The phone buzzed, and made its way to the edge of the table. Without looking, Greg picked it up and brought it to his ear. He thought twice, and turned it over to check the caller ID. He put it back down and pulled his fingers through his long, thinning brown hair. It was Martin, and that meant that it was time to go. Greg stood up and picked up the phone again.
"They're bad and you know it, Greg. We have to get lost, all of us. Annie's turning herself in." Marty's voice was flat and robotic. He was already driving, probably.
"Well, how much time do we have then?" Greg said as he imagined Marty's mustache from his college years flapping, trying to keep pace with his tongue.
"Couple hours, but we have to get out of the state tonight. I know a place we can hide out. I'll pick you up at ten-forty, be ready."
"Sure, Marty, sure. Do the other girls know?" Marty had already hung up.
Greg snorted and put the phone in a drawer. He packed what he needed into a grocery bag. Odd clothes he didn't wear much. Things that wouldn't be missed. A long-barrel revolver and $1400 that he had hidden in the ceiling panel of the downstairs bathroom. He took off his shirt, and removed a fillet knife from the kitchen drawer and cut across the fat of his left arm. He splattered blood on the floor and on the counter. He bandaged his arm, washed the knife and put it back. With a screwdriver, Greg took apart the lock on his front door. As the screws fell into the mud, it hit him.
That was it. That was his vacation from what they'd done. The meal was finished, and now it was time to skip on the bill. The TV was left on. He dumped his tax file onto the sitting room floor. Ripped his wallet, and spread its contents onto the kitchen counter. He tussled the bedroom closet, and left the door hanging open. He opened a beer and drank a few gulps, then left it next to his sofa. He checked to make sure the revolver was loaded. It was.
Greg walked outside quietly. He sat on the back porch with a hat pulled low over his brow until he saw the old brown car pull into the drive. He pulled up his grocery bag and tapped twice on the trunk. The driver obliged.
"Howdy, Silkie. Hey, Belle, Mar. This is our chariot, then?" Greg said as he sat in the back seat and arranged himself among an androgynous girl and two score plastic bags. Silkie turned to him and smiled, a wide open mouthed grin.
"Greg, how much scratch did you manage to get?" Marty half shouted from the driver's seat.
"A grand. I knew she was going to do it."
"No, Marty. Shit. No, I just figured if it was one of us skipping, it would be her."
"That puts us at twenty five hundred to get the fuck out of the country. We need to pick up more."
Silkie was reading a dog eared copy of The Ethical Slut. Greg looked over at her again.
"What's with the rag? Did you forget your Chaucer, Silk?" He said.
"You're quiet up there, Belle," Greg said. Belle did not move or acknowledge him.
Martin pulled into the first gas station out of town. The four walked into the convenience store. Martin walked to the counter to buy fuel while the others looked about the shop. The place was the size of a small grocer's, and had everything a passing trucker could want. Belle stood by the front door, pretending to look at the CD rack, trying to project as much hate toward Martin as she possibly could. She hadn't spoken during the drive and didn't intend to speak any time soon. The prick was fucking Silkie, and she knew it. Greg walked over to her, oblivious to her thoughts.
"The Best of Foreigner, The Best of Van Halen, The Best of White Snake, The Best of Poison. Here we go. The Best of Pat Benatar. Well, now I know the soundtrack to our escape." Greg looked for a sign of laughter from her. Belle continued to ignore him. He shrugged, and immediately regretted it. The gun had shifted under his shirt, he was lucky the cashier hadn't been looking.
They walked back to the car. Silkie had stolen a bottle of Long Island Iced Tea. She made no effort to conceal it in the parking lot while they waited for Martin to finish with the gas pump. Silkie bobbed her head to the pop music being projected over the whole station. She stopped when she noticed Greg had seen her and smiled, embarrassed. Belle walked past them, got into the front seat, and slammed her door. Martin looked up at the two of them and grimaced. The pump clicked off.
In the back seat, Silkie opened the Long Island and took a long drag. She was young, but not particularly pretty. She had short, dirty hair and a turned up nose. She was skinny from malnutrition and heroin. She mentioned to Greg once that she had been a model when she was 17. Belle struck him as the one who might model, if she ever smiled. Or even if she just stopped glaring. Greg was the oldest of the four by nearly a decade, Martin being a full 9 years his junior. Greg turned from Silkie and looked out the window. The company made him feel young. And mean.
They drove in silence. Marty kept checking a map with directions for avoiding toll roads. They were broke and toll roads had cameras. Martin had been planning this for three years, beginning less than a month after the incident. They had all agreed to the plan when they saw news of the investigation in the paper. If the police ever got close to them, they'd quit the country before they were officially investigated as suspects. Or if somebody snitched.
Marty was a planner by nature, and a "self-identifier"- a term he read somewhere that meant he thought of himself as a criminal. He was a young man with tired, dark eyes and a Hispanic complexion. He didn't admit to himself that he suspected a snitch from the beginning, but he never gave Annie the benefit of doubt when she didn't collect her cut of the interest.
Belle was getting tired of actively fuming at Marty. She had a small face. Greg had remarked to her once, drunk, that it seemed to be only capable of expressing varying degrees of anger. She couldn't remember whether she had slapped him or not for the slight. That worked on men like Greg, but not for the real pigs. Martin. She knew she had to stay mad for awhile if she was going to make her point, but she wasn't one for perseverance. The car heater was on unnecessarily high, and Belle's eyelids were refusing to stay open. No one had spoken for about twenty minutes. Belle opened her window. A cool burst of air hit the back seat, and Marty twitched at the pressure change. Silkie looked up.
Greg was watching the side of the road, his mind wandering as he shifted, sweating, in the back seat. He saw a state trooper bounce radar off the car. His heart jumped.
"Fuck, Marty. How fast are you going? That cop just speed gunned us," he said.
"I don't know, 65 or 70. What's the limit?" said Marty.
"Fuck if I know. There's his buddy in that turn-around," Greg said.
They all watched quietly as they passed the trooper. The cruiser stayed parked. Silkie jumped and cursed as an SUV blazed by them on the left. A sign announced the turnpike entrance. Marty shifted lanes to avoid it. Belle huffed and thumped her head back into the seat. Greg motioned to Silkie, pointing at her bottle of Long Island Iced Tea. She twisted off the top, took a long drink, and handed it to him with a smile. Greg smiled back and kept eye contact as he drank. He passed it back.
"I don't really know. New Zealand maybe. They wouldn't bother extraditing me there because it would take them too long. And its so pretty there," she said. Greg nodded.
"Yeah, that's a plan," Greg said. He settled back into his seat.
An hour later, they crossed the border into New York. It was very dark. Starlight was sparse, and the moon was just a sliver, high in the sky and above the tree line. Silkie was staring out the window with a quiet, drunken smile. Belle had fallen asleep. Greg tapped Marty on the shoulder with the palm of his hand.
"Hey, let's stop and get some coffee and food. This is about the best time to stock up that I can think of. We're over the border but still nowhere near the casinos. There has to be a truck stop out here somewhere," he said.
"Yeah, good idea," Marty said. He realized that he had been fighting off sleep.
The next exit was a quarter mile away. Far from the toll roads, there were no signs for gas or food. But Marty assumed the first town would have a place to get a cup of coffee, maybe a gas station. Clouds covered the moon. Marty directed the car off of the highway to the exit. There were no street lights or other cars. The headlamps caught the bright red reflection of a stop sign after a short stretch of deserted road. Silkie awoke with a start as Marty eased the car to a rolling stop.
Greg raised his revolver and fired into the back of Martin's head. The thundering shot pulled a shriek from Belle. Three more shots thundered from the barrel in short succession. They rang in Greg's ears. He felt the hot blood of his accomplices running down his face. Greg grabbed his bag from between his feet. Blood ran down the windshield. Greg stepped out of the silent car and closed the door softly. He walked away from the road for a few minutes and then began walking East, the way they had come.
My hope is as it has always been: to exorcise the spirits that possess me, to banish the phantoms that haunt me, and to achieve a peace known only in the past. This time I will succeed.
In the evening light I sat waiting, waiting for Berkeley. In a time that now seems long since past we had agreed to come to this part of the shoreline, this sliver of the Bay of Bashan where the sands turn gray. He had been my better, physically speaking anyway, and the stronger swimmer. So his lateness was off-putting in the extreme, but no cause for despair, yet. The currents in the bay were renowned for their difficulty, but we had no choice but to try and navigate them. We were at sea executing a contract with the Cult of the Dragon, intent on destroying a small party of adventurers. Whatever powers they possessed- I cannot feign to describe them, they so overwhelmed us. It was barely a moment before we were driven into the sea, there to suffer, to fend off the waves and currents, all by and for ourselves. At that time all blame vanished somewhere in those waters, whether it was Berkeley’s or my own (since I could not crack their wizard’s shield), and instead desperation was thrust upon us. I do not know where he went, exactly, although we were close together for a time. We set our destination and were off. I had to put all my energy and all my art into getting there. I had none left to spare, and all my focus went with it. I was there watching it come closer- that distant shore, where the sands were gray.
Now, I am a wizard, I will admit to it- no less than a graduate of the exalted Vindgott Academy, a former wearer of the white cape and scarlet eye. What did I learn there exactly that has helped me here? Through my will’s exertion I can harness the energy of the spirits that permeate this world. Through learned arts I can tap into the network of mystical energy that surrounds all things on Ehrat. I can bend the fabric of reality with its aid; I can make real what is in my mind. But mine was always a questioning mind, so I have mostly manifested questions in all my speech, more so than any sorcerer making incantations. Forming and deploying these mental inquisitions has been my overriding purpose, though now I consider other paths. In our base, what he always called our “lair,” we kept a store of books on magic and sundry interests, or, to be more exact, topics of interest, that is if they anymore retain their interest. Nevertheless, what most fascinated me as a practitioner of magic was the sheer malleability of my art, and how no matter one’s ends or means all was sound so long as the result was as intended.
We lived our lives that way; for if magic were not the overriding, ultimate, and underlying force of reality, then what was? That is to say: If not power then what? If not force, then what? If not violence, if not violation; then what? Peace is foreign to our experiences in this world, it is foreign to its very nature. It is an aberration. Yet have I not most enjoyed those moments of quiet contemplation and meditation? Whether alone or with my dear friend, when we would simply be? Yet this argument of silence hardly could move us, save to greater consternation and questioning.
We searched for gods to worship and settled on violence for hire. Allow me to explain more by means of example. Tenthus, the fallen Guardian and scourge of the world, would ravage the nations, carry off women to his mountain range, and the other Twelve Guardians of the Ancients would permit it. None would oppose him, for they all feared one another’s power, and if one or more left the city to quell the unquenchable bloodlust and unyielding violence of their brother, then perhaps Dral’tharis would try to seize power, of even Draidith, the ever scheming, or perhaps the so-called Crown of Ehrat, Scinthilla, self-styled protectress of the land and its creatures. Eventually all fell to the Emperor, and perhaps even Tenthus as well, though none have heard from him since that time. Perhaps he is simply dormant, waiting like a locust to emerge again Yet how did that man, the Emperor, subdue those who had subdued the Elder Eleven, the very chosen of heaven? Nevertheless, if the great may choose force, then why not the small, if the noble then why not the common, if the godly, then why not the mortal? That should help clarify the matter, though it reminds me of the sword and its cold edge. Is not the answer to my question of being the sword?
Ah the sword, that it may cut me loose from this life and see another, even if blackness, for this one is only a shifting array of lights and shadows, where the light serves only to cast longer, deeper spans of darkness upon all that moves and has being. Within each of us the light dwells for a time and then dies, and it is of no significance, for another is born somewhere and their light stirs the shadows, and the greater the light the greater the shadow. No light is enduring, and the darkness waits with greed to consume and wholly swallow up the light, waiting for it to fade, to show weakness and decay.
Is that not so, Berkeley?
My question waits upon his answer, waits upon his arrival. He is very late now, and the sun is setting. The ocean has turned a different color, it has changed to ruby, and will soon turn to gold, along with the sky and clouds in some places. No setting of the sun brings an end, for another dawn will come, in an endless cycle. Endless night would be preferable for the stability and slumber, whereas endless day would be an endless waiting for night and rest to come, that is, if one were alone.
That was always Berkeley’s answer whenever I tried to ascend to something greater, to some eternal light of justice or goodness. He pulled me back down through necessity, through loyalty to logic. Applying our reason, he came up with answers, I only questions. I would build systems and he would cast them down through some verbal expression of morbid lucidity. His pale lights were my inspiration to use my other senses and perhaps find some demonstration beyond the reach of reason that would at last bring us justification and happiness. It never occurred to me until lately that I may be only a small part of the cycle of the dying that he always mentioned, for he too had searched, so I have always suspected, but having found no principle proportionate to his expectation of the infinite save infinite death, settled on infinite death as his philosophy. We were beasts clawing at life, we had leapt into the ocean in the face of certain destruction, with only our own powers to sustain us. Or rather, I should say, to ourselves individually, for there was nothing to be done for the other, there was only the self in its struggle towards the shore. Were we ever truly together then? Is that of any consequence?
Once before we had faced similar odds. One could escape if the other were pursued. Then, when we were younger, on our second mission, we were hired as part of a larger team to trap an infamous figure, Clytemnestra the Ethereal. We were desperate at the time, and so we rented ourselves out as mercenaries. We thought we’d gotten her for sure. So confident were we that, as the battle took place, we philosophied under a pine tree. The odds were twenty-seven against one, and they were allegedly very pricey mercenaries, making us the final reserves (we were cheap back then). I began our dual meditation thusly:
“Failure means death, but only one death, although rumors speak of those who are marked with the brand of Theokos and are reincarnated, they are doomed to repeat life after life to no apparent end whatsoever, whereas we must suffer through but once, and so we have this one life, this one life to live to its utmost, its fullest, as it were, as if it were true that anyone could achieve a full life when plagued by so many foul evils, slip-ups, little disasters and immense disappointments, leaving one dazzled by the heights of joy as it topples down, down and down, dragged down by violence, its beauty marred, disfigured one might say, its nose ripped from its face, eyes gouged, ears whittled away, and body thrown to the flames, but if, but if only, but if maybe, through all our dreadful despair over this one, singular, pathetic, absolutely boundlessly full of squandered potential, minuscule, grandiose life, and if we see through all that I have said, those previously aforementioned woes, then we can catch a glimpse of hopes dwelling past the heavens and the metaphysical heights, streams and currents said to lay beyond our sun and moon, shedding upon us such things as spirit and life and our very being, and therein, there in that realm of beyond lies our hope.
“From a deafness to meaning I hear such music as to awaken me from a deep slumber and at last dare a fragile, sickly hope ever crushed and ground under the wheels of war machines, slashed by the assassin’s dagger, and carried off by a crime so crude and vile it cannot be named, but I fail to reach my goal for I doubt, and I beg for some sign to clear away my confusion and then grow ashamed of my attempt at faith, dismiss it as misguided intuition and intuit nothing instead, a great gaping nothing like a starless, moonless night, a cloud yawning open like a mouth to claim us, as chaos claimed Theokos and his followers in ancient days according to legend, and cleared the way for mortal races to have their own way, save for the Ancients, mighty and deathless unless brought to death by the sword. Ah the sword the sword come cut us through, we hapless wanderers, and end these lives, let us taste the dust and dwell beneath it, unthinking, uncaring, like a restful sleep, save for that hope that lies beyond and may claim us, bringing us to a judgment we neither know, anticipate or appreciate.”
Berkeley then strode forward, gazed at the sky and declared, “My friend, Emmanuel! Be of better cheer. Come! Let us find a god and worship it, then perhaps our fears will be allayed. But who is there? Dral’tharis Father and King of the Dragons, so mighty, bulky, and fiery that he hides under the earth somewhere on Dragonscale Isle? Then there is Draidith, master of magic, first of the vampires, said to have eventually transformed himself into pure spirit. What of him? Then there is the Emperor, once but a man, now he wields the Sword of Ratha’el and there is the rumor that he is always surrounded by the dead spirits of his old comrades, and that he is really five souls living in one man’s body. And then too there are also the Ancients’ Elder Eleven, some say they live still: Sheli’altha the Mystic, and Mindar the Prophet, the Three Kings, Tau, Xiu, and Naurus, or the Five Queens, Calliope, Euterpe, Urania, Polyhymnia, and Melpomene, or their great warrior champion Terranis. Never have any of their bodies been found, and my old friends once reported to me that Shel’altha and Mindar had been seen as recently as 200 years ago. Very well, I see your expression of discontent.
“But what of Lord Anthrosus, sole remaining Child of the Light, or the Titans who lay chained within the elements: Aqueritus on the oceans’ floor, Solitus imprisoned under Mount Tepidos, Blastus hidden in the Northern Wastes, Terrus imprisoned within the volcanic depths of Ehrat itself. If you want something more spiritual what of Tirisal and Ratha’el, guardians of the stream of being, with its currents of spirit, order, and life? Or do you believe them but fictions when the Emperor himself has pulled a sword from one of their hands, unless you are charging the high lord of the continent of Krassus with impugning the truth? And of course there is Theokos, head of the fabled Mysterion, which created magic and supposedly enchanted the entire planet. These are all the names I can rattle off for you, but with time I could come up with more!”
Berkeley returned to his seat under the lone pine tree.
“Ah, but Berkeley my good natured fellow, willing to do the yeomen’s work of combating my sentences and seeing through their details and finding their very heart. Would that a god could save us! We could make anything into our god and worship and praise it, reverence it and conform ourselves to it. We could do that, but it would all be a lie, for there is no all good, all powerful, all knowing being we have yet found interacting with our history. Instead all is chaos, a despicable and fiendish whirlwind of destruction, depopulations, massacres, heaps of petty jealousies, and constant bloodletting. Is there a throne sitting in heaven, and is it vacant or full?”
“Would that it were empty, for if full we’d surely be doomed.”
“And we are doomed.” I replied, hearing silence settle upon our fellow mercenaries who were supposed to still be fighting.
“We’re on orders, we must accept our fate.” .
“They’re already dead.”
“So they are.”
“Hopefully we can pick their bodies afterwards.”
“Now we are starting to agree.”
“I think I see who it is, and we are in trouble, my partner in potential homicide.”
A tall, dark haired woman in a large black cape and no visible armor whatsoever stepped forward. Stitched into her clothing was a symbol like two triangles, one upside down over the other with a sun sending out its rays from between them. She held in her hands a long, single-edged blade with a slight curve.
It was just the three of us now that remained; this battle was for our lives, and our gold. Berkeley, I should mention, was no wizard. He was skilled with bladed weapons and Ancient technology. Normally, he would defend me from attackers while I destroyed the enemy with my spells. It was a simple tactic, and one we departed from only rarely. Yet despite it all, he still seemed to have a wiser understanding of magic than I had. Nevertheless, I must give you some description of the battle, as it too was running through my mind, at that time on the gray beaches.
We departed from our normal strategy and both attacked her head on, since if twenty-five could not defeat her at once, then there was little chance of Berkeley being able to hold her back. Berkeley threw a few daggers at her as he rushed forward, but as they hit a strange glow in the shape of plate mail appeared around Clytemnestra. For my part I fired two missiles of energy at her skull, but the same glow, this one in the shape of a loftily crested helm, appeared once again. First she laughed, then raised her sword to her lips and whispered some inaudible words. At once a ring of blue light surrounded her and erupted towards us, throwing us backwards. As I recovered myself, I looked up and saw her standing motionless. Berkeley then looked to me, and I to him. We got up and ran as quickly as we could, silently knowing our final destination. I do not know why Clytemnestra decided not to pursue us. Perhaps she did not want to be bothered with a sprint, or perhaps twenty-five kills was enough for her. Regardless, we both escaped that day, though if we had persisted we would have surely died. And if she had pursued one and not the other, then that one would have perished.
Still, this time, Berkeley had not yet arrived. The sun had set, the sky was now being filled by a mighty storm’s many clouds. It dropped large drops of dark water upon me, first in a drizzle, and then in a downpour. I sat there taking it all in, and, in those hours my mind wandered into more memories.
I thought mostly of Veronica and her shining eyes. Why she came to me, I know not why exactly, or even remotely. Her eyes, of course, did not shine in real life, but only in my adolescent dreams of her. She became imprinted in my mind as the ideal of female beauty, and I could not lose it, no matter what. I confided this to Berkeley one day, and he told me about a girl named Miranda he had once adored. Similar fantasies would occur to him while dreaming, and I remarked that this was an indication that we were meant to be united in some way, as friends if not brothers. Of this we had never spoken, in all our years together. Of the fact we were together as a team neither of us had taken any notice.
We had met, me and Veronica I mean, in the Academy, when we were young and full of the spirit of youth. That we were very intimate for friends was not frowned upon but encouraged, as it was considered an important discovery for young minds to make about their bodies and their functions. That she easily left me for another was no mark against either of us. We were wizards in training, not monastics. The dignity attached to a person was whatever was attached to him by others, or which he earned through power. Being weak meant one was weak. Nature was not destiny, there was the will, and there was magic. But magic only took these principles to a higher level, that is to say, refined them and made them clearer. The ugliest and most wart covered man in the whole Academy, the Chair Professor Maxameras, was also the most respected and feared for his wizardly abilities. He was constantly showered with gifts, riches, and honors for performing even slight favors. Who would not come to understand this, and envy it if one were incapable of achieving it? I sense no other reality when I consider this one, and it is only in moments of fancy, I suspect, that my suspicions of different kinds of meaning come upon me.
Did I love her, however? And finally I can say that I do not know the word. I love my dear friend, Berkeley, more than I have loved any other entity, for he is myself, and I am he, just separate in being. We are two selves though we could be mistaken for one. I am not speaking physically here, I am speaking metaphysically. We were two of the same thing, more than just the same race, or kind, or type or character. We did not just simply speak in the same way. Love? No, I do not know the word, it exists only between close friends. Between the sexes I have never seen it nor heard of it. Even a being like Anthrosus does not know it. How long has he been womanizing and carousing? His lust knows no end. I never lusted after anything except those shining eyes, flowing hair, and exquisite curves. There’s been no other quite like them but even now they barely stir anything within me. The memory has been aroused too often, the whole field of it has been used up and now is fallow. No feelings remain, all is dry and withered.
Where is Berkeley?
He would speak to me of cults, sometimes, or joining them anyways, or at least worshiping what they worshiped. And what is one to make of all the religions splattered about on all the continents? They are mostly secretive cults, I should add. Does their existence teach us anything? Perhaps they tell us more about the “deities” they serve than they do about the people in them, unless the opposite is true. Among there number some egregious ones stand out. The fanatical followers of the Dark Wanderer, a character of mythical proportions and unknown reality. Mostly, I suspect, a creation of some backwater folklore, yet his followers are notorious kidnappers, though they are not quite murderers, by accounts I have read. They do, however, leave their victims scarred, albeit mentally and, dare I say, spiritually? Then there are the more dangerous cultists who flock to Draidith, the lord of magic. The legend goes that he was a wizard once, and an Ancient no less. Through his own manipulation of the Mysterion he “liberated” himself from his corporeal form and became pure spirit. His followers drink mortal blood, and are called vampires. Some authorities contend that they do not require mortal blood to sustain themselves, but drink it due to an unnatural gluttony that their transformation into immortal beings brings upon them. I do not know the answer, although it is at times interesting to ponder, just as it is dreadful to wonder what the shadows of Ehrat contain. By far the deadliest of the the organizations of religion that I can conceive is the Cult of the Dragon, worshipers of Dral’tharis. He was an Ancient as well, at one time, but through his own abilities and perhaps through magic he fashioned himself into a great winged beast of immense power.
Of the more peaceful organizations, I will say but a few words before I conclude this diversion and demonstrate my point. There are the monks of Eli’esha, a spirit who once communed with two members of the Elder Eleven Ancients, the Prophet and the Mystic, but it is unknown if she shall ever return again. I have not been to the Capital City but I have heard rumors that her statues adorn much of it. Those monks do little but seek to make transcendental contact with her. They seek out visions, special revelations, and supernatural knowledge. If any of them has achieved any of that, I know not of it. Then there is Anthrosus, sole remainder of the Children of Light, and most powerful now that Theokos is fallen. His followers are loyal to the point of suicide, and generally indulge in pleasures of the flesh. There is some strife between his cult and that of Dral’tharis, perhaps because the old lizard could not stand the competition. It is of little interest here and to me it is of almost no interest.
Now what does all this plurality of opinion tell me about this world and those in it? Does it give us answers positive or negative about the existence of meaning itself as separate from our own mental conjurings? We have mighty beings of untold potential, but their potential is most confined, for otherwise they would not all be vying with one another. In other words, if evil has even a chance against good, or if good is at all obscured by evil, then good fails to meet the definition of absolute, infinite, worthwhile, true.
The Ancients’ forefathers, the so called Elder Eleven, they held onto a belief in a single deity, and purportedly told of it in their scriptures. The Omega Codex, studied by many scholars, has yielded some useful myths for us metaphysicians who seek the ultimate truth of all things. All this thinking of religion put it into my head. So I recited to myself the tale of Ehrat’s creation, which I learned somewhat by heart from texts I had bought from Frederick of Giltsen, a renowned scholar:
“When the most high God finished creating, He rested, as did His children in heaven, and from their dreams a second creation poured forth into the last sliver of the void, like a rushing river filling a basin. With His rest accomplished, the most high God established a division between heaven and the new world His children had formed through their straying thoughts, and charged Tirisal and Ratha’el with guarding the very outlet of being and spirit that led to the new world. Those two are like two riders in two boats navigating the still waters of a reservoir, watching the currents that lead out into the realm beyond. After a time, a group of spirits went forth from heaven, charged by God to give the new creation greater form.”
So our world was perhaps an afterthought, and worse than that a dream, and no one intends a dream. Unless those dreams were part of God’s will, that is to say that through his foresight He had designed His creatures to dream the dreams that formed Ehrat. Regardless, we are formed from dreams, perchance, and what then? How can dreams turn into anything or be anything but ephemeral images, sounds, and feelings? Are we thus doomed to simply fade away? Or will God preserve us as He did His implied first creation with all its “children”?
An imperfect medium can only produce an imperfect product, and so the imperfections of this world should not surprise me, if one takes the above myth as a given. But why does God permit these terrible things to persist, could He not, from His boundlessness, make all things right? Suppose, however, that we, Berkeley and I, have earned a terrible fate because of our evil conduct, supposing it to be evil. Why would it be evil? Well, it would certainly be unseemly at least, indeed, at least furtive and shadowy- and shadow cannot mix with light, and this God is all light, or so we are told. I can recognize it, I can admit to it, I am a murderer, and a murderer for hire no less. No more than half the men I killed deserved it, and the other half deserved much worse than I gave them. Did I give the killing blow? Yes, most times. Berkeley was my guard, my enabler, my shield. So where is he right now? God if you are out there, bring him to me!
I began again, trying to pray. “God, if you exist, hear this my plea! Restore my friend to this shore, whole and complete. I swear by heaven and your very throne, I will murder no more, nor ever more raise my hand in violence, not even to defend my own person. If it be that which has brought this misery upon me.”
It was all rubbish, I thought, and completely useless. A horrible waste of exertion, but I had wasted a great deal of exertion before on pettier things. And nothing seemed more desperate at that time than my friend’s survival. He was my source of answers. Without answers, what would the point of my questions be?
At that point weariness began to hit me. I had exhausted all options, all avenues of approaching the problem. My body was wracked with exhaustion, as one might imagine. There was no choice but sleep, though only for a time. So I reclined and let my mind fall into darkness. When I awoke I found the sun rising, and I was not surprised but saddened. The clouds were golden, long, emaciated, and the ocean was flush with violet. I sat up, and kept waiting, waiting on those gray sands. I did not know if he would come- it had been so long. If he had come down elsewhere, it would take a while for him to appear. I started feeling despair.
Then I heard footsteps behind me, and then a voice:
“You’re here again.”
“So are you.”
“It’s been six years.”
“And if I keep an anniversary, does that mean you should haunt me?”
I still refused to face him, but he came over and sat down next to me. In the corner of my eye I could see that he was clothed as always.
“There was nothing you could do, Emmanuel.”
“I deserved it more than you, I was the one who delivered the final stroke, most times.”
“And my way was bloodier, do you think that makes a difference?”
“I gave up that trade six years ago, what else could I do but that?”
“You did it because you regretted what happened to me.”
“All this is madness!”
“It wasn’t last year or the year before, or-”
“Very well! What do you propose I do? What can I do? I am lost, what can be done?”
“I already told you everything that first year you came back here. I can’t begin to describe the beauty of it all.”
“There you go again. All I remember is that first morning when I found your corpse washed up right down there, right there!” I gestured wildly, looking down the gray beach and thinking that yes, I was not talking to myself.
But I was alone. I looked next to me and he was gone.
So I left that place, promising to return again. This is the way we spend our lives on Ehrat, chasing after phantoms and listening for little whispers on the wind. They encourage us onward, ever onward, to an end we neither desire nor recognize as true or good or beautiful. The past is where my heart lies, and my mind strives to retain a perfect a moment of understanding. Those moments of light stir the shadows of this world of dreams and defy them to come and take us before we become a part of them.
POETRY
"Where every something, being blent together turns to a wild of nothing."
-William Shakespeare
POETRY INTRODUCTION
In essence, to me, the word: poetry is the beauty in the meaning of symbols combined to produce a cerebral aesthetic. Plainly that is: the way words and their meanings can be arranged to produce a reaction in the reader. Of course that’s just half of it. The other half is the poet. That energy that compels us to exhibit those aesthetics, whether sonically or visually all comes from the same place in our brains. Poems are dynamic in that they can be performed or read in order gain a new appreciation for that same text. The masterful Shakespeare, whose poetry, most famously exemplifies the dynamic art of a poem and plays are the western standard for genius. It is through a unique lens in which poetry can be viewed. Reacting to any art is a strange daily event. Depending on the context, whatever that artist was going for could either be totally ambiguous* or maybe the point is clearly stated. Why are some movies made? They're made because some writer came up with a compelling aesthetic to be acted out. Think about the different kinds of films that are out there and the different kinds of people who appreciate different artists work. There is a spectrum in poetry that reflects all facets of existence, in which most assuredly lie infinite examples of the measurable difference between objects that are alike. I am no Shakespeare as you can see. I don't see poetry as my main calling in life but if I had to say what I am devoted to is creating any art. Whether poetry, graphics design, or playing the drums; I exist to create symbolic meaning with an aesthetic that hopefully reminds the audience how beautiful the world is- even amidst the ugliness.
-Andrew Treska
"Red Velvet."
Andrew Treska
Red Velvet.
Curtains drawn,
the counter felt his breath
loosen in the handling
of golden leaves.
Hidden spring
that which is cradled
like an infant in a dumpster
raised mainly by wolves.
The setting of this star
is another parallel
to an elephant sleeping
in this cooking room.
I'm not stirring
in technicolor
anymore to this carnation,
Rufus Corneilus Synailus.
Waves frustrate the rock,
disintegrating the composites
settled sedimentary,
millennia in the kitchen.
Justice is autistic
standing with a blindfold
and a broken scale,
waiting for a fix.
Ground in the morning,
the grain wont dust itself
before the kids go to school
to grind the brains.
Brown sugar on your
fingertips
lick and double dip
to trip on the world outside.
Patty cake, patty cake,
baker's man.
I'm baking a cake
as fast as I can.
I'm rolling it, patting it,
marking it with scars,
putting it in the oven
for fundamentals and me.
Curtains have been torn down,
the state of the union
between humanity
and mother nature is ill.
Teetering aimless in a frenzy,
he howled drunken nothings
into the forest dark and full of life,
spinning until he crashed.
The death-stars are all gone;
we have to wait for it to blow
or figure out which way to go.
Figure it out cause I don't know.
Curtains transparent glass
as you window shop
a different life at each glance
drifting into space.
Ashes into an ashtray,
dust to dust you go away
never to be found the same
throughout your layers.
Your five thousand dollar
casket will be recycled as well
as the batter we acted on
like fools pretending forever.
The theatre is empty with
the full seats of deformed
opinions that add up to the
sum of the ingredients within.
I want my children to remember
we become part of the same cake
once we separate from our
foolishness of being alive.
The soul of the individual
we consume and it passes
through us and with us
back again to the soil in which
once we bloomed.
Curtains drawn,
The poet has a glass
and the fire crackles into ash.
"Prior to the Train"
Amber Pompeii
The pigeon in the station
at my feet
is like me
he took a wrong turn
and ended up - here
we falter around
looking at these people
wondering what they are
he’s not using his wings to fly
neither am I walking awkwardly
pigeon toed from tile square
to tile square.
The train comes I get on and
he does not
if pigeons needed hugs
I would give this pigeon one
I’m sad to leave him behind
Sitting in the usual sticky seat
I watch out the window
as the train p u l l s a w a y in its h i s-sing
the birds outside
are allowed to fly
I watch them
trying to imagine
what it feels like
to be so free.
"Prior to a Destination"
Amber Pompeii
The painters come out at night
and write
their names on the walls
they breath in
the colors that they paint with
and taste them
(they all taste the same he says)
Their lips turn magenta
the inside of their noses
sunset orange
I ride this line to see
their evidence
chroma walls against
city skies grey
The sign on the wall
forbids expression
of the self
“Graffiti is a p u n i s h a b l e offense
a public n u i s a n c e and must be
abated Per Code B101”
the men
(and woman)
work for the institution
(at minimum wage)
roller as revolver
institutional white
as ammunition
back to uniform
(because Cleveland
is neat and clean)
The sign on the wall
proves expression
of the self
is as living
The painters return each night
and re-write
their names on the walls
and thank the institution
for the clean
colorless
new
canvas
END OF ISSUE 3
