The Dying Art- News and Release Info

Issue 4 Preview and Call for Papers

2010-03-29T23:16:00.001-04:00

With a strong live reading under our belt, I believe we are ready to get back to the business of reading and writing. The turn out at the reading met the higher side of my expectations, and I was very happy with the way our work was received. There will be another event, probably in the late spring or early summer.

The next issue will be a particularly good one. This issue will feature some of The Dying Art's favorite writers in fiction and poetry, as well as some new writers and some cross-overs. There is still some time for submissions, and some submissions that are accepted will end up in the fifth issue. Thanks to all the contributers so far, and special thanks to those readers who voice their preferences on a regular basis.

Here's the official call for papers:

The tentative submission deadline is April 7th, 2010.

If you submit work, you agree that:

-This journal may publish it online and in print.

-The work is your own.

Any and all work you submit is considered your property. Feel free to publish it elsewhere or submit it anywhere else that will accept it- but also understand that this site will take First Publishing Rights and that further publication of what ends up here is considered a reprint. You retain all other rights and privileges to the piece. It is unlawful for anyone to plagiarize work posted in this magazine.

Furthermore, you will not be paid for work you submit to this issue of our magazine. This magazine is published for literature's sake, and not in order to generate income. Any income that is generated by this website will be used only to promote or enhance the journal itself.

Fiction Submissions:

Between 300-10000 words. Please edit your work carefully before submission. If you would like to send in a draft for review and commentary, feel free. Make sure to indicate that intent in your submission email.

Currently, I would urge you to send in fictional works in the genres of:

-Horror

-Science Fiction

-Adventure

-Crime/Noir

-Fantasy

Selections will be made on the basis of literary value, entertainment value, and inventiveness. You will be informed if your work is selected for publication.

Poetry Submissions:

Between 10-5000 words. Please be sure to note if the poem is formatted in a way that may not transfer correctly in simple text.

Send your submission in .doc or .rtf format. I would prefer an attached file to a submission within the text of your email, but I will not disqualify works based on that. Submit everything to:

submissions.dyingartjournal@gmail.com

The Dying Art at The Root Cafe in Lakewood, OH

2010-03-16T02:21:00.001-04:00

Selected works from The Dying Art will be read live at The Root Cafe in Lakewood, OH, on March 24th. The event will start at 7PM and wrap up around 9:30. There is no admission charge, but since the cafe is being so friendly with their space, attendees should probably buy something.

Here is a link to a Google map to the Cafe: MAP

If anyone wants to request a specific piece or author, email me and let me know. See you there!

New Reader Website Is Up!

2010-03-03T19:38:00.001-05:00

The new website for our journal is now live. It is a much easier way to read the journal, and you can access it from this site by clicking the "Read The Dying Art" link above. The new link is https://sites.google.com/site/dyingartliterarymagazine/ if you'd like to bookmark and use just the reader site in the future. You won't miss much beside the previews if you take that route.

The readability, as well as my ability to format the journal has improved through this new site. All of the previous issues are already posted there, so you can try out the new layout and tools. Issues will be posted there from now on. Advertisements by Google have been left out of the reader website, which I am sure will please all of you. The new site has the ability to monitor hits and traffic on its own, so Google ads were not necessary.

You can continue to use the URL to this website as your reference to the journal, as links to the reader site will be posted with every update.

Thanks for the support and readership,
Alex Glenn Friedman, Cont. Ed.

New Website Forthcoming

2010-02-28T14:06:00.000-05:00

Readers and Contributers,

The majority of complains I get about this site are related to the layout. While the website prints out very nicely, people have requested better ways to navigate it and some have said they have trouble reading (or just don't care for) the 'block of text' that makes up an issue. Reading on a computer and from paper are very different, and this site isn't very hospitable to reading on a screen. In order to change that, I am moving the journal to a new website.

The website will feature drop down menus, with each feature of an issue having its own searchable link. This will allow you to jump from issue to issue with more ease, and it will also allow you to find specific stories more quickly (and bookmark them on your browser).

It will also allow for a visual art section.

This site will stay up, and I will still previews and news here. I will link each new issue here as well, so there won't be another URL to remember.

Good news, right?

-Alex Glenn Friedman, C.Ed.

Issue 3, February 2010

2010-02-13T23:54:00.001-05:00

The Dying Art
Issue 3
February 2010

Published February 12th, 2010. Cleveland, Ohio. Published by the Editor. All rights to included works are reserved by their authors.

In this issue:
A NOTE ON THE STATE OF THE JOURNAL
INTRODUCTION; Alex Glenn Friedman
FICTION
"January 7th, 2010"; Robert J. Keener
"Skipping on the Bill"; Alex Glenn Friedman
"Sarah Grant"; Amanda RH Davidson
"I, Emmanuel"; Joseph Schnieder
POETRY
A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR
POETRY INTRODUCTION; Andrew Treska
"Red Velvet."; Andrew Treska
"Prior to the Train"; Amber Pompeii
"Prior to a Destination"; Amber Pompeii

A NOTE ON THE STATE OF THE JOURNAL
   This issue of The Dying Art represents one of the most difficult publication processes I have yet endured during my "career" as a writer. It has yielded what I feel to be the most thought provoking and enjoyable issue thus far, but that comes as a pleasant surprise to me. During the time since the last issue, I spent a great deal of effort researching and attempting to establish The Dying Art as a "legitimate publication" with the internet's greater writing community. Little did I know the mind twisting horrors I would discover.
   What I have discovered is that there seem to be two faces of writing across the greater internet (and I suspect in the offline writing community). There appear to be people who want to write and share their writings, and then there is the "noise". The noise consists of every attempt to dupe, cheat, and steal from writers; and the understandably defensive voices of people trying to avoid being victims of all that. Mostly this is a problem of capitalism, but it creates an environment hostile of the unestablished. Despite this, my questing into the dark recesses of the internet writing community have lead to a few positive outcomes.
   Recommendations and help from members of <http://fantasy-writers.org/> have led to the likelihood of a much more user friendly blog in the future, with hot-links that will allow you to jump to any story in the issue- and a much wider audience of writers and readers. If you enjoy fantasy fiction I highly recommend their website and forum community. They are competent and friendly people.

   Due to the delays on this issue and my own new-found state of employment, The Dying Art is going to begin a new release "schedule" of once every two months. Expect the next issue in April.

-AGF

INTRODUCTION
   This issue is one united by underlying themes of loneliness, regret, and the spirit of Cleveland. Mr. Keener is making his literary debut in this issue with a piece that is brooding, relentless, and highly entertaining. Mrs. Davidson returns with an experimental and beautiful bit of flash writing. And Mr. Schnieder's "I, Emmanuel" is without a doubt one of the deepest and most human pieces of fantasy fiction I have read to date. I wrote some filler, too.
   In poetry, Mr. Andrew Treska returns with a very powerful poem and continues to confound me with his utter refusal to revise, punctuate, or even relent to my concerned mother by changing his profile picture at the top of this page to one that isn't flipping us the bird. Ms. Pompeii returns with a pair of poems granted to the journal upon my request that examine Cleveland through inquisitive and sensitive eyes.
   I want to thank all of the writers who help make this issue happen, and I want to thank those of you who are reading. Together, perhaps we can create something to justify the internet.

-Alex Glenn Friedman

FICTION

"Fiction: Lying to the senses in order to speak to the mind."
- Albert Trefney, J.; Brilliant and wholly original philosopher

"January 7th, 2010"
Robert J. Keener

   'This is my first journal entry for Dr. Claire Harper, as suggested by her. I understand that this journal is to evaluate whether I am ready to return from mandatory lay off or if I am not suited to return to my life as a police officer yet. This journal entry starts around........ '

   I can't do this. I lean back in my desk chair. Writing this journal just reminds me of the trivial police reports I use to fill out. I am sitting in the den of my three bedroom house. I stand up and reach for my Reds on the windowsill behind me. I light up and inhale. I hate smoking in the house, but sometimes I just can't help myself. Across the room through the archway of the den I can see into my modest living room. My wife of fifteen years is sitting with my daughter, twelve years old, watching the six o'clock news. I hear my name broadcast from the television, and my wife gives me a look of uncertainty. I have seen this look all week. It is the look of someone questioning your morals. No, it is the look of someone who is questioning your marriage. It is six o'clock, and I can't help feeling that my life is slipping through my fingers.

   An hour passes and I am in the living room sipping coffee, black and bold the way I like it. Mary, the wife, is in the kitchen preparing supper. She still refuses to talk to me since last week. As I sit here and watch her, my thoughts are rushing. What happens next? Two years ago, I was a hero. Now there is a very real possibility I'll be winding up in a state prison for murder. How fast things change is amazing. But I guess Cleveland is like that. Not that I have accept it. Cleveland is deteriorating just like my marriage, career, and life.
I can't stand it. Two years ago I was a hero.
   I get up from the sofa, and walk around to the front hallway of the house. I grab my father's bomber jacket and throw it on. I need air. This house is rotting my mind.

   The January air is biting at my skin. Snow is falling from the heavens. The suburban atmosphere hangs quietly. Most of the families in this neighborhood stay in after seven or eight o'clock. In fact the only thing on the street is snow and the police cruiser across from my house. The cruiser that was ordered to watch over me until my court date next Tuesday. As I walk over to my Pontiac I check to see who has been given the glorious job of watching over me. Two officers sit inside the cruiser. One officer I recognize, Bernie Shultz, the other is a stranger. Probably a rookie being shown the ropes. I get into my Grand Am and start her up.

   I start driving, and sure enough Shultz is right behind me. He was never any good at tailing people, but I guess there is no point to being subtle since I know he is watching me. Shultz used to be my partner back when the Cleveland district could afford to have two officers travel together on the beat. Now that the economic decline has reached epic proportions you start to see all the budget cuts. Criminal activity grows larger each year. People are desperate. Cops are getting shot more often, and they are talking about budget cuts. They want to take away some of the equipment that cops use on a regular basis. Equipment that could save our lives. What do they think is going to happen? Are we going to live with it and adapt? They hope it works out that way...

   The street lights seem to be dimmed, or it could just feel that way because of the blizzard. Shultz is still following me as I pass the Cleveland to Lakewood marker. I try to think of something happy. I just need something. I think about calling Dianne, the cashier at the supermarket. I almost had took up an affair with her last year. She would know how to cheer me up. Instead I think of the headline from my drug bust two years ago, "Dynamic Duo Busts Drug Syndicate." In truth the headline makes it sound better then it was.
A Russian mob faction was transporting heroine from San Francisco to Houston, from Houston to Chicago, from Chicago to Cleveland, and from Cleveland to New York. The thing is Cleveland was always a port city for Chicago and New York, but most of that has died down in the modern age. It is easy to track shipments now, so you have to be smart to smuggle almost anything. My mind is skipping around. I am off track again. I think: I was there and I remember it like it was just weeks ago. It was October 2008 and I was on duty at 2 A.M.. I was waiting on the interstate, where 71 splits into 480, looking for drunk drivers to pull over. Shultz and I worked a system. He would track their speed or spot them about 500 yards from where I was parked and I would pull them over after he paged me on the radio. He radioed me and I began to pull out. I saw the guy pass me, and as I started to merge, my car was thrown back into the barricade. The pain was surreal. I smashed my head into the driver side window. I felt my ribs crack and my arm being pulled from my body. The car just kept spinning and I felt the urge to vomit. Then it stopped. The Cruiser had came to rest, and I realized that I was hanging upside down with my head pressed against the ceiling. I tried to move and I could feel that my arm was dislocated. A giant purple spot clouded my vision as I mustered the strength to release my seat belt. Blood ran over my already deluded vision. I pulled myself through the smashed window. I sloppily stood up, drunk with the pain and adrenaline. My whole body burned as if consumed by a fever. I saw what hit me. The crumpled remains of a black Ferrari with tinted windows was against the highway break wall. The license plate I noticed as I moved closer. It was covered in black duck tape. I heard the siren from Shultz's cruiser coming up behind me. It was ear splitting, my head felt as if it was going to explode as I neared the driver side of the wreck. There lay the Ferrari's driver. He was screaming in pain. I blacked out.

   When I woke the next day I was in the hospital. The police chief was there. Words were fuzzy from the abundance of painkillers and morphine. All I made out was, "busted a heroine shipment". The man in the car was Boris Shalvisky, a middle man drug transporter for the Russian mob. He was wanted in ten states. He was one room over. He was far worse off than me. He would permanently be paralyzed from the waste down. He was lucky to be alive. I got off with fifty stitches to my forehead, two broken ribs, and a dislocated arm. Poor Boris had been shipping heroine through Cleveland for over a year now. He used his all black Ferrari as a stealth vehicle traveling through the night at a speed of 120 MPH. His unusual arrest lead to the FBI being called into Cleveland. Files were made and the evidence from the vehicle we had apprehended lead to his brother Alec's incarceration. Alec was sentenced to life for heroine distribution, man slaughter, and grand theft auto; among other things. The case against Alec was building for five years before I stumbled upon his brother. Alec was no small time figure, either. He was in with the heads of all the Russian families, running operations in California. Once the raid happened at his loft in San Francisco those respected family members wanted him more then the Feds did. It was luck to say the least, but Bernie and I were heroes.

   I hear a car horn from behind, and see an elderly lady flicking me off through the rear view mirror. I have been sitting at the Detroit avenue light for five minutes. I go through it and turn into an empty lot. Bernie must of lost me because I don't see his cruiser following me, or maybe he knows why I came out here in the first place? Maybe he is giving me some peace. I light up another smoke, and open the car door. The damn wind has started up again, and I feel chilled to the bone as I exit the car. I begin to walk through to the end of the lot taking a drag with each step. I reach the sidewalk where it happened. I reach the edge of purgatory, and I can taste freedom. I am at the crime scene where I, Officer Walter Marsh, gunned down a teenager. Maybe I can find my answers here. The scene is desolate, as expected. Shootings hurt businesses, communities... families. The blood stain is still on the the street lamp next to me, and a strand of police tape by it. This is where Charley Hall, a 17 year old boy, died.

   I try to remember what has happened, but my memory fails me. There are important details I can't remember. I keep trying, but my memory is like a spider web. Each time I stumble down another strand of the web, each strand pulls me away from the truth. Is this a defense mechanism? Why can't I remember? I feel the adrenaline rushing through my body, and I bite my lip. The anger is unreal. It is the anger and frustration of a mistake. A vision floods my mind as I stand on the curb of Detroit Avenue. A vision of a dead boy. A boy laid with his legs folded under him as if he was kneeling. Three bullet holes. Two in his chest and one in his abdomen. He was bleeding as I stood over him. Crimson splattered over the dirty snow, and as I watched him die one thought came to mind. Jackson Pollock. Then he died. One last breath as the distant sirens approached. I remember that I had felt my life was in danger, but did I warn him?
God!

I can't remember.

   I wipe away the tears from my wrinkled cheeks. I turn and walk away. The boy deserved better. A child dies, and this old man takes another breath of air. Life isn't fair. It never has been. The people who prosper in this world are the ones who know how to play the game. Charley could of been one of those people. He could of been anything, but I robbed him of that future. I stole his birth right. It could of been my daughter, Alicia. My baby could be dead, and I know that is why Mary refuses to talk to me. It is hard being known as the wife of a child killer. I am not ready for the world. I should be locked up. I reach my car.

   I get in my car and start the engine. It shudders a little, but starts when I give it a little gas. I leave this hell, and head back home. My cell phone goes off as I cross Loraine Avenue. It is Mary. I hit ignore, and keep driving. Things use to be simple. I remember this neighborhood. Mary and I use to come out here when business was thriving. We use to go to bars, and shop at the antique stores. I would take her to the Chinese restaurant, Dragon Tower, and she would kiss me over dinner. She would whisper I love you, and every kiss after that was just for reassurance. But, things have changed since then. This district has died. The businesses are gone, and the streets are filled with crack heads. This is what the American Dream has turned into. In today's world Darwinism has become law, and I have made the law my life. 'Survival of the Fittest'. I need a drink.

   It is eight-thirty when I arrive home. I park in the drive and get out. Shultz's cruiser is parked across the street, but the rookie is the only one in the car. Shultz must be off duty for the night. I trudge through snow to the front door. I immediately notice the note on the door. I read it even though I know what is says. Mary has taken Alicia to her mothers. It has started. She is going to leave me. I scream, and punch the door. My knuckles ache with pain after the impact. I hold them for a minute, and then enter my deserted home. I light up a cigarette, and head straight to my den. I reach my desk, and open the side drawer. I pull out the bottle of Orloff. I take a swig, and I hear the door crack open again. Mary has come back to me. I rush around the corner, and bam! I am on my back, my head bursts with pain. An over-sized man pulls up his crowbar for a second blow. I move faster and kick him as hard as I can in the knee. I hear a crack, and then he screams. I try to get up, but he falls on me, pushing me down. My face is now cuddling the hardwood floor. I need to get up, now, and run. I try to elbow my assailant in the face, but I am hit before I can. Pain burns, and I black out.

   When I wake my pants are wet. I have pissed myself. Someone had used a taser on me. I try to move. I am hog tied, lying on my cold basement floor. I struggle with all my might hoping to break free. I am trapped. Footsteps echo down the stairwell. There has to be something I can use to break free. I frantically look around, and discover Shultz tied up behind me. I hear the creaking of the old wooden stairs. I tense up, and then scream for help. I pray that I am heard. All I hear in response is the laughter of two men. Then they appear. The rookie and the brute stranger. The rookie approaches me with a sinister grin on his face. The Stranger hobbles towards my workbench. I start sweating bullets as the stranger pulls out a buzz saw. The rookie looks at him and shakes his head 'no'. The stranger then pulls out my hack saw, and the rookie nods. The stranger approaches.

   "I have waited a long time for this Walter. Do you know who I am?", the rookie says. I don't respond. I am too busy trying to decipher his accent.

   "Well, you should know!", he screams. "You paralyzed my brother, Boris. Then your actions lead to my older brother Alec's death. He was murdered in prison. All because of a zero cop who got lucky. But, its okay. Do you know why? Because I have been watching you. You have lost everything Walter, and that is how I like my prey. I like them beaten down before the kill. Your wife has left you, and now you will be remembered as nothing but a child murderer. No one will investigate your mysterious disappearance. No one will care. Now Bernie over here is a different story. That is why we are going to take extra special care of the two of you. Dasvidania, Walter."

   At those words the large Russian approaches, and I close my eyes and tense every muscle in my body. Perhaps, there is justice in this world. If that kid's crime scene was a Pollock painting, then I am about to become a work of Picasso. I try to squirm, but a hand holds my leg steady. The saw reaches my leg. In one motion he cuts through flesh to the bone. I bite on my tongue so hard that my mouth fills with blood, and I scream.

"Skipping on the Bill"

Alex Glenn Friedman

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.

"How are things, Marty?" He said, and cleared his throat.

"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.

"This really sucks."

"Well, Silk, I knew she'd be the one to flop out."

"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."

"What'd, she fucking call you or something?"

"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."

"Well, let's work on getting to the state line first."

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.

"No, its back there." She smiled but didn't look up.

"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.

"Could you close that? Maybe turn the air on or something?" she said.

"Maybe in a minute," Belle mumbled.

"Um- ok," Silkie said.

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.

"Where are you planning on going when this blows over?" he said.

"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.

"Where are we?" she asked sleepily.

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.

"Sarah Grant"

Amanda RH Davidson

I walk in the path that Sarah Grant walks on. I walk into the room I walk into the space that Sarah Grant walks on. SG is the self on me and I can feel the skin of it – it's strange how the seasons go by and come back and it all swings on and I wake up in the bed of my youth every morning but altered but the light coming in isn't altered and the skin on top of the eyes of Sarah Grant still has the same pink from back in the voiceless womb. Strange things happen as my body's mass gets closer to the earth beyond my is there anything will.

Sarah Grant tropps up the stairs and I come after full of words and suggestions landing solid flat on the back of her head seeing nothing. We walk. Caminos.

There's something bitter awful about the way we live hunger hunting - - the things we do with this one body the beating and the beating to come and the feeding wretched and the smoking back to keep a veil to keep up at nights to keep things on a strong steal line that runs down my legs onto our floor and out the door to work, to other ventures, I wonder in the tub on the mirror two mirrors with all the squares falling back into the silent nights awake in childhood on the floor with the bright white light of the bathroom all the cold tiles the mirrors like stairs

Interrupted at work with baubles demands and all the crude boxes of games people want to play with me. Is Sarah Grant safe to feel sorry for? She has red burned skin and doesn't speak first – so some women feel safe in description like to a stranger's cat when the stranger isn't home – that secret of a thing the indulgence of concerns and concerns – a bee sting, overdue work, they don't talk about men much. But I don't listen with empty admiration and the more sensitive women get nervous after a while and leave not safe in feeling sorry for me.

Interrupted by men, different men, the loud sharp men of the old aeon smell right off that we, Sarah Grant and myself truly are one person in material fact – whose synthesis of parts they utterly take for granted, and they stay clear of us – they know our teeth far faster than the daily women do, but the other men, the men first whole and then soft, they are the easiest to us – for me anyway, they are soothing – the women surely turn and make me nervous, but these young men are easy like Melba toast to ignore with rapture burning on the very outside – offerings of warmth that work to keep us all at peace at work.

The men and women at work change enough so that I only know the tips of their names and knowing the flaws in types, I know their types anyway which flawed is enough to keep them back from the awful maul of sensitive faces behind my red burnt skin.

Enough to say, “this is a Mark or a Mike or a Josh, and she is a Kristen or a Melissa, and that is Barb or Deb.”

I did have a mother and father who made this shape of Sarah Grant around me – their voices live loud like flesh petal walls around me still – but they retired to Arizona – I was surprised when they left me because they seemed so attached. I think they drink grasshoppers and mint juleps and things every day, maybe 00 too, they always liked mint – and my mother doesn't like the heat like my father the lizard does, but he told her it was colder there because there was air conditioning all the time, so she went of course.

My brother comes by and drinks gallons of red Carlos Rossi with me Burgundy or Merlot – we speak psychically – he lives in a stone made cave downtown with four women – two exotic dancers, one painter and a pharmacist. He's retired in this way at twenty-eight because the dancers play guitar with screwdrivers and the painter makes feedback loops and the pharmacist brings home Vicodin, Percoset and tons of money. We laugh and burn like so many faces inside that we share – in these late hours I am fully integrated and Sarah Grant all but disappears.

"I, Emmanuel"

Joseph Schnieder

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

Third Issue Preview and Call for Papers

2010-01-25T15:47:00.002-05:00

****PLEASE NOTE****
There has been a significant overhaul to the "Call for Papers" statement, and it may be changed further.

The third issue of The Dying Art will be slightly delayed. It will be published around the 15th of February. My free time has decreased dramatically and submissions have been slow trickling in for this issue (slow, not absent). There are currently 3 open spots for poetry and 2 for fiction. The theme seems to be crime-dramas this month. If you wrote for NYPD Blue and would like to submit, let me know via email.

Here is the general call for papers. I have changed it slightly since the last one, so you might want to read it over if you plan on submitting this month.

If you submit work, you agree that:

-This journal may publish it online and in print.

-The work is your own.

Fiction Submissions:

Currently, I would urge you to send in fictional works in the genres of:

-Horror

-Science Fiction

-Adventure

-Crime/Noir

Selections will be made on the basis of literary value, entertainment value, and inventiveness. You will be informed if your work is selected for publication.

Poetry Submissions:

Between 10-5000 words. Please be sure to note if the poem is formatted in a way that may not transfer correctly in simple text.

Send your submission in .doc or .rtf format. I would prefer an attached file to a submission within the text of your email, but I will not disqualify works based on that. Submit everything to:

submissions.dyingartjournal@gmail.com

Submit no more than four works in a month.

Issue 2, January 2010

2010-01-04T22:47:00.005-05:00

The Dying Art
Issue 2
January 2010

Published January 4th, 2010. Cleveland, Ohio. Published by the Editor. All rights to included works are reserved by their authors.

In this issue:
A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR
INTRODUCTION; Joseph Schneider
FICTION
"Dreams of the Wanderer"; Joseph Schneider
"The Den of Thieves"; Alex Glenn Friedman
"Time Won't Let Me"; Jeff Morin
"The Management Solution"; Dan Bieger
POETRY
"City Hum"; Nick Mercurio
"Daedelus"; Laura Harrison
"devilsfoodcake."; Andrew Treska
"Wearing teeth"; Amanda RH Davidson
END NOTE

A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR

   I'd like to thank those of you who have been taking an interest and reading this journal. The number of readings and responses and submissions for the last issue amazed me. This issue is less experimental in its fiction, and perhaps more experimental in its poetry. The fiction entries are grouped to a certain extent: "...Wanderer" and "...Thieves" are fantasy stories; "Time Won't Let Me" and "The Management Solution" are both science fiction.
   I would also like to recommend to readers a method for reading the poetry included in this issue. While the poetry here varies in subject, meaning, and aim; it all requires reading aloud to be fully appreciated. If you find that you are not generally a reader (or enjoyer) of poetry, try reading it aloud to yourself. Feel out the syllables as you do. There is a great deal of meaning to be gained from the physical feeling of a poem as it is spoken.

-Alex Glenn Friedman, Cont. Ed.

INTRODUCTION

   "Dreams of the Wanderer" comes from my devils. I cannot speak for the other authors in this issue, but I find that the conflict between my inner doubt and my creative drive forms the essence of my writing. There is something deeply pervasive about this inner critic I have, who, at his worst, stops all writing whatsoever. If the old, worn out adage is true, then some text must be better than no text. Yet so potent is the argument put forward by my infernal internal nay-sayer, that it is rare that I can resist him. So little is created by the time I surrender all my efforts.

   The mantle of the Wanderer comes from a negation on my part of a world of dreams called “Ehrat”. It is a world created when all other creation seemed finished and only the realm of sleep, dreams, nightmares, and visions remained- the world that seemed most blissful at first. At its inception it could have been simply my Paradiso, an extended contemplation of heavenly majesty and truth. Instead I at once injected conflict and discord into it. My new world had to have a stronger connection with this one, and could not be a realm of saints alone (it would be too boring and no one would read it). So at the advice of my devils, I sent demons into the world to spread sin. But with that I needed a figure to end the discord lest it make the world one of chaos. Thus the Wanderer. Yet even he (or she) does not fully counteract the agents of imperfection imbedded in the hearts and minds of the denizens of Ehrat. He is selective. He destroys what a higher justice directs him to and no more.

   In Ehrat, the Wanderer is proof of a higher force operating in the world. Yet, is that force benign or is it merely a force? In Ehrat, are murder and adultery wrong? Or do they simply elicit a deadly reaction from the powers that be? Is there an actual overarching Good of which the Wanderer is a part?

   It is not my devils that are silent.

-Joseph Schneider, Contributer

FICTION

"True glory consists in doing what deserves to be written; in writing what deserves to be read; and in so living as to make the world happier for our living in it."
-Gaius Plinius Secundus

"Dreams of the Wanderer"
By Joseph Schneider

David entered the mansion as he always had. The servants recognized him, and led him to the chamber immediately adjacent to their mistress’ personal quarters. He examined the door. All around the door were intricate ornamentation and friezes of the lovers Arcula and Inculus in one another’s embrace, while the door itself was unremarkable. A bell just above the door rang out. On his first few visits, it had always made him spring to his feet. Now he raised himself slowly and without any apparent emotion. He opened the door, his lips forming a single name: “Miranda.” The door closed.

She was on her back. He knew not to approach. First she would like to play a little game.

“Do you know much about Jipsion?” She asked without trying to sound smart or sweet.

“Hmm. I can’t really say. Only elements of the arcane interest me. History though is, well, not something I particularly see much use in.”

“You always put on a different voice in these first few preparatory moments. It is so different than what you use later. I’m left puzzled, beloved, most puzzled.”

“Lady Miranda, you are so delicate in every word. You are so different than what I know you are capable of doing.”

She grew perturbed. “What I mean is, David, that I struggle to comprehend who you are. I suppose I’ll find out when we are married.”

“Yes my dear. Very many things shall become known between the two of us.

“I desire to know as much as I can now.”

“So you shall.”

She seemed satisfied.

“Now, my lady,” David started again, “Jipsion was the father of Arcula, and forbade her from seeing Inculus. Yet he was a wicked man, this Jipsion, and was visited by the Judge, who brought his life to an end. However, he had a change of heart before death and requested that the Judge bless the couple he had formerly scorned. Thus it is written by Talus the Scribe: ‘So the Judge, called the Dark Rider and the Wanderer blessed the two. And when they passed from this life their embrace became immortalized in the heavens.’ ”

“I see history is your companion,”

“It is a legend. Its reality or unreality remains in dispute among the learned. As you know.”

“Yes, as I know. But I am nonetheless glad that you decided to speak on those things. For my husband is a wicked man. You can see it in his eyes. And this marriage was not of my choosing, and therefore is more kidnapping than anything.”

“There is no sense growing bitter in our moments of joy, my love.”

“Perhaps not. Still, this moment may be felled by my feelings. I will need some more gentle coercion.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

Thus they went on while the master of the house was already locked up in his bedroom, asleep. That night, as with nearly every night, he slept near death’s bosom but was not taken away from life. He was long in years, short in wits, and deep in illness. He was conscious of two things: the first was an old legend famous in those regions, told to children and whispered among the wicked- the judgment of the Wanderer. He did not quake at the thought, but laughed as he considered his second piece of knowledge. Despite all evidence indicating the opposite he knew about the two of them. Through all his aged madness, through all the unwhispered whispers that entered his ears, and over his own gurgled babbling he heard them, and in his dreams he saw them. The latter he took as a sign from heaven. Their idle lust, he believed, would be punished, and he recompensed. Justice must be done.

In the early hours before dawn David left that place down the main eastern road of Calix. Nothing frightened him in the mile he walked back to his unobtrusive cottage and normally nothing intruded upon him. The locals called it Skull’s Corner. Wolves were a hassle now and then, but were ultimately as dangerous to him as flies. So he was not concerned when he heard their howling die out and fast-paced rustling begin along the sides of the path. With a deft touch he rolled up his sleeve and began pressing down on key pieces of a hefty bracelet that hugged his wrist. The centerpiece block of silver opened up to reveal a small compartment wherein a red gem glowed. Not wanting to be caught off guard after the night he had so slowly and carefully enjoyed, he decided to teach the beasts a lesson that night which would perhaps sere into their minds that his scent was the very scent of terror. First there was only a flicker burning up from the gemstone, but it levitated upwards and with a flash engulfed David’s body in a huge sheath of flame. Then the first wolf appeared.

It landed with a cackle. David did not fully hear it at once. However, the sound came again from the wolf’s mouth, but then it was picked up again all around him. After a moment a smile, a distinct unmistakable smile crept into the wolf’s face. An ear-to-ear grin. Disgusted and confused David stretched out his arm and unleashed a stream of flame against the creature. But it walked forward through the fire as if it were nothing. Other wolves then appeared, without jumping from the bushes and foliage- they simply appeared around him, eleven wolves in total. They leaped from their spots, David sent his fire out in a wide nova, engulfing the nearby trees and setting them ablaze. But the wolves continued to sail through the air, though without any speed or significant progression. As soon as he noticed it they were gone. He couldn’t move. The first wolf’s jaws were around his throat. He slammed shut his eyes, awaiting the pain. Nothing came. His eyes opened. He was alone. Burn marks covered the trees, as if something had extinguished them. He checked his bracelet- the gemstone’s light was gone. Now he began to worry.

As he walked forward he began to hear it again, the strange cackling. There was no sound of insects, nor wolves, nor animals of any kind. His ears were full of the laughter. The wind died away, the trees were still. Clouds covered the moon, and the stars vanished from sight. Holding his ears in pain as the volume of the sound increased, the voice laughing became hysterical, unrestrained. It turned into screaming, first loud then progressively softer, until it was only a whisper. The screaming whispers fell into harmony with a distant galloping. The air became thick and smelled of smoke. No fog or mist surrounded him, but his vision was blurred with a blotch of whiteness. His stomach rumbled, then turned over; he couldn’t keep it down as he fell to his knees. Raising himself up, the burning continued inside. After a few more moments of stumbling, he fell again, and his mouth was forced open- from the inside. A torrent of roaches marched out of his gullet, but as he squirmed, he soon felt their absence. Blinded, he could not see them, nor could he hear them. At the very least, he thought, the worst had passed. And indeed that seemed to be the case. Within a moment his sight began to return, and he began to wonder if perhaps he was simply asleep dreaming at Miranda’s mansion. The screaming departed entirely, as did the galloping. Stepping forward he noticed a small light in the distance, it was white mixed with blue and it lit up a large silhouette in the darkness. The wind still was not blowing, the trees were not swaying, the stars were still missing, and clouds still devoured the moon. Into great stillness, he took another step forward, and continued until he could see it more fully. And so he did.

A hundred feet away there stood a horseman, wrapped in dark robes. In his right hand he held aloft a silver mirror, while his left held the reins. And from the left side of his frame, from an imperceptible leather black belt, there hung a massive, naked sword. It was sheathed in whisperings, and its scabbard was an infinity of tiny lights burning in and out of existence. David stood in fear, and knew by instinct that this was the source of his troubles. He also knew what it was that stood before him- he as well as everyone else in the area knew of the Wanderer. Simply, he had believed it a myth. “So you’ve come!” David cried. Putting his hands together he focused for a moment. The Wanderer was motionless. A circle covered in red glyphs manifested above the rider, as did one underneath it. A blackness filled the gap between the two circles, and half a dozen creatures, resembling blood-drenched skeletons, crawled downwards, and with long lances struck into the black void. Satisfied after several minutes, the creatures nodded and withdrew. And the darkness dissipated.

Unharmed and seemingly invincible, there stood the Wanderer. David thought to run, but he as he gazed into the impenetrable shadow cast by the hood the rider, he could suddenly not pull himself away. Again, he thought to attack with even more powerful spells, and spend himself completely. Something stayed his hand and captured his mind. He was frozen in place. The dark rider at last dismounted, and strode towards the young man. Grabbing him by the neck, the horseman easily picked him up off the ground. He stared up at the blank obsidian face staring at him with eyes like two massive stars. Then he raised up the silver mirror, and the young man saw his reflection. “State your name,” came a deep, hoarse voice. “David...” And he remembered nothing more, except waking up now and then to the sound of wagon wheels and seeing the tips of sickly trees almost touching each other over the road...

***
David heard voices but couldn’t open his eyes.

“What should his religious name be?”

“That will be decided soon enough.”

“I think he is becoming conscious.”

“That won’t matter in a few minutes when we perform the ritual.”

“If he breaks from this, we’ll know he is the successor.”

“No, if he breaks it and is pure of heart.”

David felt a deep burning, as if his entire body were on fire. His mind was then plunged into darkness. After what only seemed like a few moments, his mind was filled with the following images:

A figure of dazzling white light stood in an empty room, speaking to a figure cloaked in darkness standing opposite him, almost leaning against the wall. In the cot lay a small figure, almost impish in comparison to the other two. The contrast between the white and black seemed to mean nothing, as they both conversed in an official tone. The dark figure bowed his head and departed through the open door. The celestial being simply vanished. Soon the room grew hazy, twisted, and transformed. It was now barren and white, except for a hole six inches in diameter in the center of the floor. A young man sat in his chair watching it. First one insect came out, a fly, and it buzzed around until he easily swatted it on his first try. Then fiery red ants crept up, and he smashed them all with both feet in one big jump. There really weren’t that many of them. And then termites came but he crushed them underfoot with a few stamps of his feet. He looked at his shoes- there were no guts or insect remains to be seen.

He began to wait again, hoping for more little bugs to destroy, but he heard a rumbling, and more holes appeared in the floor. From them more cockroaches than he could count began emerging. What’s more, the young man became strangely tired. A kindly, chuckling voice told him it would be a great idea to lay down, and so he did. Cockroaches were swarming over his eyes and crawling up his nose and down his throat. The young man sat up and found himself grabbing bigger and bigger armfuls of the creatures and dropping them on his head. He crunched down hard on the ones in his mouth. A burning surge from his gut flushed up his esophagus and out of his mouth. Vomit stained his shirt, but the cockroaches all began to melt away from him. Their heads and legs fell off, as did their entire exoskeletons. The corpses started falling into the holes. Out of the whole mess one cockroach remained whole. The young man reached for it, grabbed it, and drew it towards his mouth. Then he opened his eyes.

The young man woke up but couldn’t move. His eyes were open, he could see the restraints and chains holding his body to the bed. Trying to twist his head proved useless- there was no give. Then he began to struggle all over the rest of his body: legs, feet, hands, arms, shoulders, fingers, abdomen, toes- all nothing. A thought occurred to him: “MMmmmmMmmmMMMm!” No, he couldn’t open his mouth either. He couldn’t feel anything in or on his mouth, or down his throat, but he could move his tongue, leaving only one possibility: a binding spell. He shot glances around the room: the window was open letting in orange sunlight onto a plain wooden desk and onto an open book on top of it, with quill and ink off to the upper right hand side. Some time passed by, a few minutes full of blinking and confused thoughts, ideas, emotions, and a little amnesia. With a sudden clack, the straps and chains unfastened. At first put off, the young man immediately leapt from the bed and started pacing around the room. The door was locked- he checked it two or three times. The window, while not barred, had been enchanted and would permit nothing to leave once inside, this he learned from the tiny mound of singed fly bodies on the windowsill. Finally, he checked the book. Pages upon pages were full of large blocks of text, all in his own handwriting, all with the same repeating sentences:

“I am Jeremy. Murder is a sin. I murdered my brother. I am a sinner. I am Jeremy. Murder is a sin. I murdered my brother. I am a sinner. I am Jeremy. Murder is a sin. I murdered my brother. I am a sinner. I am Jeremy. Murder is a sin. I murdered my brother. I am a sinner. I am Jeremy. Murder is a sin. I murdered my brother. I am a sinner. I am Jeremy. Murder is a sin. I murdered my brother. I am a sinner. I am Jeremy. Murder is a sin. I murdered my brother. I am a sinner...”

Repeated over and over. How many days had he been here?

Flipping through the book he eventually found a dog-eared page. When he unfolded it, he found a number three scrawled in blood. He turned three more pages and found this small passage written in tiny letters in a crumpled up corner:

“My name is David, I have been imprisoned here for one month. Every two pages equals one day. The Dark Rider brought you here to test you. Remember the mirror. What was in the mirror is in your dreams. Don’t trust the monks, priests, or the inmates here. Demand release from the chief priest...”

“I am David.” He said aloud, and believed it.

The door unlatched and creaked open. Startled, David waited, but no one came in. So he quickly decided to go out. The ceiling arched up twenty feet high ending in a fine, sharp point. He could hear the sound of rain falling down, though unblemished sunshine continued to come through his window, and he had not noticed any clouds. All down the halls were people clothed in black robes, with ashes smeared over their faces, reading or writing in large, leather-bound books, all mumbling in chorus: “I am a sinner. I am a sinner. I am a sinner...” Then David checked his own clothes. They were black robes. And he touched his face- and it too was covered in ashes.

Then a series of bells rang out, and more black robes streamed out of the rooms, and the whole black, chanting mass filtered down the far doorway. He found himself gleeful, even happy. He rushed back, grabbed his book and followed. When he passed through into the sanctuary, everyone else was seated in the pews. There was only one spot open along the entire naive. There must have been several hundred other black robes present in what he heard some referring to as the “temple.” No statues were anywhere to be seen, but up behind the high altar there hung a massive painting of a horseman clad in sable armor. He wielded a two-handed sword with his right hand while his left hand held the reins. His face was impossible to discern, but two glowing coals of eyes were etched in it. Beneath it, a cadre of monks were bustling about with candles and platters of entrails and strange heaps of bloody things. At length the rest departed to the wings of the temple, while an ascetic looking monk marched down the aisle chanting loudly but indecipherably. It was not a different language, it was the common tongue, but the sentences made no sense:

“Deathly empty eschatons cannot be avoided in the bountiful mercy of the most low devils transpiring to aspire across space and time moving with boundless space or time across what is not crossable...” Within minutes he was back up the naive and before the altar. He raised his hands and started waiving them about madly. From his fingertips dazzling lights danced and spun, rising and falling together, combining brilliant colors, shapes and hues. He shouted incantations in the same manner as before, and the lights danced all the faster. David looked around him, and his fellow black robes were all nodding off to sleep. He wasn’t tired at all, but the same overpowering joy came upon him, and after a moment, he too was asleep and dreaming.

A tall figure standing astride a horse gazed at him with eyes like blazing stars. He had no face, only a slate of obsidian with celestial orbs burning in his forehead. Before him stood a shrunken, dwarf-like man, extremely fat and heavy set. The dismounted rider held up a mirror, and the man could not but look. David understood that the man had no choice. The man nodded, but his face twisted into a sickly shape and his body rotted away in a few seconds. At once the rider took his horse and approached David, who was a part of a massive procession, who all fell at the rider’s feet. David was full of joy, singing hymns, chanting happily. His arms started to smolder, and he looked at his flesh, and it was melting away. Around him arms and legs and heads were toppling down to the ground. But he was still so happy, he cried out in joy, asked to be devoured. Before his eyes opened he watched his head become a skull, but did not believe that he had died.

The monk was now preaching. He mounted the pulpit and threw back his hood, revealing an emaciated, elderly face that was clean-shaven with a shaven head.

“Now, my beloved, none of you are slaves here. Everyone is free to go whenever he so wishes. He simply must ask.” The inmates listened dutifully, most attentively. “Ask and you will be released. Ask and we will let you back into the world. But know that our methods alone will determine if you are truly chosen or if you are truly sinful, irredeemably.” The monk lowered his eyes, and a drowsiness fell over the crowd. All David could see was a blank, black face staring at him from a mirror, and he noticed that as he blinked the star-like eyes blinked back at him.

When he woke up again the temple was empty. A voice rang out behind him, and echoed throughout the sanctuary:

“Jeremy, it’s your time.”

”Yes my lord I know,” David found himself answering. “You said we’d get to meet first thing this morning!” His voice was happy, ecstatic.

He was speaking to a six and a half foot-tall man, entirely in black, with his hood drawn far over his head. David could not look at his face, but instead stared at the talisman hanging round his neck. His belt was made of fine, dark leather, unlike the coarse rope around his own waist. He noticed one other thing as well: a massive sword hung from that belt. After a couple minutes of obsequious chatter, the tall man guided David with a gloved hand to a large office just up the same corridor he had come down a little while earlier. The office was perfectly orderly, dry, warm, and even slightly comfortable.

“Before we get started, Jeremy, I’d like to do two things: one, tell you a little bit more about our religious community here at Hillcourt Monastery, and, secondly, tell you a story. Now about our community...there are so many places to start...hmm...” David was smiling back with an empty-headed look of admiration.

“Yes of course, I should begin by reminding you of your voluntary status. Once one reaches the rank of adept, only a special dispensation from the grand master can free you from your vows. A mere neophyte like yourself may leave at any time. My second point on this matter is as follows: we exist to try and assist the Judge in purifying humanity through penance and prayer. This world is almost hopelessly corrupt, Jeremy, and we must work to undo the evil perpetrated in it. We also work to find and purify the Judge’s successor so that the newly born Judge does not need to spend much time in isolation finding the one true path.

“Now the story. It may be familiar to you already already, but it is one which I am nevertheless inclined to tell to you. It’s the story of Tarquin Humilitas, a theologian and philosopher who was a monk of the Elieshites, they who venerate Eli’esha as the mouth of the one true God. We here venerate the Judge as heaven’s supreme messenger and dispenser of justice. Tarquin himself was not unfamiliar with the Judge. For you see, he did a great evil, for he was cursed with a hunger for human flesh. A curse that came with enhanced physical abilities, which were of a most diabolical nature. A curse that deformed the appetites so much that when they ran at their highest no will could resist it. You may wonder what this curse led him to do. Well, there were once two hundred cloistered monks, male and female, in two separate monasteries at the mountain of Ashog in the desert of Cerethoth. While he was a monk there the curse fell upon him through a witch’s hand. This witch played upon the weakness of Tarquin’s chastity and so had him in a, shall we say, weakened state. He was a mere porter in those days, after all, and the sight of a fair woman must have been most welcome indeed.

“I see no need to delve into his later developments. But in his years of guilt-ridden solitude on the mountain slopes, he formulated and eventually set down some of the most brilliant philosophical and theological precepts ever heard in all the world. They are of personal import to me. One of his principles of moral philosophy is popularly called ‘everyday is judgment day.’ What it means is that we should wake up expecting no dawn, and watch the sunset expecting the Judge to appear at our doors. That is the basis of our religious community, in my estimation. Making everyday the last day for every man. Now then.

“Jeremy, you’ve made excellent progress this past month, and I was wondering if you felt ready to make, well, to make a clean chest of everything, to confess your sins, if you will. That’s the whole reason for your being here. Now I’m going to let you speak freely, so please do. Now unload your burden.”

David felt himself relax. Then these words came into his mind and he had to tell them to this man, this man he couldn’t even look in the eyes:

“You want me to tell you about Jacob. That’s fine, I’ll tell you about Jacob. He doesn’t talk to me anymore. We haven’t talked in years. You see, he and I once had a mutual friend named Joshua, whose parents-“

“Sorry David, but if you could speak on Miranda first and work backwards. I think that would help you see better how your pattern of evildoing developed.”

“Allow me to disagree. I happen to think my evildoing has nothing to do with her.”

“I’ll make an exception for this. But only because you’ve been doing so well until now.”

“As I was saying, Joshua’s parents left our town a few years prior to my apprenticeship. Joshua mostly favored Jacob, for reasons I could not understand. But I did understand. They were the same reasons why my parents always showed Jacob more affection. Even as a teenager he was dashing, handsome, charming, smart, athletic. Girls adored him too. And he was always successful in whatever he did, whereas I had one talent- I could read books faster than anyone in town, and, as I discovered, outside of the town, and no one I met I at the academy could match me. So the three of us, myself at sixteen, Jacob at fourteen, and Joshua at fifteen, were one summer fooling around a stream that flowed through an acre or two of forest in the back of our land.

“Our Father being no woodsman, it was overgrown, thick, and full of lively populations of deer, raccoons, and other animals. The stream was not very wide- you could leap across it- but it was a few feet deep. A recent rain storm had swelled the stream, bringing it to its full depth. While swinging from a branch Jacob lost his grip and fell in, dashing his head against one of the many stones that filled the edges of the bank. He rolled into the stream, he was drowning. For all that he meant to me as a brother, for a moment I hesitated. This was, after all, my chance to be rid of him forever, and it would be only an accident. Yet there was Joshua already running, so I had to join in. There must be some way I could manage it. No. Not with him watching and helping out. So, after half a minute, I jumped in, feigning that I had been stunned by the sight. With a bare bones knowledge of medicine, gleaned from our Father, Joshua and I got him breathing again with some of the herbs around the area- we mixed them into, into, I don’t don’t know what. I had just seen my Dad do it once. Blood was coming from a gash on his forehead, so we wrapped his head in a shirt. When he was stable, we hefted him up on our shoulders. We both carried him back to the house, our parents rushed out at a distance.

“The back forty field was bright green at that hour, with the sun shining, dipping low in the sky. It turned out that he hadn’t done any major damage to his head, which was lucky. That moment of hesitation remained inexplicable to me for a long time. For the remainder of high school, I couldn’t explain it. My feelings for Jacob also changed. You might say, it was like I had actually done the deed. To all parties, save my parents, who were left unknowing, it was as if I actually had let Jacob drown. To me he rarely spoke afterwards. Likewise Joshua. He would say very little to me outside of normal courtesy. About the incident with Jacob- Joshua said nothing. I can’t help but wonder if it contributed to Mr. and Mrs. Maria’s decision to move away. I offered to keep up a long distance letter relationship with Joshua, but he laconically insisted that it be only with Jacob. What Joshua told Jacob behind my back I will never know. Now Jacob’s been off to the wizard’s academy for I don’t know how long. Mom and Dad read his letters. I’ve since just been following in my Dad’s footsteps and have been his apprentice for years now, getting a little money here or there from his sufferance. It was enough, after savings, for a bit of ancient tech, but I lost that the other night, as you probably know. And that’s all I have to say.”

“Don’t you know, David, that there was never anyone named Joshua.”

“Of course there was. He was my best friend.”

“And Jacob is dead. He drowned that day.”

“No he didn’t.”

“I need you to admit that you let him drown.”

David made no reply.

“I see. Then I have no choice but to let you go from here. But be warned, your parents sent you here to avoid the Wanderer’s wrath. I am, after all, one of his disciples, the chief priest of his cult here in Anselm.”

“You’re lying, priest. My parents did not bring me here. And your whole scheme here is to find the next dark rider so that you can influence them to be benign to your order and gain favors like Arcula and Inculus. Now, you can’t hold me here against my will, if I remember correctly. Your vows prevent you from mistreating me.”

“Very well,” he said with a chuckle. “But would you care to tell me about your parents a little.” His voice was very calming, soothing, and persuasive.

David felt like complying.

But instead he replied: “Release me first.”

“Very well, I release you.”

After blinking once or twice the whole room was different. The priest’s face was fat and lumpy, his frame short and bulbous, and his sword a mere dagger. The roof in his office was leaking, the papers were in messy stacks, and some codexes were strewn about.

“As I promised I will tell you about my parents. We live in this town, Anselm, always have, always will. I don’t mind that, I’ll have you know. What else is there to see in this world besides bigger freak shows, wars, and a lot of weird looking forests, so no, I don’t mind living here. I can see in your eyes that you don’t believe me. You looked a lot tougher before what with all your pathetic little magic spells. Well, listen, I didn’t agree to come here, and my Father is a two-bit healer, but I always delved into other things I wasn’t supposed to look into, like my past and the past of this planet. I can still heal, but I can do so much more. But enough about me. It’s a gift anyway; if you’d please stop glaring at me, you old worn out sack of flabby skin. I’ll get to everything. Yes, my parents. My Father had a favorite saying: ‘Life is full of suffering.’ Of course, he’d always preface it with a long sigh then a ‘Son,’ as if to say ‘Son, you know I love you but.’ But of course, not to say, well, what he meant to say was that you just can’t avoid pain in this world. And what is your title? Is there some title I owe to you? I can’t imagine considering who I am and you who you are and what you’ve done to me. Charles, is your name. Charles Rind--- Rendebault? Rendebault. Yes, of course. It took me a minute to see it.

“See, I didn’t kill my brother, I had no need to. And now I wonder why you asked me about my parents when you know about them already. Testing my memory? Or perhaps my insight? You had me pretty good, all nice and under control like one of your zombies. How many do you actually have? Let me think. Maybe twelve? Maybe one more or less? I can’t get an exact track on them. Well Charles Rendebault, here is the information you seek: my Father is a tall, short-tempered healer who works mostly among roots and herbs like a wild boar; my Mother is quiet as a field mouse, rude to outsiders, and cooks everything by boiling. I can tell what you want to know. Are they at all magically inclined, as I clearly am? You can tell, can’t you, that I have a double-share, if not more, of spirit. It has been mismatched, as it were, through a fault in the ancient system, with a human soul. But I don’t suppose you know much about the primordial legends and myths. You might not even know much about the Ancients, a relatively recent creation. In all likelihood, you ignorant refuse heap of human misery, you probably could not even explain to me how I can know all these things, especially since the whole purpose of bringing me here was to either kill me, drive me insane, or domesticate me. Which brings me to my only real question: why did you release me?”

To all this the priest only chuckled, then guffawed and laughed. “No, my son, the title is Your Reverence, and no, my son, we have not been trying to any way alter you. No, my son, we’ve been seeking out the successor to our lord and master. The successor to The Judge does not always come from this region, in case you were otherwise ignorant, so we set up these monasteries throughout the continent and send missionaries abroad. Our little cult keeps to itself, but your aunt happened to be a member, and she persuaded your parents to bring you down here. Apparently you complied. We did not expect you to be so spiritually potent, as you’ve turned out be. If you are meant to be the successor then you would be pure of heart, since you clearly are full of sin, then you are unacceptable. In other words, there was nothing more we could do with you. We could not cure you of the guilt you felt over your brother.”

“My brother is alive,” David replied coolly, “but for how long? Who can tell? Do you know your life span? I know mine. It is without end. For I am the dark rider’s successor, and my first act is the abolition of this monastery.”

The priest laughed, “And how would you know?”

“Because he already confronted me and I lived. He did not dispense death to me, the punishment all sinners earn in his eyes. Now it’s all returned to me, what I saw in the mirror. What I saw was my face become a slate of darkness studded with two eyes like stars.”

“Well then, tell me about Miranda and all the things you’ve done with her.”

“She’s my entire world, so what if she is married. That shouldn’t even enter into the calculations. What matters most is making someone happy, wouldn’t you say? Happiness is the end of human life?”

“I don’t think you believe that, another reason you are unworthy.”

“Oh, I take it you think that I think that life is all about power? About control? About domination?”

“That is my point exactly. And it is Your Reverence still, if you please.”

“Well, Your Reverence, let me assure you that I am the chosen one. I will prove it to you by passing judgment on you.”

“I do not think that wise, David. We have her here you know. She is one of our recent recruits.” The priest smiled. “She seems very content here and-”

The priest looked into the eyes of David, and suddenly lost the power of speech. It was strange, his words were echoing, and David was smiling. Another lie had failed. But he was mesmerized now with the look in David’s eye. None of his limbs were moving.

The priest stared blankly. David rose up out of his chair, and whispered a few words. Keeping the chair’s arm firmly in his hand, the whole structure glowed for an instant, then its pieces broke down and reassembled into a spear. The priest looked on in terror; he saw a red light flashing in his eyes and couldn’t move. It was as if a dark specter from the long shadows in his office had reached out and grabbed him. David through the spear with all his might, and the missile bored through the priest’s chest.

“Well, Your Reverence, I find you guilty of sloth, kidnapping, and intent to do malicious harm to an innocent man’s mind. You were detecting my intention to kill my little brother, as evident from that story I told you, however, it was a passing moment, and it only just so happened that it seemed as if, for those seconds when he fell in, that I might be freed from the burden of being a failure in comparison to him. So no, Your Reverence, I am not guilty, I am just guilt-ridden for not being a better man. And now is the time for me to pass judgment on this pathetic little monastery here. For it is true and I declare it: this order is ended, and I will hunt it down to the last, or scatter it like sheep by striking the shepherds.” With that he pulled out his spear and continued down the hall.

Hours later; a hideous black plume of smoke, reeking of human flesh, rose into the air. The old and decrepit monastery was gutted by seething red flames.

All seen and approved by the Wanderer.

David emerged from the monastery and headed up the second hill to the north, where he felt the Judge’s presence. And there he was, standing atop the peak, as rain began to fall upon the town of Anselm. The dark rider dismounted immediately. He took off his mantle, his cowl, and his cape, revealing a figure of intense, pure white. His apparel was all white, though around his neck was a scapular of black with a single, rectangular piece no more than a hand’s length across hanging down to his ankles. He flung down the mirror, and cast down his sword. Then he turned to walk away.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” David demanded.

The former Judge, the former Dark Rider, the former Wanderer, looked back and said in a hard, hoarse voice, “No. Take up my former mantle and do what must be done for justice.”

Then he turned and walked away, vanishing into nothing.

David laughed a little and threw on the pitch black black robes and fastened the glittering sword to his belt. Then he picked up the mirror, and could not help but gaze into it.

There was a blank, dark slate, and two eyes like brilliant stars looking back at him. At this he nodded his head in understanding, mounted his steed and started off at a gallop.

“Well, Miranda my love,” he began in a voice he did not recognize, “there is one last thing I can do for you, perhaps, by visiting your husband. Then I think I owe Jacob a visit, so that we can settle who deserves life and who death!”

Thus continued the journey of the Wanderer.

"The Den of Thieves"
by Alex Friedman

   The end of the Golden Era and the Second Age of The Histories of Gilghim'hr was imminent. The enormous set of volumes that comprises the Second Age contains several thousand visions of this turbulent century, documenting many significant treaties and battles on the borderlands to the north. The capitol of Netheria was a great city, perhaps the only rival to Un for several thousand years. It was the very center of the Netherian caste system, and home to the vast majority of culture and civilization during this time. But the Netherian people were also becoming restless, perhaps sensing the changes and tragedies to come. Folk heroes and bands of thieves arose during this time of warriors, cults, and invasions. From the docks district of the Netherian capitol came some of the most daring. This story is composed based on visions of Gilghim'hr and some historical and literary additions. It documents a few of the thieves that would eventually found the Fellowship of Knives.
I
   Fenton Ringo sat on the pier with a fishing line in hand. The cool breeze smelled of spoiled fish and brine. Fenton's sunburned neck hung about his shoulders like a condor's. He stared into the water, watching the shadows of fish slowly swim around his lure. He felt the slightest shift in weight on the line, and jerked his hand. He stood and raised his line out of the water. He pulled out a small carp. He shrugged and reeled it up and onto the pier. He wouldn't go hungry today. Fenton wiped the sweat from his large forehead and walked further down the pier, over to where his comrades sat.
   They were both substantially larger men than he, which was no great feat. Fenton was a smallish man, low born and of no discernible lineage. He was thirty five years old, of a brown complexion, with a receding wisp of muddy colored hair. His arms were long and thin, and he often kept them tucked behind his back. The larger of his two friends was a great dull eyed man, who stood a third of his figure taller than Fenton. He was simply called Jotun, lacking a surname as he was a freed slave. He was heavily muscled and young, mistakable for a warrior of the invading barbarian tribes to the north. His long brown hair was tied behind his back and wet with brine. Next to the crate upon which he sat lay a harpooned fish. The second of Fenton's associates was a skinny, graying weasel of a man named Jacque Sommer. This man was also at least a head taller than Fenton, and looked dangerous. He had sharp features, the nose and chin of lower nobility. Gray whiskers sprouted randomly from his dirty face, and he cast a single eye on Fenton as he approached.
   "That jeweler was on the ferry raft again. Dressed in puffy yellow like a bonny noble girl," said Fenton. This comparison drew a gruff chuckle from Jotun.
   "I saw him hand a bag to one of the old-orders in the square. The cloak just took it off him, no coin involved," said Sommer.
Historical note- The "old-orders" were priests of the multitude of dying religions that had been replaced by the Order of Netherian. With the decent of Asteres and other hero-kings into the ancient chambers of Netherian's Imperial Catacombs at the end of their reigns, Emperor Netherian took on a God-like status among public worshipers. "Cloaks" are members of the forbidden cults of old gods.
   "Well, no coin that we saw," added Jotun, shrugging.
   "Let's get on that ferry tomorrow. See if we can get a word or two out of him. Or at least pick his pocket," Fenton said.
   "You're thinking too small. We could have picked his pockets today. Why tempt the dungeon or the stocks over three score bull?" Sommer said.

   "What risk, Sommer? Have you forgotten your feet?" Fenton said. There was a splash. Sommer turned slightly to see Jotun pull another harpooned fish from the gray-blue water. Jotun's harpoon was an imperial javelin he had stolen. He had fastened a green, ancient hook to it so that it might accomplish his task.

   "Jewelers have shops," Jotun said.

   "That they do," Sommer mumbled.

   Fenton sat down to clean his fish. The three men watched the ferries pass and discussed how they would find a way aboard by the next day.
II
   At sunrise, Sommer arrived at the public tavern. He had slept little. He handed an aproned woman a coin and asked to use her polish rag and an empty tankard. Sommer polished the side of the tankard until he could see a dull reflection of himself, and then took a small knife from his vest and began to shave with a pitcher of brine. He worked quickly, as a practiced craftsman might, to hone his whiskers into a tight and trim mustache. He scraped the knife against his throat with the stinging water, working about his chin and cheeks. He took the pitcher and splashed what remained of the cold brine on his face, then patted himself dry with the polish rag. When he felt satisfied, he bought a sea biscuit and left.
   Sommer walked up the dirt road of the docks district to a well. Sommer asked a woman there for a bucket, and it was granted. He drew water and washed his face and neck and hands. He returned the bucket and took to combing his short hair back with his hands. He then went to a tailor and spent the last of his few coins on a new pair of pants and a vest.
   Sommer stood straight at the docks, pacing and practicing his posture. Jotun watched from a crate and occasionally laughed at him.
   "You are so silly to look at, Sommer. I can see your pretty girl face without that old rat's nest on it!" Jotun said between bites of a smoked fish.
   "Guard, please remove this barbarous fiend from my sight. What should come of the children if they were to see such a savage?" Sommer said to an imagined sentry as he exaggerated a noble accent. Clean and postured, Sommer looked almost like a lower nobleman. He could at least pass for a merchant. Because he was tall and his nose was pointed, one might assume he was perhaps related to a 'true' Netherian. All that gave him away were his wiry muscled arms.
   "No, sir! I am but a meager servant! Do not send the guards for me!" Jotun said between chuckles.
   Fenton Ringo walked up the docks leisurely, carrying a satchel. He lifted three loaves of bread from it and handed them out to his comrades.
   "I wouldn't expect you to steal on an empty stomach, lads," Ringo said.
   "Lads? Tut! I could be your father. I may well be your father," Sommer said as he bit into the bread.
   "Unlikely. I got my looks somewhere, and my mother were no prize," Ringo returned.
   Jotun laughed so hard he could barely manage to add, "You are both very ugly!"
   The three ate and jested as they prepared for what Fenton had described as 'our most foolish endeavor yet'. Fenton and Sommer reviewed the plan while Jotun listened intently. First, they would wait for the Jeweler to arrive at the ferry, returning from his dealings. They would cross the Netherian Delta by way of the ferry boat service by posing as a merchant and his hired laborers. On the ferry, Sommer would try to speak to the Jeweler and learn as much as he could about his dealings. They would sneak into the merchant's quarter and hide until nightfall. At quarter-night, they would rob the Jeweler's store. If no alarm was sounded, they would hide until morning and leave the quarter at midday.
   Jotun listened to the plan intently, his gaze shifting back and forth between his comrades as they spoke slowly and in turn, scratching with a stick in the dust. He thumbed at a scar above his right eye, a gift from a sentry that he had returned tenfold. Jotun was aware that Sommer was no lover of swordplay. He was far from unpracticed, but he preferred to avoid direct conflict. This showed in his plan, Jotun thought. If all went well, they might avoid a fight entirely.

III

   Sommer saw the yellow plumed hat from a quarter mile off. He kicked Jotun and stood. Fenton saw the hat too, and then the Jeweler. Completely garbed in yellow spring finery, the pudgy man strutted up the street from the road to the inner dock. The grey and brown rags clothing those around him only increased his luminosity. He walked with an enormous Volmarian bodyguard who carried an equally large spiked axe. Fenton cringed when he noticed the hulking escort.
   Sommer glanced over at the ferry dock. A ferry was just arriving. This was the one that the Jeweler would board, surely. Sommer pointed it out to Jotun, and the three walked to the admissioners.
   "A bull for you, two for the big man," said the armored man selling ferry rides.
   "A bull? 'Twas three pence yesterday!" responded Sommer. He had expected minor harassment for Jotun, but they had not anticipated increased fare.
   "Today is the feast of Saint Bimbos. Festivities in the court this night. A bull is the Netherian fare today, I am already being kind," said the armored man. He crinkled his brow in irritation. Fenton prodded Sommer. Sommer understood.
   "Fine, fine. Here are two. My servant will row," Sommer said. Two bullions were the extent of their coin. Fenton would have to find another way across. He moved back into the crowd to avoid the eyes of the admissioners.
   "Good enough, I suppose. Hard to be unkind on Saint Bimbos' day. You may board," said the man. Jotun and Sommer walked onto the large ferry. It was a raft constructed of thick logs, the width of each larger than a man's waist. Sommer looked down into the water. Fenton would not be swimming. Ravenous, carnivorous fish prowled about beneath the grimy surface today. The fish were called Ogaru by the lowborn, which translated from old Netherian to mean "staring wolf". They regularly ate the poor drunkards who fell into the polluted delta.
   Fenton thought quickly. He saw the Jeweler coming, caught in line for the ferry twenty heads back. Fenton laid his satchel wide open on the ground and began to sing.
   "Remember men, to keep Bimbos' day- for a wise old saint was he..."
   Fenton went on singing, making up verses to the popular hymn as he exhausted the traditional lyrics. A few men through half-pence or crusts of bread into his satchel. As the Jeweler proceeded closer in the line, an admissions guard grabbed Fenton by the back of his neck.
   "No begging here, you fool. I ought to lay you out where you stand," said the burly guard.
   "Sir, I was simply singing for the sake of good Saint Bimbos!" Fenton pleaded loudly enough that the Jeweler could hear.
   "Bah, you think you can sing your way to the other side of the river? Begging on this dock is strictly forbidden. Off with you," he said, and threw Fenton to the ground.
   "Leave this bard be, you brute!" shouted the Jeweler. He reached a dainty, soft hand down to Fenton. Fenton took it and stood, brushing the dust from his knees.
   "I will pay your fare, lad. You may jest with me on the vessel until we reach the other pier. I hate to see a charming entertainer abused," said the Jeweler sneering at the admissions guard. He handed fare to the man collecting it and boarded. Fenton followed closely behind, smiling sheepishly at the bulky, angry looking body guard.
IV
   Jotun propelled the ferry at a deliberately slower speed than he was capable of. He knew his comrades were making some sort of unplanned progress, as he did not remember this conversation between Fenton and Sommer and the merry, girlish jeweler being part of the original plan. This assumption, along with occasional affirmative nods from Sommer, told him to buy as much time as he could without annoying the ferryman. Steadily he rowed, remaining quiet and calm.
   Sommer had injected himself into conversation with the jeweler, who had introduced himself as Elron. Between Fenton's jests, he had boldly joined Elron in hearty laughter- taking care to establish eye contact. He then thrust out his arm, bent at the elbow and with an open hand to offer the common handshake among merchants or craftsmen of similar trades. Fenton had not expected this, but it was characteristic of Sommer to make such bold moves. To Fenton's surprise, the Volmarian did not throttle Sommer. Perhaps his disguise would prove itself.
   "Who is this brilliant fool who jests so, sir? A servant to your household?" Sommer said. The jeweler took his hand clapped it with his left.
   "He is but a commoner I took pity upon. He is entertaining me as payment for his fare. Were he higher born, perhaps he could live as a poet! I am Elron, of the house of Jerome," he said.
   "I am Somerith, of the house of Fentonfather. I am a trader from the Nor'Eastern coasts," said Sommer. Fenton had to turn away to avoid snickering.
   "I have not been to those waters in many years. Not since my pilgrimage to the Port of Northern Star," said Elron.
   "Ah, yes. The monastary is there. My brother is a monk there," Sommer said.
   As the two spoke, Fenton looked to the approaching shore. The Merchant's quarter was protected by an enormous wall, like the other higher caste districts. The entrance was guarded by at least twenty men in mail and leather, most of which carried crossbows or bill hooks. A man with a mounted ballista watched the dock square from a gate house. The ballista could defend an entire township from attack by an unorganized foe. Even in this Golden Age, few weapons smaller than a canon where capable of such damage.
   "Bard? Your debt to me is payed in full. Be on your way when we reach the shore," said Elron.
   "Yes sir, thank you sir," Fenton said with a bow. Sommer gave him a sideways glance and began to speak to Elron.
   "Sir, I have not much knowledge of your trade. I would learn it, if I had a suitable teacher. Perhaps you would take me on for a few days as help so that I might learn? I ask only room to rest, and you would benefit from more hands during this noble feast of Bimbos- surely a time of great trade in your favor," said Sommer.
   "I... I am not sure. What of your brute?" Said Elron, warily.
   "Oh, my servant? He will be of great use to you. He can perform any hard labor or sentry duties. And he is well behaved," said Sommer. The Volmarian turned to Jotun and took note of him. Jotun pretended not to notice and went on rowing.
   "Indeed, I have labors that could be done. I suppose we shall arrange this. You will aid me for this holiday, and I will teach you to deal in the finer minerals," Elron said with a nod.
   "Excellent," Sommer said.
   "You will meet me in the merchant's quarter after midday. My store is on the eastern circle, there is a sign that reads 'Elron's Finery'," he said. The ferry pulled in to the port. Sommer's timing was near perfect. They shook hands and Elron headed directly for the merchant's quarter. The three gathered in the dock square and discussed their next move.
V
   As they squatted on a pile of shipping crates, Fenton spoke quickly with Sommer.
   "I cannot read either. We will have to ask someone about the shop. It will be risky, and if that big Volmarian sees me with you, there will be trouble," Fenton said.
   "Perhaps if we asked someone to scratch out the words in the dust, we could match them to the sign," Sommer said.
   "No, no. You are not thinking well," Jotun said. "This is easy. It will not be hard to find a great stuffed yellow canary like him, and we know what circle to look in. We will just pretend to know where we are going and walk through until we see him. He is so silly looking, I could find him anywhere."
   "That is a reasonable plan, but I could not join you in it. The two of you will have to go about it yourselves. I will hide somewhere that I can see you, and join you tonight for the hard work," said Fenton.
   "A serviceable solution. I will use the usual signal to tell you when we are ready to act. But I would have you know, this may require more than a day. If you have to retreat, we will act on our own and find you later, across the trench," said Sommer.
   Fenton nodded and stood. A guard had caught his gaze. He moved off abruptly into the crowd with a short wave to his comrades. The large man who had noticed Fenton swiftly pushed through the crowd toward him. Sommer chuckled. Jotun gave him a sideways look.
   "Rawlings, Royal Sentry of the Empire. Fenton's good friend from his old gambling ring," Sommer said.
   Fenton dodged and darted through the well dressed crowd of middle-men and merchants gathered in the square. His drab and gray garments stood out in the crowd of deep blues and reds and greens like a brick in a jewel case. Men wearing hats and women in plumed dresses were strange sights to Fenton, but he was not looking at them. Sharp eyed, Fenton caught sight of a narrow, dark alley way. As he ducked between the two buildings, he shot a harsh glare toward his pursuer. Fenton decided that he would now be the hunter. Rawlings, a man of substantial girth and muscle, pushed harder through the crowd, frustrated. The big, armored man stepped into the alley and brandished a fine short sword. He saw nothing but rubbish in the alley, so he took fifteen paces further to investigate it. It was then that Fenton spoke.
   " 'Lo Rawlings. I might have thought you were still in the stockades," Fenton said from three men's height above the littered dirt.
   "You filthy bastard, I will have my satisfaction when I throw you into the deepest dungeon in the empire!" Rawlings shouted, looking from side to side and as high up as his coiffed helm would allow.
   "No, I think you're going to lie here bleeding for awhile instead," Fenton said.
   Fenton stood with his feet wedged against the close walls high above the angry imperial sentry. The alley was barely spacious enough for two men to stand shoulder to shoulder as they walked through. Fenton spat and pulled a dagger from his sash, careful to keep his balance. He pressed the palms of his hands against the walls and pulled his legs together. He released his grip and dropped. Rawlings took a step back, finally able to see his nimble nemesis, and received a heel to the bridge of his nose. He toppled and Fenton tumbled over him to recover his balance. Rawlings tried to stand. Fenton dashed back to him and stomped Rawling's swordarm before smashing the hilt of the dagger into his forehead. Rawlings fell back to the ground and did not move, bleeding from his battered face. Fenton picked up his sword and admired it briefly. It was new, finely honed, and in excellent condition. Fenton slid it into has sash, then as an afterthought kicked Rawlings in the ribs, under his armor.
   Fenton climbed the wall again, and from the roof searched for a way to breech the merchant's quarter.
VI
   Sommer gave the gate guard the half-eyed glance he had seen merchants deliver so many times as he walked through the main gate in tow of a pair of noblemen. He was passing a second guard, a shorter man whose armor fit poorly, when Jotun was stopped.
   "Hold there, fellow. This is not Volmaria where you brutes walk freely. Where be your master?" said the first sentry. Jotun had a basic policy in these situations- an uppercut followed by a sharp kick in the guts- but Sommer grabbed his shoulder.
   "He is my servant, sir. He lags a bit around nobles as he is clumsy and liable to be in their stead. Come now," Sommer said as he pulled on Jotun's shoulder. The guard opened his mouth to protest further, but a woman's cry in the square distracted him. Sommer and Jotun quickened their pace into the upper circles.
Historical note: The upper castes' circles within the greater capitol city of Netheria were a world separated from those that housed the lower castes. Compared to the extreme poverty and squalor of the lower circles, simply walking into the upper circles must have felt like advancing three centuries forward into the future. The upper circles were paved, had public fountains, public gardens, police supervision, and Imperial child care services.
   Jotun had to force himself not to stare at the gallantly dressed women that the pair passed on the streets. Many appeared to him to be of a race far superior to humankind, and some of them were just that.
   Sommer, who had a good deal of experience pretending to belong places, tried to remember all he had learned on the last visit he stole across the delta. He adjusted his posture and his stride. As they looked for the Jeweler he broke character only for a moment, covering his hearty chuckles with a feigned coughing fit.

   For Sommer had realized as he stood in the midst of such finery that this side of the river, not his own, was the true den of thieves.
VII

   Jotun knew it would be foolish to talk or tap or prod Sommer to gain his attention. He stepped lightly on the back of Sommer's ankle. Though this caused them both to stumble, Jotun was able to make it seem an accident. Jotun caught his comrade's eye and nodded toward the Jeweler. The plump man was still wearing his ridiculous outfit, and he was still easy to spot among the colorful inner city through his open shop window. But Jotun saw something out of place. Looped about the top of the Jeweler's chimney was a ragged satchel.
   "That son of a bitch," Sommer said.
   "You should go and greet that pretty bird before he has time to thatch his roof, Sommer," Jotun said.
   "That bloody lad could rob Netherian himself had he the luck to find himself upwind," Sommer grumbled.

   They walked to the storefront and let themselves in. The Jeweler's shop had a number of tables and counters, each upholstered in fine red velvet. Upon the velvet lay multitudes of fine jewels, most set in gold or silver. Each piece was arranged neatly and had its place. Beside the door to the street stood another rough looking bodyguard. This one seemed ruder than the Volmarian from before, but slightly smaller. He sneered at Jotun as the two entered the room. The Jeweler looked them over.
   "Greetings once again, good man!" Elron said.
   "Greetings. I have come to learn the trade, just as we agreed," said Sommer.
   "Indeed! I was just about to take supper. My daughter has prepared a fine meal in the dining quarters upstairs. Come and join me," said Elron. They climbed the stairs, and the Jeweler said to Jotun, "The servants take their meals in the kitchen."
   Jotun was not pleased, but he obliged the man and walked into the kitchen. There stood a maiden of perhaps sixteen; high born, Jotun noted, most likely the Jeweler's daughter. She wore a large sparkling pendant about her neck and had very mild features. Jotun bowed slightly and took a seat at a wooden stool near a side counter. The kitchen was somewhat small by noble standards, but still larger that the entire occupied space of Jotun's shack near the docks. The maiden was severely uncomfortable around the stalwart, grizzly featured man who had entered unannounced and without a word, but his docile actions set her at ease enough to lay a loaf of bread and a flagon of sweet wine in front of him before she hurried out of the room.
   "This is my daughter, Edwina," Elron said as she entered the dining quarters, "Where is supper? I'd expected it upon the table by now."
   "There is a ruffian in the kitchen and I wasn't sure of him," Edwina said. She caught Sommer's gaze.
   "This is Somerith, the man I mentioned would be staying here to learn my trade," said Elron.
   "It is my honor to meet you, Miss Edwina. That man is my servant, he won't trouble you. Perhaps he may be of service cutting wood or bringing water," Sommer said. He was struck by the girl's noble appearance and he made every effort to be cordial.
   Edwina nodded and walked slowly back into the kitchen. Jotun sat where she had left him, and he grinned broadly as he relished the wine she had set. The loaf had disappeared. He paid her very little notice. Edwina, careful not to turn her back on him, went about gathering the main meal onto a ceramic tray. She set it out on the table in the dining room and sat next to her father. After they had eaten, speaking only briefly now and again, the Jeweler bid his daughter to fetch Somerith's servant and then mind the shop. Upon her bidding, Jotun entered the dining room.
   "You may have a seat," Elron said to Jotun; and then to Sommer, "You should summon your friend from my attic. The stairs are in the next room."
   A wave of shock hit Sommer.
   "Eh? My friend, sir?" he said.
   "Yes, the skinny fool from the ferry. He is hiding in my attic. You should call him down, I must speak to the three of you," Elron said. A somber look had overwhelmed his plump features. He had dismissed his gracious tone of voice.
VIII
   Jotun pulled open the door to the attic. A wave of dust hit him in the face, increasing his annoyance with the situation. He snorted and shouted into the attic.
   "He's found us out, you bloody gnoll's wife! Come down here!"
   There was a thump and some shuffling and several blasphemous curses. Fenton appeared at the attic latch-way. He was covered in dust, hay, and cobwebs.
   "By Asteres' splitting crown, if you butchered this for us, you bloody fool, I will knock your hut into the bloody river!" Fenton said.
   Jotun's face relaxed and he shook his head.
   "It was your fault. He saw you in the square," he huffed. Jotun chuckled as he turned and walked down the three stairs back to the storage room, mumbling, "Push my hut in the river..."

   Fenton and Jotun were greeted by Sommer's pained grimace as they entered the dining quarters. Elron watched Fenton enter, his hands clasped. Catching his eyes, Fenton stared into the least friendly glare he could recall recently receiving. Fenton returned the glare and brushed the attic dust off of his shoulder. He pulled forth a chair from the table and sat. Jotun stood at the doorway, arms crossed.
   "So you must think you have my lot well and stuck, eh? Pray you have words of value to share with us, lest you may find yourself at ill odds with your window pane," Fenton said with a sneer.
   "Rest your tongue, Ringo," Sommer said, "This man deserves at least our good manner, as he has not yet called for the guard."
   "True, Somerith, I have not," Elron said. He relaxed his shoulders and took his disdainful stare off of Fenton. He cleared his throat and began to speak further.
   "You seem proficient thieves, as I caught you only by accident and had few suspicions prior. I was returning from a trade across the square and happened to see you hang your satchel about my chimney. Had I been indoors, I am sure I would be a far poorer man tomorrow. I have been seeking thieves of late, in the dock's market. Only today have thieves sought me in my own home, most simply try to pick at my coin purse on the streets. But you see, it is your breed I require- and one cannot simply seek your kind at a guild hall. I was preparing to hire an assassin instead."
   "So then you have need of us?" Jotun said.
   "Indeed I do. I need to acquire a certain signet ring from my rival. A fairly worthless trinket to men of your meager standing, but to me it is more valuable than gold," Elron continued.
   "A noble's signet is his word. I believe I see how you plan to proceed, friend," said Sommer. A broad smile crossed his face.
   "My plot is not for you to consider. Simply get the signet from my rival's workshop tonight, and steal enough to make it appear a secondary trespass. Your work will be aided by the good Saint Bimbos, only the fewest of the guard will be on patrol in the merchant's quarter. And my enemy will not return from the feast until late on the morrow," Elron said.
   "What is this rival's name? I assume he is a jeweler like yourself?" Fenton broke in.
   "He is called Berzin of Komercetan. His warehouse is next to mine in the westerly square," Elron said.
   "Bring out a pitcher of wine. We will discuss this further," Sommer said.
IX
   It was night. The three thieves crouched on the roof of Elron's warehouse. Sommer watched torchlight move against the wall of the building next to them- Berzin's store house. Judging by the number of torches and what he had seen in short peeks over the roof's edge, there were three guards. In the alley between the two warehouses was a door into Berzin's. Jotun sat in the center of the roof, wrapping his arms and legs in dark colored rags. He had smeared soot over his face. This served to cover his light northerner's skin from the moonlight which would undo his camouflage. Fenton crouched next to him, testing his blades and rope. Sommer tapped the rooftop lightly with his knuckles to tell his comrades that he was now confident of the guards' pattern. They crawled over to where he now lay on his stomach. They whispered between each other.
   "Another few moments and they'll make that walk again. That's when you drop down on the one with the key. The one to the left," Sommer said to Fenton.
   "How big is he?" Fenton asked.
   "He's not so tough. He's limping a bit," Sommer returned.
   "Handsome girl, Edwina," said Fenton.
   "Aye. Pretty as the morning rise," Sommer said with a sigh. Jotun chuckled silently.
   "You fools, she is too small. What of your heirs? She would die of her child," Jotun said. Fenton smirked at him.
   "A woman must have child bearing hips," Jotun said. Sommer patted him on the shoulder and pointed to a sentry who was approaching for another pass by the warehouse door. His boots clacked hard against the trampled dirt alley.
   "Feel up to wrecking that bloke?" Sommer said.
   "Yes, he is weak," Jotun said,"I suppose she had a soft face."
   Another brief moment passed and they were silent. Then Jotun walked to the corner of the roof and lowered himself from it. He hung from his fingertips, his feet still a full story from the ground. He dropped, pushing off of the wall as he did, and rolled when he struck the earth. He had been quiet enough. The guard Sommer had pointed to stood across the alley. Jotun had waited for the wandering men-at-arms to pass before he dropped, and so he knew no one was watching as he crossed.
   Jotun wrapped his rag covered arm around the sentry's mouth and hit him hard in the lower back with the other hand. The man was winded, and Jotun kept his arm firm over his face until he stopped struggling. Jotun dragged him further back behind Berzin's warehouse. He knew the other two guards would not see him until Fenton's work was done.
   Fenton watched as the guards passed beneath him. They separated at the door, wordlessly; the first continuing toward where Jotun lay in wait. Fenton climbed quickly and silently down the frame of the building, fewer than twenty paces from the limping guard's turned back. Fenton watched him as he climbed, placing his feet or scratching for a grip only when the man's feet fell. His scraping gait covered any sound Fenton made very well. Fenton softly lighted upon the ground and crept behind the man with long, steady strides. He drew his newly acquired short sword and brought its hilt down upon the back of the sentry's neck between helmet and armor. The animation departed from the man with a jolt and he fell back. Fenton caught him and laid him quietly on his back. The keyring he had carried dangled from his thumb. Fenton took it and turned in time to see Sommer lowering himself down from the roof. The brick supporting him gave way. He fell twice his height and landed awkwardly, letting out a pained groan as he tried to stand. The other guard had seen them both, now.
   "Get it, lad!" Sommer hissed, motioning to the door. The guard shouted at them to halt. He drew a riveted truncheon. Fenton dashed to the door and unlocked it, but the guard was upon him. The guard raised his club. Fenton sidestepped the downward blow and lept back several paces.
   "You," commanded Jotun, "Stand down."
   The guard turned. He took a step toward Jotun and kept his aggressive stance. Like a tiger, teeth flashing in kind, Jotun lept at him. Jotun's forward hand caught the guard's shoulder, and with the momentum of the pounce Jotun drove his off hand into a straight punch. The blow connected with the guard's face and sent him careening to the ground, knocked senseless. Jotun stood, heaving, over the fallen man and Sommer. Jotun's hand was bleeding. Sommer looked to him.
   "A few of my toes on this foot are broken, I can't walk," Sommer said. Fenton shook his head and opened the door to the warehouse.
   "We need to finish this," Fenton said to Jotun, "Come with me in case there are men inside."
   "What if there are men still out here?" Sommer said. Fenton looked at his hand and then to Sommer. He handed Sommer the short blade he carried.
   "We will not leave you, Sommer. We will find the signet and come back to you with haste," Fenton said.
   "I will not leave you here, brother," said Jotun, "Guard yourself well."
   With these words, Jotun and Fenton slipped into the warehouse door. A chill ran through Sommer's hand as he held the sword. Sommer found himself cold and alone, crippled, leaning against the stone wall.

X
   Sommer tightened his grip on the short sword. He heard the clinking of armor coming from the side of the warehouse facing the street. Sommer set his jaw and closed his eyes. It was then that he swore his oath.
"The Oath of Jacque Sommer"
As I lay wounded here in this dire hour,
I swear by my life and this sword,
and by the vandal kings Ropeart and Kaenar:
I will not surrender myself to these thieves;
men birthed of a legacy of ill gotten riches.
I swear I will separate them from all that I can,
from this moment unto death.
Such is my duty to my oppressors.

   As Sommer opened his eyes, he saw a royal sentry peer into the alley. He held his torch high, illuminating the entire passage and himself with orange light. The sentry surveyed the fallen men on the ground, and then noticed Sommer.
   "You should best make peace with your gods if you intend to raise that sword, boy," the man said. As a royal sentry, he carried a similar short sword and wore mail beneath the hardened leather plates covering his shoulders and chest. He wore an open helmet of cast broze with Netheria's crest carved over its brow.
   "This sword bids you to do the same, knave," Sommer said in a low growl. He spat at the ground and raised himself from the wall, placing his weight on his good leg. He brought the sword to mid-guard and balanced himself with his other arm, bending it and clenching his fist. Sweat dripped down his brow and stung his eyes. He counted his breaths as the sentry approached him.
   The royal sentry stepped forward and stepped carefully over one of the fallen men. He took time to ensure his footing. He could see that Sommer was struggling to hold his fighting position, and that he was in pain. Sommer stared back at him, wide eyed. Sommer counted his breaths. His grip on the short sword was unsteady.
   The sentry jabbed at Sommer with his torch, his sword in his other hand. Sommer saw that this was a feint. If he struck to deflect the torch he would lose his hand to the sentry's sword. As the flame touched him, Sommer lunged for his adversary's face. He pushed himself from the wall with his injured foot and stabbed through the sentry's eye. Blood sprayed across Sommer's sword arm. This slaying blow provoked a seizing jolt in the sentry, and the torch pressed firmly upon Sommer's chest before falling to the ground. The felled sentry followed, falling forward onto Sommer and toppling him over in kind.
   Sommer remained were he had fallen, trembling violently, and wept. His hand acted against him, refusing to release the bloodied sword.
   There was a rustle at the door, Fenton and Jotun exited. Fenton carried a full satchel that jingled as he walked, and wore a long cut on his arm. Jotun was breathing heavily. Without a word Jotun pulled Sommer from the ground. He dragged him over his shoulders by the arm, and broke into a full run. Fenton followed behind.
   They ran into the night, eluding capture. They did not return to the jeweler Elron with Berzin's signet ring. Fenton wore it for many years.

"Time Won’t Let Me"
By Jeff Morin

Entry 127

I’ve just about had it, being the only person who lived through the changes.

I liked Seattle the way it was…even by the third turn it was recognizable as my Seattle…now it’s as foreign to me as Paris.

I could leave, but every other place would be the same…something new, some place to settle in, wait for the turn, start over.

I have a job this time, at least. But my girlfriend was never even born, so there’s no point in trying to look her up.

I agreed to this. I don’t even know why.

I suppose that I was scared.

I’ve always been something of a coward.

I told them I’d write down my experiences, take note of the changes, watch everything reformulate every time they sent a ripple through time.

I suspect that I’m not the only one, but the planet’s big, and I’m not supposed to tell anybody. Most people wouldn’t believe me, and it’s all so pointless…when the next turn comes, they’d all be different anyway.

Some things I don’t understand…like why the names of the animals at the zoo keep changing. TV stations keep jumping networks. Brand-names of cars. That sort of thing.

There was the turn that had altered the dialect of Seattle to something Asian. That was not fun…they retro’d that one out quickly.

It’s tough to carry on conversations about the most common-sense things, like how the Seahawks are doing, when people only remember them always being called the Inuits.

Sometimes I think that those people, sitting up in their Time Ship, are just playing at this point. When this all started, somebody made a mistake. A really big mistake, some random change at some point in history, that led to us to being on the brink of destruction.

They don’t know what it was exactly that they did…there was a lot going on, apparently.

But there’s been almost 200 turns since then, and they still don’t have it.

And I’m a ‘civilian observer’. Because I wanted to be.

Because I was a coward.

If I could get this wristwatch off, I could disappear into time. Never exist, or keep changing with the ebb and flow, oblivious.

Went to my parent’s house. Belongs to someone else. I don’t even know if they got together in this turn, or were even born. I could pop this thing off and pop out of existence.

A wristwatch disguising some form of time stasis. The geeks have a sense of humor at least.

I wonder if anybody’s going to read this, or if it’ll just be boxed as evidence?

Should I do things without consequence? I could do some really crazy stuff, banking on this not being the last turn, that changes will wash away anything I do. But sometimes the turns are very subtle, and things and people stay very similar.

I think I’ll stick to one-night stands and keep it that way.

Sometimes I miss long-term relationships.

When things were normal, I could tell you we’re all time travelers, living in the past and looking forward to the future. But not everybody celebrated the ‘now’.

But I’m doing something different. Time changes around me while I stand still. My past ever-changing, bearing no effect on my future.

I think I’m going crazy.

End of Entry

"The Management Solution"
by Dan Bieger

"Me? I'll have a Steakman Martini. Dry. Up. With olives. I like olives dressed in martinis. Yeah, it has to be Steakman. Believe it or not, there's a difference in gin. My brother tried to educate my palate to Sharpbeam and Cathay Gin but my tongue refuses the education. The only martini that tastes right to me is a Steakman."

"You don't carry it? Then, I'll have a beer."

"The local's fine."

"Would you turn on the HV? Yeah, HNN. They'll be broadcasting from the White Dome today. Can't miss this one; it's a first in human history. They're going to excommunicate a guy from the human race."

"Thanks. Looks like we've got a few minutes till the big event."

" So, how do you like this place? Been working here long?"

"Yeah, I've been here a couple of times. Whenever I stay at the Hotel Perseus, I drop by. Has a special feeling for me, you know?"

"I was program manager for this place. We did this one and two other bars in the hotel. We did the VR. Actually, to say 'we' did them fixes too much credit on myself and most of the others. After all, we had the Boy Wonder on our team and he did the design. The rest of us just filled in on the stuff he didn't want to do."

"The Boy Wonder's a hell of an engineer. Came out of a tiny school over on Greenfields. It's an ag school, mostly, with an engineering college thrown in to earn accreditation. Burbank U. They're mostly known for their space hockey team. Won the GCAA a couple years in a row. The Boy Wonder played right wing. Too much energy to be a goalie; couldn't sit still for any length of time."

"Yeah, it's quite a game. Orbiting arenas and 3-D instead of two; jets on the players' hips instead of skates on their feet, inverted the goals in opposition, the team sport to top all team sports. Takes an extraordinary mind to keep people above and below you in mind.; You have to constantly re-orient yourself top to bottom from offense to defense. The Boy Wonder has that kind of mind; it's what makes him such a hotshot engineer."

"Why do I call him the Boy Wonder? It started on our first program together. We worked at Wellsper Satellite Systems, part of the Starbus Corporation. Wellsper's major line is stabilization systems for space stations and satellites but they have a minor in IT to help them make smart stabilizers. That's what we did, Scott and I and the rest; we built controllers."

"Our first job together was a rush-job controller for the USG's Crab Pulsar Orbiter. Had to design and produce that baby in less than a year. Getting a processor to work in that environment took state-of-the art engineering which is where the Boy Wonder fit in. Just out of school, he didn't know the combination of technology and schedule was impossible. He took the GAL-STD-1750N - it was just off the drawing boards in those days - and built a rad-hard nanoprocessor that's still ticking today.
Three-hundred-fifty-thousand lines of code playing on radiation-harderned electronics and we did it in ten months flat. Forty-three engineers, thirty-five of them software guys. Scott wasn't the technical director but the engineer who was knew enough to back off and let Scott have his way. As program manager, I just stayed the hell out of both their way.
Well, mostly, I stayed the hell out of Scott's way. I learned pretty fast that if I let him go, let him do it his way, we'd have a better chance of getting it done. He pulled it off, too. Twenty-seven years old at the time. Everyone else on the team was at least five years older and five years senior. That's why I called him the Boy Wonder.
You ever notice how engineers aren't thought very much of? I mean, take Einstein. Household name, right? Or Chomsky or Hawking? Theorists. Theorists make the history books and the talk shows. The guys that do the work, you never hear about them. If there was justice in this universe, they wouldn't be excommunicating the Boy Wonder today; they'd be enshrining him in an Engineering Hall of Fame or opening a new wing of the Smithsonian dedicated to his work.
He's just an engineer, though, so they're going to excommunicate him."

“Hell yes, I know what he did. He gave FTL to the Trapezioids and they have selfishly declined to share that gift with humanity. The Traps are more than willing to let us lease space on their FTL vans; they're just not willing to show us how it's done.
I know why Scott did it. That's something they're not likely to talk about today while they have their little party.
The truth of the matter of the matter is that FTL is a Phroen achievement. Everyone knows the Phroen use mental and physical quantuum entities as propellant. No one knows how they do it. No one until the Boy Wonder. What the Boy Wonder did was to decipher the engineering behind the Phroen implementation and then reproduce it mechanically.
This bar we're sitting in is the first step in the process. The virtual reality that enfolds us as we sit here is a crucial aspect of the Boy Wonder's FTL drive. It was while we were working this job that Scott - you know that's his name, right? Scott Townsend? - it was while we were doing this job that he got the idea of how to do Phroen FTL.
You wouldn't believe what we had to do to get this job. Remember I told you good ole Wellsper's main line of business is space station and satellite stabilization devices? Those systems depend on gyro technology, momentum wheels, stuff like that. They make smart wheels now but the management at Wellsper has never been comfortable with the processor side of the business. The Engineering Directors tend to come out of the mechanisms side of the house and processor technology seems more like black magic than engineering to those guys.
The Request for Proposal came out of North Ascension-Rockpit, the prime for the Hotel Perseus. Wellsper has a long history of working with the NARks. In fact, that job I told you about, the Crab Pulsar Orbiter, was a NARk contract."
Scot’s first look at the RFP for the Hotel Perseus VR bars convinced him we could use the GAL-STD-1750N to pull it off. We wouldn't need a radiation hardened model and that would lower the cost considerably. He had the system designed before we finished writing the proposal.
That's when things first started to go wrong for the Boy Wonder. Our beloved Directors at Wellsper got cold feet. We'd never done VR before. They weren't at all sure about risking the company fortune on some new gizmo that none of them understood. Mechanisms, remember?
That was my major contribution. That's why we program managers get the big bucks. I hauled Scott out of that bid/no-bid meeting and sent him back to his cubicle.
That's another thing that drove Scott crazy. He'd pulled off a major coup with the Crab Pulsar Orbiter but company policy is that only senior engineers get private offices and to be a senior engineer you have to be with the company at least ten years. Scott got a cubicle.
I went back into the meeting to point out to those idiots that while we had never done VR, our sister division over on Boeing's World was a universal leader in the field. What's the good of having all that technology in the family if we didn't use it? The Directors understood that logic. Well, they really understood that here was a way to transfer responsibility for the project from themselves to the sister division but they gave me the okay to go talk to Wellsper IT. If I could get their support, we could bid the job.
Getting Wellsper IT to go along was a kick. Not-Invented-Here is their major product. Sure, they'd go along with us as long as we didn't need any of their resources and - most importantly - as long as we didn't endanger their patent on fluorine-based nanoprocessors. At the time, the rest of the universe was still using carbon-based models and - rightfully so - they were jealous of their product."
Unfortunately, the GAL-STD-1750N Scott wanted to use is carbon based. My management and the management of our sister division wanted us to use the Wellsper 1000A; Scott wanted to use the –1750N. The only way to pull it off was to do two proposals, the primary and an alternate. It was a hell of a dance I danced selling an alternate proposal and I earned my salary convincing the Directors we had to do both versions to be sure of winning the job.
I convinced Scott the NARks would not want to tie themselves to Wellsper proprietary technology, they would - if we could win - select the -1750. The Boy Wonder bought my logic and threw himself into writing another proposal. They will never admit it but by the time Scott finished writing, he knew the Wellsper 1000A better than the geniuses at Astronics who designed it. He pointed out its strengths and weaknesses in words so subtle that Rockpit's evaluators were drawn to the -1750 and never knew why."
We won the contract. Needless to say, NARk wanted the -1750. Needless to say, our management was in schizophrenic ecstasy. A 25 million dollar contract is hard to refuse but, gee whiz and golly, could we really do it? After all, Wellsper IT was screaming their heads off that there was no way in hell it could be done. They had to say that, of course. Anything else would mean their own design was not the only answer in the universe, the thought all their marketing was based on.
We did it. We put the VR in this bar and the other two bars in this hotel and the systems work flawlessly. Anybody wandering in thinks he's back home, sitting in his favorite ambiance, surrounded by the fauna and flora that make life worth living. The other patrons in the bar are muted into environs non-threatening and non-offensive so that, for the brief period of time a patron indulges, that patron is made thoroughly comfortable.
And you don't need to don goggles or any other techno-gizmo. You identify your species at the door and the system follows your movements around the bar surrounding you with a holovision reality that is as real as anything else in the universe is real.
It's an engineering delight, a hell of an accomplishment, and it was Scott's design. Three years, one-hundred-fifty engineers, and you - my friend - get to work in the best bar in the universe."

“Look, there's our beloved President coming out of the Spherical Office. See the group with him? That's Ivan Romanovich, CEO of Wellsper Universal. Behind him is Teddy Simms, Vice-President and General Manager of Satellite Systems. They're behind this fiasco. They have to be. Otherwise, people will start asking questions they don't want to answer.
Still got a minute or two, I guess. They have to shake hands and give off-the-cuff interviews for the traditional ten minutes before they get down to business. Access, you know? The President has got to seem accessible."
So, what happened? Scott saw a glimmer. Working with VR and nanoprocessors, he thought he saw a way to duplicate the Phroen drive system. It was pretty raw. He needed to stretch the technological limits, even use the Wellsper 1000A because that's a damned fine machine even though we didn't use it here in the Perseus. He roughed it out at home and brought it to me to get my support.
At home. Seems like the Boy Wonder never stopped working except to him it wasn't work; it was play. Give him the right toys and Scott works passionately, indefinitely, and amazingly well for weeks and months at a time. He’ll take time to play with his son and, I assume, he takes time to be with his wife. The Boy Wonder rarely talks about his wife. He talks about his son and whatever he’s working on at the moment as if nothing else in the universe exists for him. I think it’s because engineers aren't comfortable with emotions. It's politically acceptable to talk about your kids but to say you love your wife is stretching the bounds. You can’t apply cause and effect to your feelings about your wife and applied engineering is all about cause and effect. I often wonder how his wife - or any engineer's wife - put up with it.
Between us, we prepared a proposal for our management. We showed them the possibilities and probabilities and the dollars and cents. They had simulatenous heart attacks on the dollars and cents. Scott needed new toys to pull this off and an engineer's toys are at the high end of the price spectrum. The bottom line was: give him a billion dollars and he’d give Wellsper FTL.
It wasn't the money, you know? A billion dollars was not impossible to Wellsper. Given the right circumstances, our friend on the screen, Mr. Romanovich, would commit a billion dollars willingly but Mr. Romanovich never got the chance. Our directors, ably led by Mr. Simms, just couldn't bring themselves to ask Corp for the funding.
Black magic, right? The Boy Wonder, right? Mechanisms, right? Our management just couldn't bring themselves to back the project. The risks were too great and not one of them had the technological know-how to follow what Scott would be doing or to know how well he was succeeding."
We asked for permission to take the idea to Wellsper IT and they gave us that much. Wellsper IT, however, didn't think anything Satellite Systems might propose could be of value. Oh, sure, we had pulled off the Hotel Perseus contract but only with their help and their technology. Seems they had convinced themselves we had used their work and their ideas and their technology with our nanoprocessor. It wasn't true but it suited them to think so. They threw us out."
We wanted to go to Corp but Mr. Simms felt that, if Wellsper IT wasn't interested, he wasn't about to put his neck on the line with Mr. Romanovich. Permission denied.
We fought the good fight and we lost. Program managers understand these things. I was ready to go onto my next program. Sure, I was disappointed with the mind-set of my bosses but I was and I am very happy with the salary they pay me and I love the job. I lost this argument; okay, maybe I'll win the next one.
Scott isn't a good loser. He doesn't believe in losing. Remember those three GCAA championships? Scott started looking for another way to get it done.
He found it at a VR convention. We were demonstrating the kind of stuff we had put into the Hotel Perseus and the Trapezioids were very interested. A couple of their engineers got Scott off into a corner trading war stories about VR and processors and dreams and possibilities. Typical engineering bull session but the next thing you know he's got them chomping at the bit and Trapeziod engineers are running off to talk to Trapeziod managers and pretty soon the Trapeziod delegation is gathered around Scott like a media feeding frenzy. They were willing to fund a prototype of his drive system.
Give us a Request for Proposal, I tell them, thinking if someone else is willing to foot the bill even my management has to be willing to take their money.
The Traps sent us a RFP in record time. Old Simms, him that's up there on the screen grinning at the President's back, he nearly bust his gut. Fifth or sixth best ass chewing I ever got. He'd told us to drop the idea and he meant for us to drop it. He wasn't impressed the Trapeziods would foot the bill. Wellsper would be under contract to deliver a prototype and no one - not Wellsper, not Wellsper IT, not anyone in human space - had ever designed a FTL system much less built a prototype."
When I told Scott,.he got that look engineers get when civilians ask them how things work He looked at me as if I had lost my mind.
A week later Scott comes into my office and tells me he has an offer from the Trapezioids to go to work. It's a good offer, three times what Wellsper is paying. They're going to call him Director of Practical Research; they've got a home for his family and schools for his son. They've got a super job for his wife and they've promised him all the toys he can think of to make his drive work.
He really doesn't want to leave Wellsper. He likes the people; he likes the town; most of the time he likes the work. But, these Trapezioid guys want him to do something worthwhile and Wellsper is still having heart attacks over VR. What else is he supposed to do?
I go to Mr. Simms and I explain to him what's happening. Simms tells me Scott is just an engineer. If he leaves the company, they'll hire another engineer to replace him. Engineers are a dime a dozen, you know. No, he will not consider matching the offer. No, he will not consider a small promotion. And., No!, Scott doesn’t have enough seniority to get out of the cubicle. And don't ever bother him again with FTL.
Scott took the Trapezioid job and the rest is history. Wellsper served him papers reminding him he was not allowed to use anything he'd learned about their 1000A or any other patented technology but Scott knew that. It's standard in any engineering work contract. Scott was way ahead of Wellsper. What they could do with fluorine he could do with carbon and the GAL-STD-1750N was open market. No big deal. Two years and I don't know how much money later and the Boy Wonder has nanoprocessors mimicking Phroen telepathy through virtual reality.
Hell no, I don't know how he did it. I'm a program manager, not an engineer. I don't have to know the nuts and bolts, just what it does and how to sell it. From what I remember of the proposal we did, he used a combination of VR to mimic Phroen telepathy and telekinesis and hardware to translate the mental tricks to the physical universe. If I'd been his PM, I'd know; I'd have to know but I wasn't and I'm not so I don't know.
Wait a minute. The President's moving up to the microphones. Let's listen to this."

* * * *

"Do you believe that? The Boy Wonder sold out humanity to the highest bidder? The Trapezioids have FTL and, like the Phroen, they're going to make humanity pay through the nose for access and it's Scott's fault? Instead of trying to find another Boy Wonder; instead of looking to see how they can adapt their nanoprocessors to do the same job Scott has his versions doing; they stand in front of the universe and excommunicate Scott from the human race. The damned fools have never asked to look at our original proposal for the FTL. They never asked me if I could help them find out what he did and how he did it. They just throw up their hands and get nasty."
God almighty, it makes you ashamed to be human.”

"Yeah, another beer. I need it."

"No, wait a minute. Give me a martini. I know; you don't have Steakman's. Use whatever you've got. I’ve got a lot to get over.”

POETRY
"Poetry should only occupy the idle."
-Lord Byron
... oh well.

"City Hum"
by Nick Mercurio

Fluorescent lights and noise associated
Remind me of the city hum.
During that stage of sleep, when you begin to
Fall into your own mind,
The indeterminate sound of background
Night life cradles like a womb.
This conglomeration of engines and used energy,
An invasion of privacy to some.
I, however, welcome it, as it pushes me to
Sleep, the rapid eye movement kind.
An intimate relationship we have; best be no
Other, for I would ask where and with who?

Oh, you’re here. Yes, you never really leave
Do you? How could you?
Yes, I suppose with the entire extinction of
Humans; you say that’s close?
No, I don’t mind, I like new things, and what
Could be newer than death?
Haha, jokes are fun. So what’s new? Worried?
I’m sure clean energy makes noise too.
What? Why so serious all of a sudden? I understand
You’re with a lot of people, don’t boast.
Me? Using another source? Wha- How could
You? I have not left you bereft.

(Awkward Silence)

Alas, I have been cheating on you! You
Do not know her and you shall not!
Please do not do this, you know I care for
You. My windows are just thick.
I cannot hear you as well as I once could,
So I needed this addendum.
In fact it’s not even really cheating, more like
A threeso-…Oh, please stop!
I need you hum of the city, I will not sleep
Tonight or any other night after this!
I do not see the point in arguing, you said
Yourself you cannot leave, my city hum.

Fine, I won’t call you ‘my’ city hum.
Her name is fan!
Jerk.

"Daedelus"
by Laura Harrison

Her Astroboy
Could fly to the moon,
Replace her heart
With breath stardusted.

Hang himself up
Overlooking his
Trepidancing
God of the night sky.

Mother mourning
Lights his wings ablaze,
Likely their love
Blown through as a flame.

Afraid of death
He flies a-tumble
To ward the wear,
Cloaking light of sunder.

The lady lay
Awaiting her love
Who breathes for her
Glory like thunder

"devilsfoodcake."
by Andrew Treska

before i knew you were calling
i was fast in the secret rooms
discovering hidden interiors

your calls roused my dreams
and i woke up in this disintegration
discovering the break down

this grocery is a factory
"pick your poison entity"
babes lick their silver spoons

the pipette's solution releases
reactions staining a face with soot
reminding me not to look down

this wormhole doesn't suck me in
ten twists i go around the fabric
and i am recycled into your smile

i breathe and you beckon
the aisles in the fields are endless
consciousness is not

i am fulfilling a destiny
in coming when you call me
and eating the treats i sneak

these hidden chambers are revealed
we utilize the sterility of the dirt
i climb through the dilapidation

wondering what this structure can be
you may have to be torn down
in which case you will live on

you pick your candy from the aisles
the chocolates are here
the corn products everywhere

"this is how you are rewarded,
never forget that heaven is obtainable,
when you have nothing to live for."

ghosts beat drums when i get close
i go deaf from the incessant silence
making me seek higher altitudes

this cocoon is getting tough
and pretty soon the butterflies
the flowers bake to a new life

"Wearing teeth"
by Amanda RH Davidson

Wearing teeth
oh and calling cancer off of my shoulders
slouching teeth like leopard bones mortal stones
take the can't stop hearing out of this day – the hangover threats
teeth sensitive to the sound of it – the mortal stones
cancer candy called back and wanted
wanted for the last time one piece of lick – hate
the cancer – lick
jackals suddenly behind legs
but no one's there after all
just and only the jackals' breathing legs
tongue shadows
I know them
wanting for the last time one piece of lick – hate
August fell like two weeks of rotting wood
cold rot

December Jackals dressed like bolts behind me – if
If the rain felt underground could dress like night behind me
I am racing against collectors and money gods and cancer time
Sometimes December Jackals drink all my wine
and leave me with the suck of a bruised puncture sore
mark stop and let them fall behind you

END NOTE
   On a technical note, check out the 'labels' tool. You can search for issues including a certain author (by last name), search by issue or preview, search by month or year. Should be useful when there are more than two issues.
   I hope you enjoyed this issue. Expect the next in February. I have really enjoyed collaborating with so many great writers to create this magazine so far, and I look forward to next month. As always, please utilize the comments tool. Send an email if you would like a print copy of this issue.

-End of Issue 2

Second Issue Preview and Call for Papers

2009-12-17T14:35:00.001-05:00

The second issue of The Dying Art will be published in the first week of January. I have received a wealth of submissions thus far and I am expecting more. The majority of submissions have been poetry, and many of them have been very good. I still haven't received any works of science fiction. As with the last issue, the call for submissions will be open until about three days prior to publication.

One note about poetry submissions- please note if the formatting of your poem is reliant on indentation or other non-standard formatting methods. These are much more difficult to put into HTML text, so let me know if that might be a problem with your work.

Here is the official jargon submissions should follow:

If you submit work, you agree that:

-This journal may publish it online and in print.

-The work is your own.

Any work you submit is still considered your property. Feel free to publish it elsewhere or submit it anywhere else.

Fiction Submissions:

Between 500-15000 words. Please edit your work carefully before submission.

Currently, I would urge you to send in fictional works in the genres of:

-Fantasy

-Horror

-Science Fiction

-Adventure

Selections will be made on the basis of literary value, entertainment value, and inventiveness.

Poetry Submissions:

Between 10-5000 words. Please be sure to note if the poem is formatted in a way that may not transfer correctly in simple text.

Send your submission in .doc or .rtf format. I would prefer an attached file to a submission within the text of your email, but I will not disqualify works based on that. Submit everything to:

submissions.dyingartjournal@gmail.com

Submit no more than three works in a month.

Thank you for reading,
Alex Friedman
Contributing Editor

Issue 1, December 2009

2009-11-30T16:31:00.000-05:00

The Dying Art
Issue 1
December 2009

Published December 1, 2009. Cleveland, Ohio. Published by the Editor.

In this issue:
INTRODUCTION
by Alex Glenn Friedman, C.Ed.
A NOTE ON THE COMMENTS SECTION
FICTION
"The Mind-Prison Problem"; Joseph Schneider
"The Sack of Komercetan"; Albert Trefney, Jr.
"The Fall of Vadroth"; Alex Glenn Friedman
"No Vacancy"; Laura Harrison
POETRY
"Albatross"; Jeff Morin
"Dream of my Love as a Beached Whale"; Amber Pompeii
END NOTE

INTRODUCTION
   Writing advances best with company. My main objective in collecting these works is to help build a community. Genre writers and poets are hard to come by in the real world. Although the avenues exist for open, large scale communication and collaboration; there is a great deal of silence. What communication I have found centers for the most part on profitable publication. And as far as that goes, there seems to be a thriving community of predatory publishers who base their entire industry on duping those of us who write as hobbyists. Why are we so quiet, then? Why does the writing community feel it is necessary to take a relevant class or pay for a seminar to discuss our art?
   I write for my enjoyment of it. Everything about writing seems to me to be productive and valuable. That value grows in my eyes as it is shared and discussed. And as we converse, we create further work based on those conversations- and we polish those works that have already been written to a higher form. The value of writing in an active peer group becomes exponential. If you are a writer, I hope you feel the same way I do. And I hope you join the conversation. If you are a reader, thank you for providing an audience. In the end, you are the ones who reap our rewards.

Alex Glenn Friedman, Contributing Editor

A NOTE ON THE COMMENTS SECTION
   Please utilize the comments section as you see fit. I'll be monitoring it and replying to it, and I know several other authors will do the same. I ask that commentary remains civil, but beyond that I do not intend to limit it. I would encourage you to discuss craft and plot and theory and to carry discussions to your email inboxes or your local tavern.

FICTION
Substitute "damn" every time you're inclined to write "very"; your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be. -Mark Twain

"The Mind-Prison Problem"
by Joseph Schneider

The sun is still up, or is it finally down? Regardless, I wager it is bound to come up again. At minimum it is time for my third meal, the guard is bringing it, I can hear his approach, that is how I know/assume it is time. I am only supposing that is my third, for the sake of my mental health, I got six knocks last time I rambled on about how once I had awoken from a deep sleep between my third and first meal in which I had dreamed that I had missed the first, and must now start at two. Uncertain as to the true numerical character of the meal then presented to me, I supposed it to be the first. Yes, and then the next to be the second, then the third to be the third. But I do not know if the sun is up or down on the outside. Why can’t I let this matter be settled? A little thing like the sun. “Guard!” I cry out, “tell me, is there still light out?” He opens the tiny portal, shoves in the tray, and closes the hatch. The windows are not sealed up; there is simply brick, all brick, once painted white, now pealing away. In other words, I mean, there were no windows to seal up. There has only ever been brick walls of decaying white. In the exposed portions are frantic glyphs, scratches, and declarations, all hazy in the darkness, and at last unreadable. I made some of them myself, setting down some things I could not trust to my memory. However I can no longer make them out. And plus, still, and henceforth: they are doomed to be painted over when they drag my carcass out of this cell. I would make that moment now, if I could, but they took away my chains when I tried to strangle myself. They want to keep me alive. They feed my porridge, scrubby bits of meat, a crust of bread, some soup, and a cup of water, all on a metal tray. No utensils provided, not that I expect kingly treatment, though I may be a king on the outside, I never had a chance to discover one way or the other. I tell them I am their lord, and they add years to my sentence.

We are born in chains, I tell you, we are born in this prison. I do not recall the crime I committed, I am innocent of all guilt. I am guilty of having existed. I know nothing of myself; I am a mystery, unknowable. Like God I am ineffable. “I AM who AM” I scream. Seven knocks this time. Why seven? It is a special number, but twelve is more beloved, since there were twelve apostles and of Israel there were Twelve Tribes. “I demand five more knocks so that I may know the Lord’s love.” No reply. I am stuck with only the perfect number, which needs to be imperfected in order to be loving. This is all very sensible I assure you. Our universe is perfectly suitable to us, we creatures of desperate evil, but for those who want love it is useless, empty, void. Why so repetitious, so excessive, so needless and heedless, twitter ditter and don?

Yes that’s when I noticed it. Standing in the far left corner, a mass of shadow, which investigators from the Travel and Sci-Fi Channels could never spot! It is inching towards me. Yet it is then that I remember that Marx’s negative critique of Capitalism was highly praised even by one such as Pope Benedict, whereas what Marx positively posited, which combined the Hegelian dialectic with historical determinism based on an all too fallible kind of economic theory fails to satisfy the loft heights of human dignity as described the the papal pen. I could quote Jesus of Nazareth to him, but I cannot recall the exact passage dealing with modern man’s alienation. There must be some other form of exorcism I can use, though I had read once some theories of Thomas Sowell and even once gazed into The Wealth of Nations, published in 1776. The year of liberty if you can believe it, though black men were still in chains and would remain so until 1865, in actuality, despite the Emancipation Proclamation of 1863. This ghost of the left encroached upon me, gradually taking form. My six by six by six cell could not hold its enormity and I thought I would be swallowed whole, until it took on a more definitive form of its own. Small and continuing in furtive grunting with an almost masturbatory manner of speech, it creaked its neck to the side, and with a cane paddled its pimpled hide, and spoke in simple bits of nursery rhyme. “Gosh golly gum drops, sugar plums and lolipops! Is your life not swell, could it not be well? Can the government come, don’t you want some? Sing, please, or I will make you sting!”

“Unfair,” I decl--- rather I say, not declare, avoiding a catastrophe. “Bees give birth to back-filled larva spewing out Honey Bunches of Oats.” That quiets him down. “But what is your symbology?” I inquire quite rightly and, I might add, justly. “You are the produce of my cortex. The fruits of my cognition. Foul spirit of the left, crawl back into your hole, or I shall recite Glenn Beck’s most recent monologue, or the one I most recently heard. What’s that? No, I have never actually heard the man speak, or been outside these walls. I suffer from Political Schizophrenia. I believe there are aliens in my sock drawer, but since I don’t live anywhere near my sock drawer, which I have never seen, but I must nevertheless be careful! I furthermore think these same aliens are conspiring with Hollywood special affects artists to make it seem like Anderson Cooper has a real personality. Their latest debacle, The Fourth Kind, is a whole ‘nother kind of terror, its horror springs from express falsehood, because my sockophilic aliens are the only ones in the whole galaxy, and they no more abduct human beings than cows wear sweaters for hats.

It was then that another lurking phantasm creeped through metaphysical cracks in my walls. Yes, I am sad to say it emerged from the right corner, all covered in moss- the ghost not the corner. My right corner I keep immaculate with my saliva. My left corner does not consent to any cleaning, and I cannot carry it off against its will. The right corner however is desirous of my lukewarm smearings of spit. But! Too late! It has come.

Oh it is vile, most vile, reeking in my nasal cavity. My sinuses blaze. It appears like some kind of vermin, with a rat’s tale, and its belly “over broken glass.” “Twit twit jug jug, so rudely forced.” Somewhere a woman is screaming. Its mandibles are covered in puss from the boils that cover it, weeping forth more disgusting liquid. But it spoke with a voice I cannot describe though I shall try. It was deep, like an ocean’s depths, shimmered like a whale’s breast, boomed like some mighty cannon, thundered like lightning, flashed like thunder, and it did not drone nor dally, but sallied out and about to find whatever was made ready for it, preaching a sermon melodious and sweet, charitable and kind. Ending in hate, always ending so, ever and anon twitter and con. As the Delgados song goes, “Hate is all you need.” Real, bosom burning hate. It is my own psyche’s fault that I have reduced the Right to hate, and not to, save, Rush Limbaugh who is quite lovable or so he says.

Ah, this not at all Kafkaesque confusion must end at some point. The two apparitions then began to tumble with one another when a third ghostly figure arose, this one right in the center of my floor. With no legs at all did it worm about, a roll of rotting flesh made of piles of slimy fat. It took no position but squirmed hither and dither and yon, lapping up air in deep breaths, and exhaling a torrent of words I could not comprehend. Despite all its movement it did not budge an inch, but coiled more and more around the middle of my floor. Confronted by what I perceived to be Left, Right, and Center, I was aghast, abash, bemused, suffering, inconsolable, on the verge of death, and rising to new life three days later. No wait. That’s wrong. But I have no eraser. I am being erased. I’d rather be dead than al--- No stop! Onto the subject at hand. Yes onto it, and stop falling away from it with mental distortions. Onward to this really real ghostly phantasmagoria. The third spirit, which I thought to be a moderate, lurched into the midst of the two, ever spewing what I took to be compromises, as it bowed its head very low. At last I could bear it no longer, and called out to the guard for help.

“Pills! I need pills. There are croaking midgets in the midst of me, speaking of hate and rhymes, tall tales and capitulations, alliterating like literati, vomiting up truisms, adages, and expletives, not at all like my heroes, Alan Colmes should take a number before returning to Hannity, or is he better alone?! Somewhere a woman is screaming. “Nothing to be done” as Estragon would say. Nothing to be done about this hopeless terror of fighting full of wannabe zieg heils and goose-step marches. All hail the state, and lower the estate tax, one of Woody Wilson’s triumphs. I would quote Lucky’s speech at length, because as Heidegger would say in his late period only a God can save us. A miracle, I declare, values trump all, voting for them makes you poor but righteous. Vote with your feet not your soul. Liberal love like liber, libertas, libertatis, Latin loveliness. Please elect George Bush, senior or junior, younger or older, not right enough not left enough, simple madness maddens the mind. An exercise in free association to make Freud proud, but he’s in hell now so don’t worry. Beelzebub! Scissor Sisters sing “I can’t decide whether you should live or die, oh you’ll probably go to heaven but don’t break down and cry.” Pop culture boils us in a melting pot so we’ll all be the same. Who censors the censors and guards the guardians? Our philosopher king is no warlord, he’s a peace prize winner, long live the king. I have fallen again into self-reflection, and I can’t get up. The political turmoil continues, would if only all could be free then they’d- then there would be- if there is freedom then by necessity there is- liberty is preferable to slavery because- just because maybe- I would like to be free- maybe- freedom is good for reasons unknown, but time will tell (Godot again and Lucky to boot!)- surrender then your senses and live a dissolute life.

“ ‘I am a sick man...I am wicked man’! ‘I am sick man...I am a wicked man’!

“Go ahead and guess, the struggle goes on, and I don’t footnote. But the point is that there is a point, and I refuse to yield it. A bug with a rat’s tail rolls around with a pimple-skinned midget while a worm lolls about them. Assist me, assist me my beloved angel of a man, be my Gabriel, my Michael, my Raphael! Oh I need them badly, archangelic doses of medication. Please do not make me beg further, I am short on protests. Hand them over. I need only a dozen. Ah, twelve, the number of the chosen!”

I receive twelve knocks this time, and then twelve pills with water came through the hatch, the pills in one cup and the water in the other. The twelve raps pleased me, I felt loved. But the two cups left me discomfited. There were only two of them, but if I had had three of them, then I would have a mockery or praising of the trinity. But I took the pills all the same, all twelve of them, even though I am supposed to take thirteen, which is between a number of love and a number of perfection times two. Then I realized: my twelve pills were not twelve, but twelve times two, as what I thought had been water was filled with residue, the residue of crushed pills I normally would refuse and vomit up. Yet it was so potent that I grew hazy, and forgot about the creatures battling about me. They grew fainter with time and then disappeared, so I hoped and feared. A darkness crept over me, it lasted only five minutes but it could have been longer. I have no way to record time, unlike the man with peas in Camus’s The Plague. My meals used to mark time, or so I would pretend. At least I had a semblance, a phantom of hope. A hope for something. Or other, or more, or less, or another cliché. Enough. This is besides the point. Move on, rolling rolling rolling, keep those doggies rolling, raw hide! The darkness has shapes in it now of a most menacing kind. Yet I awaken before they solidify. What a disappointment, just as Barth was disappointed by God’s response “from the whirlwind.” But I have not yet seen God’s ‘“cosmological-zoological-mythological” farrago’ in response to my sufferings. I am a whole ‘nother kind of Job driven crazy by lack of blessing.

I finally turn to my supper, now that these visions have left me for a moment undisturbed. Ah, it is still warm, how I relish it! And how I loath it! If it were cold I could not eat it, and if it were lukewarm I would spit it out (as our Lord would), but if is hot I haven’t scarcely any choice now do I? My huger strike would be abortive anyways, as I was an attempted abortion, but the doctor was incompetent and the mother unwilling. “Twit twit jug jug so rudely forced.” I lost myself again in thoughts of the violence done in this world. Somewhere a woman is screaming. My plates are empty. That did not take long. They would force it down my throat if I refused anyways. Best to eat it. Best to conform. Designer jeans only $99.99 on sale what a deal buy them up, put them on die anyway. The mortality rate stands at 100%. I am a statistic in a book somewhere, not even the product of my own words, those same words that create little devils from the four corners of my room. But these imaginary designer jeans of approximately one hundred dollars in price remind me of my own unique rags, for the prisoners here are dressed from a great jumble of clothing, some expensive and lustrous, others dirty and mangy, and so each man is of a different status than another. But all is random, and none deserves the lot he has received. It makes no sense to envy, but we do anyway. One man once was dressed in a monarch’s regalia. The guards even called him “your majesty.” I wish someone would praise me just once, but even from the Almighty all I receive are rebukes.

But are they rebukes? Or are they something kinder, gentler, special, something just for me? I suffer from all manner of diseases and disorders, but the guards, blast them, have taken them all from me, lest I die. They fight for life, I long for death. Understand this, as it is the record of my thinking. I detest this life of four walls, darkness, and warm, delicious food. I am growing fat from it all. They permit me no time out in the yard. God has chained me here, He is the source of all authority, and so He gives these guards and their warden authority over me. Where am I going? Can I decide even? Where is the supremacy of choice? I choose escape, freedom, liberation, art for art’s sake, choice for choice’s sake? No, wrong, incorrect. Art for art, “creation for creation,” as Steiner says in Grammars of Creation, and so is that God’s response to my suffering? Suffer on, brave little soul, Jesus loves you dearly, and died for on the Cross. But how does dying save? How does spilling blood fulfill a debt? So many questions, and the Gospels are all busy giving different accounts, different visions. This I approve of as I can switch from one to another and believe four things about the same event, or at least two things. But I digress yet again.

I am growing disorganized, I remember my years very well. They make me dread my future, if only I could snap the cord of my life. But they deliberately extend it, I tell you! I can commend this truth to you, my friend. I see you standing there in the corner, if you are real, then hear this and give some reply. Oh so you think gesturing alone is proof. I tell you, the guard will not believe me if I declare that a small boy is gesturing at me. Oh so your not a boy but a man? A dwarf? Or simply short? Madness I tell you, I proclaim it to all who can hear. The guard knocks on the outside of my cell. That’s three months added to my sentence, a month for every knock. They want to keep me alive. You I do not know. I understand you, your gestures are meant to confuse. Okay, but that hardly justifies them. Do you understand what I mean by justification. No, not by faith alone, not by grace alone, not through works you Pelagian! Do not make me burn you at the stake! What? What’s this now, this new blasphemy you are signing? I don’t know sign language and am merely projecting? Outlandish, absurd. I do not deal with absurdities. I deal with realities, very many realities.

Yet this figure goes away as well, drifting, misting, fading, thumping, dying, gliding away. The deaf ghost disappears, and I know not why. My understanding is failing me. Yet I do know why: my interest in him failed. What else is there to do? I do not know. So I rise up again and return to the wall and scribble away, leaving my testament in the dark, where none shall read it. With my fingernails I etch words into peeling paint that falls to the ground in piles like leaves. What did the Sibyll say to the boys passing by? “I want to die.” But do I? Can I, actually, want to do it? When I have so much more to write, so many more permutations to compound? So many more declarations remain to be recorded, for I have written down all of the above. Yes, this they could seize from me with but a coat of paint, but that painter would see my words as he lays on a thick layer of liquid soon to dry. “I can’t go on, I’ll go on” rings in my ears, but I expel Beckett’s words from my mind. Art for art, creation for creation. My mind settles into the full effect of the medication. It will only last for a time. Already somewhere new visions are stirring, old information is returning, and my lips begin to mutter out references very few fully understand. Even I am not among their number. Yet in the recitation, and principally in their recording on these walls, I encounter a justification for my existence, a step towards transcendence, the full exhilaration of seeing the

"The Sack of Komercetan"

by Albert Trefney, Jr.

At the end of the Age of Kings the civilization of Netheria is under attack from all sides. In the North the city of Komercetan is besieged by a wandering horde of Barbarian tribes. Having been uprooted from their homes the barbarians are at first disorganized and easily repelled by the city's guard. As more of the horde arrives however they begin to create siege equipment. In the Second Battle of Komercetan, late in the summer huge trebuchet pound relentlessly on the gates and barbarian troops press against the wall with towers and ladders. As it becomes clear that the city walls will not hold the order is given for civilians to retreat to the mountain citadel of Aranth'Kar.

Lord Gavin watched the slow exodus of the peasants from the Northern tower of the Eastern gate house. Far below he could see the rapidly collapsing city gate house. All along the walls brave soldiers were fighting to the last to keep barbarian ladders at bay. It would not be enough. Gavin was a grizzled veteran of many siege battles, and he could tell that it would only be a few more volleys before the gate collapsed. After that the remaining guards could stem the human tide of Barbarians for only moments, if they stood and fought at all. It would not be disgraceful to retreat from such a lost cause, the foreign army consumed the northern fields and more barbarians arrived daily. Soon other foreigners would arrive driven by ancient hatreds and lust for plunder. Gavin pursed his lips in irritation and considered all the possibilities, but there seemed to be no way to hold the city. Once the city fell the Citadel would come under siege. No more than 100 yards separated the military strong hold, built directly into the mountains, from the civilian port city.

Beside Gavin stood High Commander Birnth, the officer in charge of the whole of Aranth'Kar. He too glared irritably at the pressing assault. He hated having to remain in the citadel while the town guard held the wall. He had risen to his position commanding cavalry units in defense of caravans traveling north, though a cunning tactician he considered himself a man of action.

Birnth muttered, barely audible "no more than half the citizens will make it in at this rate."

Gavin nodded and tapped at the pommel of the massive hand and a half sword hanging from his belt. "There's no choice than. I will buy the civilians time to retreat." Having said this he turned to descend from the tower.

"What? and how will you do that?"

"My charge will retake the gate and hold it for as long as we can."

"Your charge? The Riders? Don't be foolish- the army is stationed in the citadel to defend as many citizens as possible if the walls fall. It is suicide to leave now, and I will need every fighting man in the months to come. Especially your katafractoi."

Lord Gavin did not turn from the stair. "Less than half the city will make it into the citadel if the walls fall now. I can hold the gatehouse long enough to ensure that the barbarians bring up the heavy infantry they are keeping in reserve, this will take time. Time the civilians can use to escape. It is decided."

"I forbid it. I need you here."

Now Lord Gavin turned to face the High Commander. They were both huge men, born and raised as warriors under the strict Netherian cast system. Each was in full battle garb. Gavin wore a thick Silver and Black breast plate trimmed with deep red over a coat of heavy chain. High Commander Birnth wore a suit of Lammelar crafted from steel and painted with silver and red. Each held a helm at his side. Gavin's winged and plumed helm indicated him a commander of the calvary, Birnth's ceremonial face mask marked him as commander of the whole Northern army. The two men wore grim and determined expressions.

"You do not command me or my men. The Riders of Crimson Dusk are an order of the Guard of the Golden Throne, the King's personal guard and second only to his majesty or a member of the royal line."

For a moment it seemed the two men would draw their swords. It was a grave insult to give an order to a member of the royal guard, even for the Commander of the Northern Army. Finally Birnth sighed and turned back to face the city. "Be gone than." He said, clearly angry.

Wordlessly Gavin turned and walked quickly towards the stable where his unit was reserved.

Fully saddled, armed, and armored the Riders of the Crimson Dusk were an awe inspiring sight. Each rode a finely bred war stallion draped in chain and wearing a steal helm. The riders themselves were all immense men, wearing the customary armor of the Order of the Golden Throne. Each man carried a lance tipped in barbed iron. They carried horse bows on their backs and swords on their hips. Each man also carried either a wicked looking hand axe or a morning star. Finally each bore a shield- a heater marked with the flag of Netheria, a setting sun, and the Rider's personal heraldry.

When Gavin finished their briefing the soldiers saluted and mounted their stallions. None had challenged or even questioned the suicide mission, they had not been given any other kind of mission since they had joined the Riders. Though all of their armor shined unblemished in the evening sun they had all received countless wounds in defense of their country. Gavin rode to the front of the column and lead his 35 man unit through the citadel gate.

It was not far to the city gate by horse back but all the way the peasants and merchants lined the street. At every intersection terrified civilians would dive out of the way and then rise to cheer the Riders, believing the city would be saved. When they reached the Gate house it had already fallen.

The Gatehouse lead to a large open square designed to open an attacker up to an organized counter attack. The streets were lined with waist high stone walls and more walls created a "V" shape with the gate opposite the vertex. Spear men stood before the wall creating a powerful murder hole. Behind the wall crossbowman tried to fire over and around them, and more crossbowmen lined the roofs of nearby buildings. Streaming into the square like blood from a severed artery were barbarian soldiers. Most were mere peasants, unarmored and carrying only spears and knives. They were the bulk of the assault meant to break the defenders by sheer weight. Mixed in were the more valorous barbarian soldiers, mostly young men armed with small wooden shields and axes or clubs. They were boys hoping to gain honor and riches.

By the time the Riders had reached the edge of the square the murder hole was collapsing. A pile of corpses lay before the spear men but more bodies poured in relentlessly. Gavin did not call a halt. Instead he lead his men strait into the collapsing defenses. At the point of their formation Gavin hit first, his lance skewered the first man and exploded below the tip. Mechanically emotionlessly he thrust forward piercing another man with the broken tip and dropped the lance. He was already at the gate- the force of his unit hitting as one had caused the barbarians to fly forward through the gate. He passed under the archway and continued until a lucky stroke severed his horse's unprotected leg.

Gavin's mount collapsed under him throwing him over its head into the mass of barbarians. The veteran did not lose stride though, rolling with the blow he turned his fall into a lunge thrusting his blade into the heart of a fool trying to rush past him. Withdrawing his sword and lifting it to the sky he screamed defiance in the face of the horde.

"RALLY!" the cry could be heard distinctly over the sounds of battle. Gavin's Riders reformed in a tight wedge. They had gained mere seconds before the horde was atop them again. An axe wielding barbarian leaped at Gavin and he bashed the man's face with the corner of his shield. More bodies flew at them in waves and the men fought backwards to the gatehouse taking cover just inside. Bodies lay in piles before the entryway and the soldiers had a brief moment of reprieve.

Sheathing their blades the Riders, now all dismounted, drew their bows and began firing on the retreating line of barbarians. Their fire discouraged further assault and earned them another few moments of rest.

III.

Some 200 hundred yards north of the city gate a small cadre of barbarian warriors watched as their peasant spearmen charged forward in masses, retreated, reformed and charged again. The pathetic soldiers were mostly slaves- either captured warriors from defeated tribes or laborers whose trades were destroyed when the tribes were forced into mass migration. They would not retake the gatehouse from the steel clad warriors who had so unexpectedly siezed it. Even worse, soldiers were being recalled from other parts of the wall to press the gatehouse assault. What had moments before seemed a great victory now appeared to be a rout.

The men who watched this unfold were the five warrior chieftains of the clans which formed the backbone of the horde. Greatest among them was Samain Chieftain of the Gath'Vyorth, the largest and richest of the clans. Second, but no less feared among them, was Thyr- chieftain of the Gath'Bjorn. It was primarily his clan's slaves that were assaulting the wall.

"These peasants will never retake the gate house." Thyr grunted in the course tongue of the Northerners.

The smallest of the chieftains, and leader of the smallest clan, was Syrn. He and his people were widely known as cowards by the more noble Barbarians because of their devious tactics. The Gath'Slian'th were often called "The Serpents" so it was no wonder that he suggested a shewed tactic.

"Why send more slaves in?" He began. "We have the Trebuchet. Why not fire them again. A few more rocks is a small price compared to all theses slaves. We will need the slaves to harvest. It would not take long."

"Hmph" Samain grunted, ignoring Syrn. "The city-men fight with unusual fervor, their leader must be a great warrior."

Thyr thumbed the hilt of his sword as he watched the leader of the city dwellers. Both the Gath'Vyorth and Gath'Bjorn encouraged viscious competition as a means of gaining status with in the tribe. For the warrior chieftans it was moments like these that fortified their positions as leaders.

"I will challenge the soldiers, my Bjorn'zer'ka will crush them. Such brave men as these deserve to die by the sword of still braver men, not under a rock flung from afar by a coward."

"HA!" Samain bellowed, "And be first to take the city? First to take spoils and claim land? I think not Thyr, 'Bear's son'. My Ravens will crush these soft city fools before you even arrive."

"Ha ha ha! I cannot accept, 'tis not a fair wager, my Bjorn'zer'ka will crush the fools and any one else in my way." Thyr laughed merrily at the image of his bestial warriors rampaging through the city. They had grown restless having to wait behind the lines.

"Phht!" Samain spat. "Afraid then? 20 horses to the clan who breaks the knights. 20 from each other clan."

The chieftains all looked at Samain for a sign that he was joking, but he showed none. During the migration horses had become a high commodity. The barbarians had always had plenty while they lived on the open steppes, but when they moved south many horses were lost and no young were born.

"Agreed." Thyr said, being one to never refuse a challenge.

"Agreed" said the other clan leaders, and hurried off to prepare their men.

IV.

The first to arrive was, in fact, the Ravens. Bred on the open plains west of the mountains the Ravens epitomized the advantage of sleek versatile calvary. They used a special horse bow which had a longer top portion than bottom. This uneven device allowed a skilled user to fire much further than with a regular horse bow. When unmounted they used spiked picks which easily pierced chainmail making up for their lack of heavy armor.

On the open plain the Ravens would have used their bows to fell the slower knights without ever coming into sword range. However, Gavin had moved his knights deep into the shadow of the gate house to protect against just such a strategy. The Ravens would have to ride close to get a shot in. Samain ordered them to use up all their arrows before engaging in melee since their bows would still out range the light horsebows the Riders were carrying.

Pounding across the plain to the gate house the Ravens rode three by three, bows knocked. Their honorary ravens' feather cloaks billowed in the wind. Drawing into firing range the first few rows lifted their bows. Less than one hundred yards away they could see the dismounted riders, shields raised in a tight line. But their swords were sheathed, for resting on their shields were heavy crossbows collected from fleeing guardsmen.

The first two rows of Ravens collected so many bolts that their riders were thrown from their horses with out firing. The next few rows split left and right to avoid the flailing of dying horses. Only a handful of arrows bounced harmlessly off the gatehouse walls. The Ravens were not dissuaded however, they simply became enraged. Riding along the walls in two groups they crossed the gate house at point blank firing blindly in. Most of their arrows bounced off steel shields, but they had the intended effect of preventing a rapid reload.

The Ravens regrouped just outside the gate and charged in. The gatehouse became a scene of chaos. The first wave of ravens dented the Riders' line while the second dismounted and leaped at them on foot. Bloodied picks sprayed gore across the walls and the sounds of dying men and horses mingled with the crash of steel. The Ravens lost themselves to the fire of battle lust, fighting even with grievous wounds. The Riders placed their trust in their superior steel and undying loyalty to each other. In the end, the fury of the Northmen might have won, but for a single knight who waded through the battle to the very front. Easily distinguished by his plumed helm, Gavin had dropped his shield in favor of a two handed sword stance. Vicious blows rained down on the Ravens before they could hope to attack him. Each stroke felling another barbarian. In a spray of grey matter and blood he lead the Riders to yet another victory. In an all encompassing rage he severed the head of the last Raven and carried it to the entryway. Hurling it out into the field he once again screamed his defiance at the host of his enemies.

The answer was already marching towards the gate. Not wishing to be out done Syrn had sent a mass of his sword herrbann. Carrying sword and shield these warriors were the back bone of Syrn's army. Unorganized and undisciplined Syrn suspected they would break the now fatigued Riders. He had planned on Samain's impatience leading to a rapid but bloody defeat. now his men would mop up. He could not understand why Thyr had not taken advantage of this opportunity, but he was more than happy to claim victory. His men were now 50 yards from the gate and eagerly rushing forward.

Inside the gatehouse Gavin turned to his men. "Swords!" he called "Bring the line to this point! Tight formation! Not one barbarous cur will pass through my entry way!" A wordless cheer bellowed dutifully from the Riders. They were clearly becoming tired, but all would still hold. There was no retreat from this fight with honor in tact. Gavin took his place at the fore of the line, refusing to stand behind while his men died.

The Barbarians hit the wall unevenly allowing the well disciplined riders to single out some of their number. They struck together defending each other with irregular sword beats and shield checks. The barbarians fell one by one as the Riders stepped forward in unison.

From the hill top Syrn's ugly grin turned to shock and than a frown. Slowly but surely his men were being consumed by the line of Netherian knights.

"Hmph. Did you really think your swords would prevail where my Ravens did not? Such a man as that can not be fatigued so easily." Samain spat "May his ancestors rot."

"Thyr must have seen this..."

"Be silent!" Samain cut him off, "Once that fool's Bjorn'zer'ka are crushed I will send more men. Where is he anyway?"

It was only minutes before Syrn's men routed, but to the Riders it seemed an eternity. Those few moments weighed heavily atop the hours since they had left the citadel, they were exhausted and hungry. Still Gavin seemed unaffected and quickly had the remaining men drag the bodies of the fallen past the gate house wall into the courtyard. Only 15 remained of his original 35. The next wave would surely crush them.

The Riders of the Crimson Dusk reformed at the mouth of the ancient stone gate house. Exhausted and bloodied they were no less formidable a visage. Indeed the blood dripping from their swords, the subtle clank and scratch of dented armor, the cold determined stares all added to their defiance. Gavin himself stood at the fore of the formation, sword in hand, watching his death approach. The barbarians had sent forth their Bjorn'zer'ka. It was an old word for an old practice. These hulking brutes were Berserkers, savage warriors who had long ago lost their minds to the battle lust. The will to kill, supplemented with mind numbing drugs, they would become the embodiment of death it self. The barbarians believed it was a great honor to be killed by them, it meant that Gavin had caused them considerable agony.

There were 7 figures drawing towards the Riders. 6 would be Bjorn'zer'ka, the last would be their commander. Gavin took each in as they approached. They were hulking brutes carrying axes long enough to be pole arms. Each wore the pelt of a bear as a cloak, a symbol of status. None wore any heavy armor or bore any symbol of rank or clan save the pelts. As they approached Gavin singled one out, in the rear of the loose formation carrying a longsword, not an axe. He was looking directly at Gavin, even over this distance Gavin could see that their eyes met. When they did something in Gavin stirred, something buried deep in his mind told him he must kill this man.

20 yards away the barbarians broke into a run, the first 6 monsters ran past Gavin. Gavin paid them no mind, he was completely focused on their commander. The beast of a man closed on him twisting lowering his shoulder to knock Gavin to the ground. Gavin stepped to the side and slashed into the barbarian's head, but met only his sword. Gavin stepped backwards in an even stride raising his sword to a mid guard. The barbarian nodded slightly as though to confirm the rightness of this course of events. The barbarian slid into a high guard and rained 4 even blows down on Gavin. Two Gavin caught on his cross guard the third he turned against the barbarian using the force to switch to a hanging guard. The fourth blow was meant to prevent a follow up blow and Gavin simply danced around it. The Barbarian offered no time for Gavin to take the offensive. Switching to a mid guard he slashed at Gavin's hip forcing him to block low, poor form for a long bladed weapon. Gavin had to resort to a fool's guard, but the battle was far from lost. Gavin switched his footing to a back stance, holding his sword low and extended before him in one hand. It was a maneuver meant to gain precious seconds and force the barbarian into a foolish move.

Gavin was shocked, his mind racing to deduce the barbarian's talent even as his body carried out the fight. The barbarian before him fought with the savagery and strength one would expect from his people, more so than most. Yet at the same time his form was flawless, each stroke meant to be a kill, yet leaving no opening as though meant to be feigns. He returned flawlessly to a guard position after each stroke, if only for a moment, avoiding the dangers of attacking to angrily and too rapidly. He was far to competent to be untrained far to formulaic to be relying on mere talent or strength, thought there was an impossible fluidity to his movements suggesting a man raised with sword in hand. A chieftain? No. Gavin forced thought from his mind. Thought would gain no victory.

Gavin strafed to his left and the barbarian returned to a high guard. Gavin slashed at his midsection and now the barbarian was on the defensive. Gavin fell back on old sword forms. Viscous chops and stabs meant to isolate and exploit weaknesses. He flew so rapidly through the forms that he appeared a viper striking. Still the barbarian kept stride with him. Slowly sliding backwards he kept his sword at mid guard, never over extending, never showing any sign of impatience- waiting for Gavin to wear himself out. If Gavin had become a viper he had become a wolf. Then Gavin made a mistake, or perhaps the barbarian made a lucky strike. Gavin would never know. He switched to a hanging guard as Gavin struck down. He swung so forcefully he might have been throwing a punch. Gavin's blade caught on the barbarian's cross guard. He closed in locking the blade between the two men and grabbed Gavin's pommel. Pulling down while kicking at Gavin's knee the barbarian managed to force him to the ground. Gavin rolled, narrowly escaping the killing range of a downward sweep. Now the barbarian took the role of a serpent sliding forward slashing down in killing blows. Gavin kept meeting the blows as he tried to draw back, each time blocking with less and less resolve. Finally he grew desperate.

Meeting a blow with his sword braced on his vambrace, Gavin forced himself towards the barbarian. Pushing the barbarian back and gaining both his feet and few moments of reprieve.

Gavin knew he was dead. He had achieved his goal of delaying the barbarians, and there was no shame in death. Indeed his death would be honorable. Still he could not rest. Something drove him to stand, to resist his weakening legs and burning arms, to clear the fog in his mind. It was not his city, or his great nation. Not the will to live or the glory of victory. It was the knowledge, the acceptance of death. The need to meet it sword drawn and head high.

Gaining his feet Gavin saw the barbarian grin. Two swords struck as one. Like lightning the barbarian's blade stabbed deep into Gavin's chest. He felt each rib break, each drop of blood flow. He felt alive and he breathed deep to taste life.

It felt like fire.

The barbarian dropped to his knees. His blade had been strong and fierce, a two handed stab which rent armor and bone alike. Gavin's blade had been an irresistible force, a low even slash through the mid section.

The barbarian turned to Gavin and they met eyes. The man spoke in his gruff tongue, but Gavin did not understand. Than he pointed at the citadel of Aranth'ka, then at the hordes, than he smiled slightly. Gavin followed his movements. His eyes fell on the Citadel. It stood carved from the mountain face banners whipping in the wind, proud and defiant. The setting sun turned the grey rock into fire adding to the sense of glory. Gavin saw this as though for the first time. He took in the sight, but also something deeper. The essence of it seemed to enter him, as though he saw for the first time. The waves of the horde would crush against the rock of Aranth'ka in the years to come, just as the waves of the Eastern Sea crushed against the foundation stones of the harbor. Each would ware the other, eventually each would become the other. Gavin saw this all; and as the sun set, as life flowed from his broken chest, he imprinted the image into his soul as a metal worker would etch heraldry to a sword.

VI.

The barbarian chieftain lived long enough to order the other chieftains to return Gavin's body undamaged to the citadel. It was received by the high commander himself and given a personal burial chamber in the crypts far below the citadel. Gavin's sacrifice was not forgotten by the people. In decades to come monuments would be erected to commemorate the defense of the citizenry. The lower castes idolized him and the higher castes used him as an example of both field tactics and honor.

I have seen this. These events are merely the beginning of a great epic. An epic that is but a grain of sand in a storm. A storm that is but a notation in a world that is but one of many billions.

Yet for a brief moment the eyes of an apathetic reality were drawn to a single grain of sand, traced the path of this grain, and recorded it.

"The Fall of Vadroth"
by Alex Friedman

   There is a lost city upon the northern face of one of the many cliffs of the Volmar range. This was the central keep of a once prominent kingdom of the Volmar region called Frah'heel. The kingdom was inhabited by a tall, light skinned, dark haired human people known as the Monsget. The keep was lost shortly before the second period of the ages recorded by the blind sorcerer Gilghim'hr. This event was a major cause of the division of the first period from the second, as it is in this disaster that we first see mention of Asteres.
   Frah'heel was a great bastion of the Volmarian people, built into the sheer northern face of a great mountain and facing a second. Two generations after the fall of Un, the city was founded. Frah'heel was built of great brown stone against the white of that snowy land and set upon three carved ledges of the mountain. It is written that Frah'heel was impenetrable to attack when properly defended. This duty was carried out by a mighty order of knights. They rode under the banner of the northern star that they faced, and were known as the Asterian order. Clad in bronze armor of the highest standard, they had never failed in defense of their home. Because of this and the diamond-rich soil, the city began to gain power and influence over a span of four generations.

From the last volume of The First Age of Gilghim'hr:

   It was in this first dying age that I bore witness to the fall of mightly Frah'heel and the death of her peoples. I know it now with my thousand vacant eyes.

I.
   Though every king of the Frah'heelid line had up to this point been mighty and wise, it was in the final generation that a fool inherited the crown. King Tragtull II was not a proper son of Frah'heel, instead being the closest male relative to the infertile Demorian the White. Where Demorian had been kind and orderly of mind, his cousin only thought of conquest. After the towns nearby their mount had been conquered, Tragtull sought greater power.
   Tragtull was a pathetic and thin man. He surrounded himself in ill-gotten riches and inherited trophies. In the depths of that final dry and cold winter, he sat brooding in the deep chambers of his stony manor. He gathered the Asterian order to his council.

   "I would take the city on the western face of this great mountain range as our own. I seek a method to besiege thier mighty gates. You are my knights, and you shall carry out my will," said the King.
   "Have we need of another settlement? Long have we held peaceful relations with our western neighbors in Jhylan," said Captain Vadroth.
   Vadroth was the third in a legacy of captains in the Asterian order. He was a tall man with noble features and silver shocks of hard fought traumas running through his hair. Having seen fifty-four winters, he held a status of wisdom rumored far beyond the King's. Tragtull hated him for this.
   "I have need of another settlement. These people and the whole of the Monsget shall behold me as king. 'Tis my right and destiny." Tragtull glowered at his knights.
   "There is a way to breach those great walls, my liege," spake Walter, a lesser knight. "Our merchants have brought back from the ports a black powder which, when sparks be upon it, burns with a terrible fury. I have heard tell of it being packed against walls to destroy them."
   "Then gather what of this powder we shall need to break down Jhylan's defenses and gather our fighting men. We shall leave in a week's time." With this, the king arose and left his knights at the manor's long table. Vadroth drew a hand slowly across his brow.
   "You are a fool, Walter," he said.

II.
   Vadroth sat upon his favored skins and ate his fill of meat and bread. His young wife, Haethra stirred the coals of the fire in his stone furnace. He was warm and full but ill at ease. Asteres, the only son of Vadroth, entered the stone house. Asteres latched the heavy door behind him. Asteres was nearing manhood, having wintered thirteen years. Asteres did not nearly possess the stature or build of his father, being slighter and somewhat gaunt of face. He was his father's son, however- his eyes and steady hands betrayed this. Haethra blamed her son's size on the curse of a star that had fallen on the night of his birth.
   "Come with me to split wood, my son," said Vadroth, rising.
   "I've come from splitting a week's wood, sir," said the boy.
   "Then join me in the smoke house. I would speak with you."
   "Yes sir," Asteres nodded as he turned again to the door. The boy left the house to comply. Haethra caught Vadroth by his arm and handed him a hot loaf of bread.
   "Has he done wrong?" she said.
   "Nay, I would simply instruct him as to my wishes while I am away," he replied softly as he followed his son through the door.

   Vadroth's home was surrounded by forest on one side and snow field on the others. This field was Asteres' most familiar hunting ground. Vadroth preferred to live away from the keep. He believed it humbled him and made him more visible to his people. The smoke shack was a short distance from the house. They entered the shack, and the smell of salt and meat comforted Vadroth.
   Vadroth spoke thusly to Asteres:
"If would see you lead the order as I have, my son. But the age of kings is passing. Tragtull has become murderous in his quest for power. If we do not return from this quest, state your right to rule to those knights who remain. I have faith they will follow you."

   With these words, Vadroth left Asteres with his dinner and his thoughts in the smoke house. Asteres sat for some time, eating and considering his father's words. Perhaps he would be a leader of men.

III.
   Five days had passed since the Asterian order began its march around the mountains. Vadroth rode his great warhorse a few paces behind the King and the royal entourage of fools and whores. Thirty knights in heavy armor rode behind Vadroth, as well as ten score more lightly armed hobilars. In the last rank rode Walter, with four yaks who carried his black powder charges.

   Vadroth tried to hide his feelings of disgust for King Tragtull, who wore the finest armor of the entire city-state's lineage. He galloped to catch up to the King and addressed him.
   "Do you intend to offer Jhylan surrender before we are to strike, my liege?" he said to the mad king.
   "We will strike under cover of night. I will deal them a killing blow before I will hear their court. Such proceedings as you speak of would be fruitless."
   As the King spoke, a shout could be heard. A rider bearing the Asterian banner was approaching behind them. The rider was visibly pressed on by some news.
   "What does that man shout about, Vadroth? Ride out to him and hear him, sound your horn if it is of consequence," Tragthull said.
   "Aye sir," came Vadroth's reply as he turned to ride.

   As Vadroth got to within hearing distance of the rider, his horse reared up in surprise. Walter watched from the back rank, still unable to hear what the two were saying a bowshot behind him. Walter kept pace forward but leaned back, watching. He saw Vadroth draw his horn to his lips and sound a long, mournful note with all his might. Walter halted his horse and company.

   Vadroth listened to the panicking rider with a sinking heart. The town had been assaulted by a wandering horde. It had been nearly undefended as they were passing. They had killed the entire town guard along with any who resisted them. They carried with them long lengths of shackle and chain. They intended to enslave the rest of the Frah'heelid people.
IV.
   An arm's length beneath the snow, Asteres hid. He had melted a tiny space to spy out from with his breath, and remained near invisible within the drift. He held with him beneath the ice a short rabbit hunting spear. His body heat had hollowed out the snow directly around him, insulating him against the cold. But still Asteres trembled.

   Haethra lay dead across the field. An attack dog had torn off her arm. Asteries watched the hound now, and its master. He held his spear tightly, and watched as the beast began to pick up his scent. The master, a powerfully built barbarian warrior from more savage ice wastes to the north-east, showed more interest in looting Vadroth's home than in following his dog.
   The dog, with its nose to the ground, slowly worked its way toward Asteres' hole. Asteres slunk back slightly, so that no light would hit him directly. He readied the spear at the tiny frozen opening and listened for the dog to come close. As it reached the hole and sniffed inside it, Asteres jabbed it's snout. The dog yelped and jumped back, bleeding badly. Asteres ducked and waited.
   The dog fumbled at its nose in pain and the invader ran up to it, shouting. They stood fewer than ten paces from the hidden boy. The warrior looked at the snow dune where his dog had been looking. Bright red drops of blood trailed from a tiny dark hole to where his dog now lay whimpering. The warrior crept closer for a moment. A badger's den, perhaps. He had seen a badger do worse things to a hound before. He turned back to inspect his animal's nose.
   Seeing this, Asteres rose out from beneath the snow. He held the spear with both hands at his waste and drove it sharply into the back of the invader's head. The man did not cry out as he slumped into the snow, a dead heap. Asteres wrenched his spear free. The snow was stained red and pink all around him. The war dog had stumbled away, limping and weeping. Asteres took a long sword and a knife from the corpse's belt. He fastened these to his side and walked to where his mother had fallen. Asteres covered her with one of the furs he had been wearing. His throat tightened. He forced himself to cough, trying to relieve the feeling. The sight of six other savage raiders exiting the ruined city in the distance sent him running back towards cover. He hid under the snow for many hours.
   As dusk fell, Asteres rose again and looked to his city. He knew from the smoke rising into the clouded sky that it was lost. Asteres began trudging East. He followed the footfalls of the warriors he had seen leaving his land.

V.
   Vadroth's glare was becoming more intense. He stood on foot before King Tragtull, and the scores of his knights were slowly gathering around him. One by one they were dismounting and walking to stand in rank behind their captain, their expressions carrying the same leashed wrath as Vadroth's.
   "Perhaps I misunderstand you, O King. You are suggesting we carry out our attack even as the land we are sworn to protect is sacked and burned?" Vadroth's voice became low and quiet. Had another the courage to talk, perhaps Vadroth would have been difficult to hear. Tragtull snorted.
   "It is by no means a suggestion, Vadroth. We shall continue our assault. If Frah'heel is lost, she can be regained. A king should be measured by the kingdoms that bow to his will, and Jhylan will bow to mine," he said.
   "If Frah-heel has fallen, then our families and lands are lost. Our wives and heirs and the graves of our fathers are lost," said Vadroth, taking a step forward. The entire company of the Asterian Order now stood behind him.
   "Such things are easily replaced with full coffers, captain. Call to the Order to remount. We must ride hard to make up for the time you have wasted," said King Tragtull.
`"Indeed. We have wasted much time," Vadroth said.
   With one mighty arm, Vadroth grabbed the King by his belt and threw him swiftly from his horse. Tragtull cried out in surprise and pain. Vadroth had drawn a long knife with his left hand. Before the Tragtull could recover to rise, Vadroth thrust the blade through his neck with such force that he was pinned to the frosted earth. Blood splashed down his bronze chest plate. The Asterian Order did not move to intervene. Placing a boot on the slain King's face, Vadroth withdrew his knife and wiped it clean. He sheathed it and looked to his men.
   "Mount your steeds. We must see that Frah-heel is not claimed by any other who would dishonor her."
   They swiftly complied. The royal retainers were left behind. They stood about in a shocked catatonia. The cold night found the Frah'heelid army racing home.

VI.
   A night and day had passed. Vadroth stood at the southern base of Frah'heel's great mountain. It would take another three days of strenuous riding to circumnavigate it and travel the pass to approach the city's entrance. Walter joined Vadroth. They both stared to to summit. A plume of black smoke was rising from the far side of the mountain.
   "There is no way to climb the mount on horseback. But surely, we cannot risk the time to circle it," said Vadroth.
   "Then we will climb. We've mountaineering equipment for the whole of the company. I will give the notice," said Walter.

   The entire company suited themselves with picks and lines and heavy cloaks. Vadroth lead a march to the base and began to climb. The mounts and the civil army would join them on the other side in three days time, except for the four yaks who were capable of making the climb. Vadroth began the rhythmic swinging of his ice pick, which the rest of the Order followed. Ice and dirt bit into Vadroth's face as he climbed at a determined pace. They climbed for the entire day. Two fell dead along the way of exhaustion.

   At Dusk, they reached the summit. Vadroth climbed to the edge of the cliff. Sorrow filled his heart as he looked down. The halls of Frah'heel were burning. Her temples and manors were burning. The entire city was scorched. Vadroth asked for a spy glass. He could see bodies littering the roads, and several huge corpse piles. In the city square, women and children were being chained together for a slave procession. The old and sick were being slain like animals and piled up for burning. Their cemetery had been exhumed and robbed. Dogs wandered the streets, searching for people still hiding in the wreckage These invaders were not simply a displaced horde of people, but a number of mercenary bands. They had likely been assembled for some great war and then turned loose when the war had finished. Vadroth lowered the spy glass and handed it to another knight. He slumped back against a frost covered boulder.
   Frah'heel was completely lost. His child and his wife and all those he knew was dead or would die a slave. Walter trudged along the cliff side and stood above Vadroth.
   "I will not allow our home to be pillaged or my to be family enslaved, Vadroth." Walter said.
   "What would you have me do?"
   "Let us bury our lives with dignity. All is lost but honor."

VII.

   Asteres knew them now. The six walked toward a port city on the Eastern Sea, likely trying to sell their share of the plunder. The smallest man walked with a fresh limp, like a wounded elk. Asteres followed the warriors just out of sight. He reasoned he could catch up to them with an hour's sprint when he decided to strike. One of them had eaten a loaf of bread and passed scraps of it to his comrades. Another was gathering tinder for the night's fire as he walked.

   A long, loud crash erupted in the distance and echoed down the wide vally, stirring small avalanches as it passed.

VIII.

   Vadroth raised his sword to the sky. The Asterian order raised their swords in kind. Their heavy fur cloaks whipped in the hard mountain-peak winds. White snow reflected brightly from their drawn blades. Walter stood beside the crest of the mountain top, and placed a burning torch across the heavy fusing he had set. He took off in a full run toward the other knights. They lept from the edge, Vadroth at the fore. The mountain erupted into a crashing river of snow and rock behind them. With this final act the Asterian Order disappeared into the snow, charging with the northern wind against the hand of fate.
   The starving remnants of the Frah'heelid sat caged in their town square. The slave traders looked in terror and awe as the sky above them was engulfed in white death. Glints of silver steel, like sparks rising from a wild flame, fell in front of the rush of ice and stone. Vadroth, angling his body against the wind to direct his final descent, slammed sword first into one of the invading warriors. The geyser of blood was erased by the snow in the same instant.
   Only Frah'heel's last son remained to mourn her loss.

IX.
   Asteres heart was as cold as the frost gathering about his eyebrows. He stood in the center of the invader's camp, surrounded by their tents. He saw from the flickering firelight that they laid in their furs, asleep and breathing softly. Asteres gathered an armful of snow and dropped it over the fire, extinguishing it with a loud hiss. The men who had pillaged Frah'heel awoke with a start. Asteres drew his sword.

   It is natural that the first age end in bloodshed. As I record my sightless visions, I understand more deeply how the events I see could have only lead to their conclusions. Perhaps it is not fate that predetermines the deeds of heroes and men. Perhaps it is the nature of heroes and men to predetermine their fates.
   Asteres traveled from his homeland to the East, and over many years became an adventurer and a warrior and a leader of men. His frustration with his seemingly effortless acts drove him onward. I have heard a thousand songs of his name.

"No Vacancy"

by Laura Harrison

This sign was irrepressible. The color of it was something akin to its light but somehow took on a life of its own. I couldn’t make out what it was trying to tell me. The color was a mixture of neon and reality that separated my normal plane of vision from my logic. There is no name for such a color. Once it was there and I could see it, it was like bark to a tree. My whole life I’d been staring at these naked branches and all that time it never occurred to me that what I saw wasn’t actually all of what was there. I stared into the depths of that vacancy until there was nothing left. The concrete grown out of centuries beneath my feet became like an ocean. I was sinking into technicolored waves as if time had stopped along with me. Space was entirely anew and my fingertips could not touch it. I felt nothing.

How could I move—I could physically move, of course,—but how could I move. Who knew how long this would last. I looked around for a sign of people. For someone to tell me I was seeing something that wasn’t there so that I could believe them, rationalize this episode into oblivion, and move on. My eyes couldn’t quite adjust in this light I wondered if they ever would, or could. I waited and watched for anyone. All I could see was that light, shifting back and forth in its intensity from one moment to the next. I wasn’t sure people exist in this place. At least I’m not sure now that I could see them—that I ever really saw them.

I’d had the tune from that Tootsipop commercial stuck in my head all day. The one with the owl that goes ‘how many licks does it take to get to the center of a…’ I started singing it to myself when I realized I couldn’t hear anything. That’s not completely accurate. I could hear one thing. I could hear my thoughts. I just couldn’t hear myself speak. I said words. I sang the song and felt a tickle inside the house of my vibrating larynx. Nonetheless, I was speechless. I couldn’t hear a sound from the world outside myself. That’s when I saw something moving.

I couldn’t tell what it was, least of all by its movement. The space seemed to separate for it and the color almost retreated. It was massively empty, like a black contour on a white page, but alive and heaving. I’m not sure that it noticed me at first. I tried calling out to it in case it could hear me even though I couldn’t. There was no response and so I just watched it move. It would constitute itself out of the color—emptying or perhaps pouring itself out into my plane of vision. And then they’d be separate—the color from the thing—until it sort of poured itself back in again only to reappear somewhere else. I saw it in momentary glimpses. I couldn’t discern any pattern in its movement, but I got the distinct impression that it had somehow noticed me and was making its way closer. That, or it was just growing. Pretty soon it seemed like it was pouring itself out of everything. It congealed itself into a form out of its slowly separating content over and over again and all I could do was watch.

I hadn’t thought yet to look at myself. Then I thought to, but couldn’t out of fear. All the things I could have become in this place—all the ways I could appear—all the acceptance that goes along with realizing your place inside of something was too big, too monstrous. But then I started to feel like an elephant flooding the room and I couldn’t stay here feeling this way. I had to push it out and so I emptied myself into that thing. I began to associate the moving thing with this invisible monster in my head. The one I was too afraid to look at directly.

Seeing it as my own greatest fear made me treat it as such and I backed myself into a wall. I stood next to the source of that color hoping to hide from my monster in its light. The wall pulled me in. Soon it was cradling me and I lost myself like a baby lying in her parent’s bedsheets—what are monsters to infants who’ve only recently opened their eyes to see—I was so happy. I’d pushed my fear out onto this thing and in the process somehow completely forgotten how it was to feel so afraid. I was fresh in this foreign innocence and I looked down at my hands thinking they must look so clean.

I stared for a moment, uncertain. Was I coming in or out.

I looked up and there was my companion, my monster, reforming before me. This time it was larger than my life, but I was not afraid. There was no way of knowing for sure but it was so close or so immense that I thought I could have reached out and touched it. I held my breath and reached. I watched as my fingertips emptied into my monster’s face, her expression suddenly spelling my name into a smile that smiled deeper and deeper as it became clearer. In an instant, where my fingers once were had become that color and I could no longer see my monster. I worked to focus my sight as best I could in that light until I realized that I was staring into the source of that color, like I’d somehow turned about face. Had she disappeared or had I. Alienated in the realization of this new possibility I started to feel myself again and felt strongly that I was falling. As I fell I sensed the gravity of the ground beneath me. I felt it clanking itself to me like iron. In the moment before the pressure was going to kill me I blinked thinking I was about to hit the ground. When I opened my eyes I was still standing in front of that sign in the glow of that color that had captured me, but I was seeing again as in my own reality.

I read the sign aloud. I said, “No Vacancy,” and all I could remember was the thought of having someplace to be.

POETRY

Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.

-Leonard Cohen

"Albatross"

by Jeff Morin

Albatross

You are my Albatross...

I want to mount you.

I want to see you through.

I want to finish you off,

My Albatross.

You hang from my neck

And I can’t let you go.

You hang from my neck,

And I can’t let you go.

I want to wake up and find you done,

My Albatross.

So many times I wanted to see the end,

To find some sense of freedom.

But you are always there,

Always there,

Always there.

I want to mount you.

I want to see you through.

I want to finish you off,

My Albatross.

I’m through with you,

I’m done with you,

I’m finished with you,

It’s over with you.

But you pull at my heart,

You pull at my mind,

You pull at my soul,

And I can’t let you go.

I need to mount you.

I need to see you through.

I need to finish you off.

My Albatross.

"Dream of my Love as a Beached Whale"

by Amber Pompeii

I keep my fingers clasped together because your absence creates a twitch in them.

Remember: I’d push them deep between your bones while you lay beside me,

the inside of our mouths drying out from opening into each other.

I like it when you take it out on me, pressing through my blue veins and skin

to remind me of my human skeleton.

I saw you underwater once, sucking the plankton and tossing the bottom up.

The sunlight did not shine on you, but luminous

you were with your cold hide reflecting my heavy loneliness.

Dreams are oceans, darling.

I fear that some day you will beach yourself

entangled in some fishing net and

I’ll suffocate you, unintentionally

with my dirty air.

END NOTE

Thanks to everyone who contributed and thanks to everyone who read. I am not yet sure whether the next issue will be in January or in March, that will depend on the rate of submissions. Thanks to Quote Garden for making the Mark Twain quote easy to find.

-End of Issue 1

First Issue Preview and Call for Papers Follow-up

2009-11-19T14:17:00.001-05:00

The first issue of The Dying Art will be published December 1st, 2009. I have received some excellent material, and I'd like to thank everyone who has submitted so far. There is still time to submit for this issue- the cut off date for submissions is November 28th. Any submissions after that day will be considered for the second issue.

I am still looking forward to receiving Adventure and Science Fiction submissions. If you focus on or dabble in either of these areas, please consider submitting.

If you have any questions about the first issue, feel free to email me or post a comment. If you want to receive a .pdf or a hard copy of the journal, please send me an email (you can find that if you click my name in the sidebar).

Call for papers!

2009-11-07T13:32:00.001-05:00

This is a call for papers for the December, 2009 issue of The Dying Art.

Since this is the first issue, I understand that it will be difficult to determine exactly what I am looking for. The mission of this journal is to create a collaborating community of writers in overlooked genres. If you are writing Science Fiction, Horror, Adventure, or Fantasy; submit a work. Poets are invited to submit the sort of work they feel is overlooked in current literary trends. Those that are selected will create a ground for the furthering of our greater conversation.

If you submit work, you agree that:

-This journal may publish it online and in print.

-The work is your own.

Any work you submit is still considered your property. Feel free to publish it elsewhere or submit it anywhere else.

Fiction Submissions:

Between 500-15000 words. Please edit your work carefully before submission.

Currently, I would urge you to send in fictional works in the genres of:

-Fantasy

-Horror

-Science Fiction

-Adventure

Selections will be made on the basis of literary value, entertainment value, and inventiveness.

Poetry Submissions:

Between 10-5000 words. Please be sure to note if the poem is formatted in a way that may not transfer correctly in simple text.

Currently, I would urge you to send in any under appreciated form of poetry- but I'd really like to see a ballad.

Send your submission in .doc or .rtf format. Submit everything to:

submissions.dyingartjournal@gmail.com

Submit no more than three works in a month.

Thank you,

Alex Friedman

Contributing Editor