few wits he has back.” 

Kerig started to protest but was content to lodge his                   complaint with his mug instead of Saria. 

“Oh…” Ell paused to consider their next move. They                 hadn’t expected any real resistance from anyone who               wasn’t an adventurer. 

“So, I can’t let you do that without joining you to see                       the job done. I was a bit of a wanderer before I settled                         down and started this place. It’s how I keep customers                   from being too rowdy without hiring extra muscle. That,                 and everyone respects me because I’ve got the best drinks                   in town. My name’s Saria.” 

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Stunned, Ell managed to stammer out, “Sure, thank               you! I could use all the help I’ll get. It’ll, uh, take me some                           time to get all the supplies together, but I’ll be ready for                       tomorrow.” 

“Sure thing, Ell.” Saria turned to the rest of the                   establishment and straightened up. “Hey, it’s last call!               I’m closing up for a little bit, alright? So get what you                       want now before it’s gone.” Saria looked out on the crowd                     in front of her and dismissed the onset of groans. “It’s                     only for a short while, alright?”  

“Besides,” she added, “Most of you aren’t regulars               anyways.” 

Saria had her own preparations to make, and Kerig                 had to gather his particular supplies, but the next                 morning the trio arranged themselves outside Saria’s             empty tavern, and they were on their way. 

The Rift was said to be a few days’ journey from town.                       They walked through the woods to the north and arrived                   at the desert’s edge within an hour. Ell had packed water                     and rations for the journey, and Saria made sure to bring                     something a little stronger than water for herself and                 Kerig. Kerig had forgone practicality and carried a pack                 full of bundled explosives of various shapes and sizes. He                   would light off a few of the small ones and toss them as                         they walked, watching them pop, sending sand and sparks                 flying. Though they didn’t expect trouble on the walk to                   the Rift, Saria had brought her broadsword and mail as                   insurance. Saria’s shining ensemble cast their own             display, glinting in the sunlight. 

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As they traveled they saw distant rock formations               twisting into impossible shapes and structures, hewn by               the wind. The yellows and oranges of the rocks shifted                   through a range of warm hues. The setting sun cast no                     shadows except those of the travelers, and as night fell                   upon the trio, the warm colors cooled to deep blues and                     purples. As they set camp up for the night, darkness                   ushered all the surroundings into black. Finally, while a                 moon rose slowly, drifting aimlessly across the expanse,               the trio could see the glinting lights in the sky. Pinpoints                     of white, sometimes tinged with red and yellow, shone                 down upon them. Like many before them, the three spent                   several hours staring upwards before resting. 

“They’re beautiful.” 

“Aye, kid, they are. Y’know, I always liked lookin’ at                   ‘em back in town. They’re… inspiring.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“I mean, when you get fascinated with blowin’ stuff                 up, you take notice of what’s already out there doin’ a                     better job than you ever could.” 

Saria interjected, “Oh, come on, Ker. It’s not like you                   could match nature itself. Some things are just               impossible.” 

“Oh, but I’d like to. Few things’re really so enthralling                   as bright lights. It’s half the fun of the job!” Kerig started                       laughing, his hearty laughter breaking through the still               desert air clearly, echoing out into that infinite space                 above them. 

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“Besides,” he continued, his laughter fading, “What’s             th’point in doing anything if ya don’t have a comparison                   point?” 

“Well,” Ell picked up, “they’re beautiful, and I guess                 we’ll have a chance soon enough to put them in                   competition.” 

At this Saria and Kerig broke into raucous laughter.                 Their deep, heartfelt chuckles filled the space around               them, and Ell found themselves laughing along quickly. 

“Ell, I expect that enthusiasm from Kerig, not from                 you,” Saria managed to get out between breaths. 

They lay in the sand a little while longer before                   agreeing to go to sleep. The following nights they did the                     same, setting up camp and staring upwards for hours                 before falling asleep. 

After three days of travel they arrived at the famed                   Rift. 

“This… is it?” 

“It must be. None of my customers said it could be                     more than a few days’ travel, and this is the only unusual                       thing in sight.” 

Ell and Saria were looking at a single, thin crack in the                       ground. It stretched miles in either direction they looked,                 but it was certainly no deeper than a few feet, even in the                         places it had crumbled inward. The small cracks and                 fractures branching off of the crevice played on the                 imagination, but the reality of the situation was               lackluster. Kerig had broken out in a fit of laughter,                   

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hunched over and supporting himself with his knees,               before wiping his eyes and walking away to sit down,                   looking solemnly at the multitudes of explosives he’d               brought as he went. Ell and Saria approached carefully. 

“So,” he began, “this is the renowned Rift. Pfft,                 buncha hot air. Heh. It’s a shame, really. I mean, I’m                     impressed! The stories I’ve heard… I figured blowing it up                   would be the greatest one of ‘em all.” 

At this he exerted a weak smile and grabbed an                   explosive bundle from his pack, tossing it back and forth                   between his hands. 

“The Rift was legendary, y’know. Th’stuff of legends.               There’d be people in the bar - Saria, you know this -                       people in the bar trading stories, sayin’ how they got their                     scars from some beast with ninety teeth and claws like                   iron. I guess they, what? Probably just made it up, got the                       scars somewhere else, ran into a couple branches on the                   way back. Heh, gotta keep the story alive right?” Kerig                   began to cackle again, but Ell interrupted, their face alight                   with an epiphany. 

“What if we did?” 

Saria looked at them. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean, we already had plans to blow it up, right? And                       if we did, then it might just look like it collapsed on itself                         anyway, right? And then the stories stay alive!” 

At this, Saria smiled, and Kerig’s disoriented giggling               faded into awe. Kerig and Ell turned and looked                 expectantly at Saria, waiting for her deliberation. Saria               

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stood there for a moment, face set dispassionately,               considering. She let out a happy sigh. “Alright.” 

Ell and Saria turned to Kerig. His lament became a                   celebration, and he frenetically grabbed handfuls of             explosives and ran to the Rift. Ell and Saria would have                     volunteered to help if they’d been asked, but Kerig didn’t                   ask, and they didn’t mind watching him sprint around                 gleefully. After the larger part of a few hours, mostly                   characterized by Kerig excitedly hopping about and             laughing in a high-pitched manner that neither Ell nor                 Saria had the privilege of hearing before, the explosives                 were set. Kerig returned to the others and quickly ushered                   them backwards some two hundred feet. He trailed a long                   wick behind him as they walked. 

At long last they stopped. Kerig looked at Ell and Saria,                     raised an eyebrow, winked, and lit the fuse. They watched                   the spark race away across the desert ground. Kerig sat,                   patting the ground, and Ell and Saria followed suit. They                   didn’t have to wait too long, and soon the ground was                     shaking from the nearby detonations. The three watched               in silence as the monotonous yellow earth was broken by                   flashes of red and orange. Green smoke billowed forth                 from the explosions, but it didn’t mask the colorful blues                   and purples that followed as the detonations continued.               This colorful display launched sparks and flames thirty               feet in the air, cresting and arcing back toward the ground                     in stretching, brilliant parabolas. After the explosions had               ended, the group sat a while longer, savoring the                 moments before going to check the Rift. 

Saria broke the silence. 

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“Kerig, I’ve known you for a while now. You’re an odd                     bird. But that show… I think you may have rivaled the                     night after all.” 

Ell nodded vigorously in agreement, and tears welled               in Kerig’s eyes. He smiled warmly at the others. Ell                   cracked a large grin and grabbed the two by their                   shoulders. 

“Thank you,” they said, “this is more than I could                   have asked for.” Their eyes began to shine as well, and                     Saria reached out and pulled Ell and Kerig into a hug                     before either of them could get much sappier. 

“This has been fun.” 

The group stood and walked over to the new, improved                   Rift. It was now ten feet deep in some places and far wider                         than it had been before. The trio laughed, remarking that                   it’d be a lot more fun to explore and plenty more difficult                       to miss while travelling. They returned to the town soon                   thereafter and, after Saria reopened her tavern, their story                 quickly became the most famed. The tale of the barkeep,                   the student, and the pyrotechnic was quite popular, and                 the explosions that challenged the glory of the very skies                   are spoken of in awed tones in some circles. 

The Rift remains. It was visited long after, and many                   more stories were fabricated from its rubble. These stories                 persist, twist, and change, but the stories never end, and                   they never will.   

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Clouds Descend Claire Police   

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