The Burning Man

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Burning Man

Up on a hill, in a lonely forgotten part of this strange place there stands a man. He is not a good man, nor a particularly bad one, but he is a tall man; so tall his shadow stretches to the boundary of this strange history park. He’s stood here before, many times in fact. He’s stood here in the rain and the sun, with the biting chill of the winter wind against his cold cheeks. He’s stood here looking down at them: the people in coats and warm scarves; the women and children with their faces painted blue, yellow and red; and the men in such peculiar armour. It’s an odd sight to look at, this show they perform for him ...this spectacle of human audacity.

They do it for him, each year they come in their hundreds, carrying their baskets of food and warm drinks for when the night’s frost starts to creep in. Every year the soldiers come down from their encampment – their armour is strange and metallic; their tunics are made of red thread and if one were to lift up the faces of these strange actors, one might notice a uniform scar under each chin. As if the straps of their helmets were not formed to keep a human skull from harm at all. There are others down on the field, men and women in bright coloured cloths of yellow, and blue, and brown. The only metal these phantoms wear is around their arms, huge bands of gold that loop like dragons around their too pale flesh. The man remembers them all as he looks back down onto that empty field before him: he remembers how their clothes flailed in the wind as they faced each other. Romans...Romans and Celts they named themselves as they rattled their spears, and their shields and screamed at one another. And all the while the man looked on, unafraid because none of this was real – it was all just a play. These were not real soldiers, these were not real Romans or Celts, these were players, dolls in the game before him. The other people knew it too, the people in chairs off to the side – it’s all a game, no one dies in this battle today. A brief show for the onlookers while they wait for night to
come. This is how it’s always been, all this time the man has stood here under the stars – this has always been his role in their game. He has stood here before, in many different bodies: sometimes he’s tall and shapely like a woman, sometimes he is short, his body square and as unnatural as this whole night must look. It’s always this hill he stands on when it happens, when the crowd gather, and they come. They come with their torches, and their lighters and they gather at his feet...at his large wicker made feet.

‘Alright,’ cries the false Roman. ‘Who wants to see him burn?’

Every year the crowd screams back to him, and everyway year it’s always the same answer.

‘Burn him! Burn him! Burn him!’

He hates this part, hates the heat of the flames as they rise up his legs, and his torso, until they cover his entire body. There are red sparks everywhere he looks, and the fire inside him is brighter than the stars. But he doesn’t scream, for they have not made him a mouth to do so. He is burning, and his whole world is that pain, that searing crackle as the paper and the straw in his belly catch light. This is his life – to watch and to burn, and then when it is all over his memory will stand here until next year, when the cycle begins again. Except it doesn’t because this year there’s no new body for him, and no Roman to burn it, for there’s no park anymore. It’s empty and as silent as he is now, and on his hill, made flat from his many different bodies, he stands and watches that silent park. It will soon be winter, he can feel the ice on his phantom cheeks, he’s so very cold, and he thinks how fine it would be to be a fire. Still he remembers their laughter, and their battles and their flames. He remembers them all, for there is nothing else left. Only memories like him stay here now, and even they will fade when there is nothing else left to burn.

Charlotte Burnett is dyslexic and a high-functioning autistic. She lives in Scotland, and has had short stories published in literary journals such as The Write Launch and Coffin Bell. She also has a Bachelor’s in Science from the Open University, focusing on Psychology and Sociology.

‘Wine or Vinegar?’, ‘What Another 'JC' May Have Meant...’ & ‘毀滅與的’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Wine or Vinegar?

The earliest of the New Testament Gospel texts –
Mark –
states definitively that wine (οἶνον),
mixed with myrrh (ἐσμυρνισμένον),
was permitted or offered (ἐδίδουν)
at what is generally considered
the crucifixion of Jesus ...
in ancient times,
by the way,
myrrh had many applications,
including in anointing kings and high priests.

Further,
Mark states that while this libation
was permitted or offered,
it was the person now known as 'Jesus' who –
it may be read –
gave sweet intoxication mixed with a healing balm (metaphorically).

Such manna (מָן)
should not be confused with חומץ (vinegar) –
rather,
it is properly recognised
as a reference to superlative rhetoric
or philosophy.

That manna is apparent elsewhere,
including in a passage in Matthew 27:46 –
purporting to represent
'reasoning' [λέγων]
'shouted again' [ἀνεβόησεν]
in a 'marvellous discourse' [φωνῇ μεγάλῃ]).

For those with an understanding of Aristotelian philosophy,
the application of dialectic methods
and creative translation of various languages,
the relevant transliterated Aramaic and Koine Greek
might be read as shown below.

Being, existence, causation and fate (YHWH)
laments the query,
"Why produce myriad peaceful fruits?"

There – and here – exists
the fundamental generative good
in each emerging moment, my deity,
mine is where what is me is:
in favour of survival;
against abandonment; and
left behind as an inheritance.

Expressed thus –
as may have been the case
for a philosopher, grammarian and rhetorician –
it is a life lesson
free from religious dogma
and relevant to all.

These are a couple of examples
of different interpretations
that may be applied
to the earliest Gospel texts ...
which,
believe it or not,
do not even include the name 'Jesus'.

As for the moniker 'Christ',
it is of only recent invention -
from about 100CE to 1300CE,
a word for 'Good'
was actually the epithet applied ...
and it was used in parallel with derivatives of an earlier descriptor:
χρυσός (meaning 'gold', 'precious' or 'treasured').

All might not be as we have been told
by those influenced by religious dogma –
including that this 'Jesus' died on a cross,
or was a man
(perhaps,
rather than a God,
she was an exceptional mortal woman).

Due to a progressive
(and terminal)
neurological condition,
I may never get the opportunity
to complete my PhD on this matter.

Regardless,
I enjoy sharing thoughts with others
as they arise ...
little by little, perhaps sense will prevail.

The action of the fates aside,
however,
what we can surely agree upon
is that the world needs more good works –
and for that,
all we need to act on
is our own 'divine' spark
(the best of intentions
produced in our own individual minds
[Michelangelo left that message
on the roof of the Sistine Chapel]) ...
after all,
as noted in James 2:20,
“faith without works is dead”
(and I suspect 'Jesus Christ' likely thought the same).

What another 'JC' may have meant ...

Julius Caesar (100 BCE – 44 BCE) –
Roman general, statesman, author and historian –
is believed to have once written,

“FERE LIBERNTER HOMINES
ID QUOD VOLUNT CREDUNT”.

The traditional reading of that passage
is something along the lines of,

“Men generally believe
what they want to believe”.

Rendered thus,
it is a maxim of sorts
that has a Stoic tone to it
(or some may perceive a Cynic).

An alternative reading –
one applying creative translation –
providing guidance
rather than observation
follows:

Humanity,
speak willingly, eagerly, gladly, cheerfully, vigorously and enthusiastically
that which wishes, intends, consents to and advances towards
imagination, thought, confidence and life-preserving trust.

Such an approach is consistent
with masterful philosophical approaches –
and consistent with the teachings
of another subsequent 'JC'.

毀滅與的
信仰是力量讓破碎的世界重見光明
信仰是力量讓破碎的世界重見光明
的與滅毀

Destroying, ruining and slander obliterates ...
provide, cause and participate in the optimal

Belief, justice and capability reproaching?
Broken.

Bindú?
The realm governed by a buddhá duplicating manifest brilliance:
hope in adverse circumstances, frankness and open-heartedness.

Truly,
to rely on this power and influence?
Pramāṇa.

Permitting destruction, ruin or exile?
Shattering, fragmenting and shredding.

The aim, standard and criterion?
A life, generations and a world
characterised by prudent views ...
only clarity, observation, intelligence, knowledge,
discernment, sensibility, understanding, and wisdom.

Winning the lottery?
Helping, supporting, befriending and choosing
extinguishing destruction, ruin and slander.

Douglas Colston hails from Australia, has played in Ska bands, married his love, fathered two great children and among other things, pursued a PhD he hoped would provide a positive contribution to the zeitgeist. Having been a former Pushcart nominee, his writing has appeared in anthologies and magazines, including: Tenth Muse; POETiCA REViEW; Impspired; Hive Avenue; Rue Scribe; Inlandia; and Revue {R}évolution.

An Autumn Grave

Photographer - Tobi Brun

An Autumn Grave

His eyes opened to the sound of cicadas; their discordant melody celebrated their brief existence in this world. The low crackled groan of meandering frogs added harmony to the shrill trill of the lonely katydids. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the looming oak trees, scattering the soft rays across the forest floor. He watched the way this brilliance peaked through the dark cracks and burnt the autumn colors. Orange turned to gold, and gradients of brown were painted across the dead leaves. Rust-colored pine straw glittered like threads of molten bronze as they intertwined into a thick blanket across the ground. There was something infinite about this moment. Allen felt like he could lose himself in it, and there was a chance that if he did, no one would ever find him. He could disappear right there as if he had never existed at all. 

As a blackbird lifted into the air, calling obnoxiously as it went, tears clouded his vision.

“Why?”

His voice was soft. Quiet. Allen could barely recognize that he had spoken — the rustle of dry leaves and the low howl of the November wind had stolen the sound. If it hadn’t been for the dull feeling of his jaw moving or the dry, chapped corners of his lips touching together, he would have thought that the forest had hushed him. Silenced him. With their long, gnarled limbs stretching towards the sky, the trees swallowed him whole. There was a dull ache in his chest – a soft throbbing as he tried to piece himself together. What am I crying for? No reply came to his question. The wind only rustled through the leaves and momentarily shifted thinner branches. Allen lay in the shade and stared up at the spaces between each leaf. With the slow awakening of his consciousness, he tried to remember where he was or why he was there. Alone. Where am I? Everything around him was beautiful, still and serene, in its quiet stasis. Yet, the repose bordered on alien. The cold earth beneath him and the tiny grains of dirt between his fingers. The light and the shadows it cast, and the distant march of the abstract clouds in the sky. It was all too perfect – too harmonious. There was no one else in the lonely forest, nor any tracks or trails. For as long as he could see, there were simply rows of trees, their limbs, and an outstretched of leaves across the floor. 

But something pulled at him – a gentle urge beckoned him forward through the uneven rows of limbs and fallen leaves. The ground beneath his feet as he stood felt foreign and his feet felt weightless. He followed the feeling, unaware of himself, until Allen stood in the shadow of a decrepit brick building outlined by the light of what seemed like a never-ending morning. The pale, white walls were harsh against the autumn background. Disjointed. It was as if God had simply discarded it there – careless and haphazard. If the house had ever been occupied, the signs barely showed. Even from a distance, the weathered marks of age could be seen sketched across the surface. Vines had sprouted from the ground and nestled in the cracks between the bricks and concrete that had once perfectly secured their placement. Thin tendrils stretched across the walls like capillary veins, while small leaves plastered themselves against the lead paint. 

The house had never looked so old before. 

But I know this place. In his memories, Allen could vaguely imagine it, though the image was fragmented. When the panicked thrash of his body had succeeded in pushing the blindfold upwards, enough that his eyes stung from the sudden influx of light, the house had appeared horrifically normal. The paint had been white then, pure like a sheet of paper, as he glimpsed it from the back seat window. 

Allen took a breath.

He crossed the overgrown grass. The passage of time had enabled it to grow tall and lick at the upper edges of the foundation. It swayed gently as he passed, bending ever so slightly to allow him to draw closer. The leaves kissed his hands and arms, grazing against his skin as if their comforting touches could ease the ache in his chest. Allen smiled, ever-so-slightly, as the echoes of the past drifted by with the faint brush of the wind. 

***

With the sunlight beaming down on him and gently warming every inch of his uncovered skin, Allen remained on the verge of falling asleep. He had been so tired. Exhausted. The subtle summer breeze brushed through the grass, rustling the blades and kissing his skin. He took a slow, quiet breath and smiled at the smell of warm biscuits and freshly melted sugar in the air. She must be nearly done baking. Allen felt the slightest hint of guilt. He had meant to help his grandmother finish the desserts, but the temptation to lie on the grass and enjoy the prolonged nothingness had been too convincing. He rarely got to relax. With every light, shallow breath, his consciousness slipped from his bones, stealing the tension from his overworked limbs. His mind drifted away, revolving slowly as the world gently spun on its axis. 

A warm, hard weight smacked against his face.

Then, another. 

What is it now? Allen debated whether to define its properties – if he opened his eyes, he could see whatever projectile decided to rupture his descent into peace. Or I can just let it go and try to sleep.

 Crumbs fell on his face, pattering his skin like grains of sand. Above him, a voice giggled. 

“Sugar rain!” 

“I thought you were helping Grandma,” Allen sighed and reached up to brush the morsels from his face, “Or bothering the dogs.” 

“I’m feeding the birds.” 

He opened his eyes, lazily looking up at the sharp, shark-toothed grin plastered on his sister’s face. In her hands, the remains of freshly baked biscuits were pulverized between her fingers. A lump of biscuit fell from her hands, bouncing off Allen’s nose and rolling into the dirt. 

“I don’t think any birds plan on eating breadcrumbs off my face, Laura.” 

She frowned and shrugged. With a fistful of biscuits, she pulled her hand back and launched it into the distance. Closing his eyes, Allen settled back into the dirt. 

He relished in the silence — then let out a pained grunt as a heavy weight dropped onto his stomach. 

“Laura!” 

“I wish we could stay here forever.”

Allen looked at her, the annoyance replaced by concern. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat and covered with stray crumbs. But she smiled, silent for once, relaxing in a way Allen had never seen. Reaching up, he brushed away the bits of biscuit from her face. 

“I know.”

Laura looked down at him, her blue eyes iridescent in the sunlight. She shifted, settling her weight more comfortably on Allen, and smacked her hand across his chest. With each swat, he winced as the crumbs flew into the grass. 

“If you could stay anywhere forever, where would you stay?” 

He thought for a moment then stared up at the clear, endless sky of blue, “Somewhere sunny — quiet, but with lots of places to go.”

“Sounds boring, I’d want to stay in space.” 

Allen snorted, shaking his head, and closed his eyes. He felt Laura move and sucked in a sharp breath as her elbow jabbed his neck. Her hair fell into his eyes. But as she laid her head on his chest, he smiled. 

The silence returned, for a moment, until she softly whispered, “Or with you, I wouldn’t mind staying with you.”

***

Laura.

More tears gathered in the corner of his eyes. 

Where was she? The surrounding forest was soundless – a perfect paragon of abandoned tranquility, but the loneliness felt suffocating. With silent steps, he climbed up the cracked stairs, careful not to crush the dandelions that grew from between the jagged gap of stone. Age had not made them kinder. Their rough concrete surfaces, which had once ripped through his skin, were covered in flakey mint-colored lichen. As he reached the rough, wooden patio, Allen paused for a moment. The pads of his fingers curled up into his palm, while his eyes glanced at the top right corner of the last step. 

Some unknown part of him recognized it.

Without seeing through the haze obscuring his memory, Allen knew the final step was the one that had hurt the most. The memory returned to him quietly. He felt sickened, disturbed that his mind simply accepted – the fact that his head had been bashed into the stone. Over and over again. He had been punished for the strangled screams in his throat and the rugged effort he had made to break free. Allen reached up and rubbed at his temple. The images in his mind felt invasive – unfamiliar. Were the memories even his? He felt the wispy strands of his hair, searching, but the soft, caramel locks were no longer flattened by blood. There was no wound, but the memory played with a distant viscerality. It felt familiar. He touched his head again. There was nothing, but the press of his fingers to cold skin couldn’t ease the phantom ache. He could feel the ghost of hands intertwining through his hair, pulling and tearing as they dragged him along. But, like a twisted joke, the marks were gone as if they had never existed at all. Why can’t I remember? Allen ran his hands through his hair and mapped every inch of his uncovered skin. He tried to find evidence of the abuse. Somewhere. Anywhere. 

Nothing.

Allen closed his eyes. The reminiscent ghost of bruised bone beneath torn skin and clots of dried blood replayed in his head. His hands clenched, tightly squeezing their calloused skin. The air felt thick and heavy in his lungs. Fear, like needles beneath the surface of his skin, pricked every inch of his arms. Nausea rolled inside his stomach; his muscles squeezed until it hurt to breathe.

Here, hold my hands and squeeze. Just try to breathe again, okay? I’m right here, Laura.

His heart thundered in his chest, beating against his ribs, and he choked on the air. The world felt faint, distant and ephemeral, like it could crumble into dust at any moment. Breathe. He tried to picture Laura. Her soft, chubby cheeks and her stubby fingers. The ladies in church teased her, their soft voices poking fun at the way fat was distributed across her body, but she was perfect. Happy. Allen wanted to see her smile and feel her small hands touch his own again. He missed her – her baby eyes and curly hair. They had matching caramel strands and a splatter of freckles across their noses. The same sharp teeth, though Allen’s peaked more visibly from his lips, but it reminded him of their mother anyway. They both loved a little too much and cried a little too hard when the world in their head caved in. 

Why am I here? 

Allen looked back up at the broken door. Mold had eaten away at the frame, splintering and bending the weathered wood as the metal hinges that held it in place melded from bronze to brown. He tried to see himself in the yellowed remnants of the glass windows held by the doorframe.

 But the face of someone else flashed by.

Sharp teeth, carnivorous canines. Brilliant blue eyes, and calloused dirty hands. Long, blonde hair pulled into a tight, unwashed ponytail. A recollection of the smell of sweat stuck to his skin. Breath that reeked of rotten eggs and cheap whiskey. 

Allen blinked, and the fragmented memory vanished. A thick layer of dust and grime was all that remained. A slow, sickening feeling of dread washed over him. In the distance, a crow sang a low, mournful sound. The face, like a piece of a stained-glass window, flittered through his memory. Disconnected. A fraction of a whole that remained close — Allen could almost recall it — but still unrecoverable.

As the wind brushed against his arms, he fell to his knees on the stairs. His heart stuttered in its rapid rhythm. The face, a blurry momentary glimpse, remained vivid behind his eyes. From the depths of his subconscious, a low, hushed voice whispered.

What would your sister say if she could see you like this?

***

Light pierced through the beige curtains, cutting through the thick blankets of dust. Small, shimmering particles danced in the light as they spiraled down inside the warm beam. Burns were scattered like water droplets across the floor. Small piles of yellowed powder and pebbles of debris had clumped in corners of the room beneath low, curving dips in the ceiling and tattered holes where the wood had been broken through. Mold licked at the countertops. Rusted forks and spoons were haphazardly strewn beside the sink. Loose papers and notecards, spotted red from the years of abandonment, were limply rested on the slanted remains of a wooden table. Some were taped across the yellowing surface of a fridge that sank downwards through the dip in the softening linoleum. 

With the lightest ghost of a touch, Allen ran his fingers across the countertop as he passed through the room. Funny, how easily something ages when people forget it’s there. Carefully, he moved around the small piles of debris and broken plates. He glanced at the writing on the table, disturbed piles of letters intermingled with the remnants of folded newspapers. Time had faded their ink, while evaporated water had painted a murky black ocean over the wide, cursive words strung together with elegant, looping curls. 

Allen eyed it wearily.

The same neat, looping handwriting had been printed on the letter he was given, and Allen had taken it as a sign of authority and opportunity. How could he not? His name had been so prettily scrawled across the top of the letter. The man had smiled so brightly when he squeezed Allen’s shoulder, promising him that it would be a chance at a new life. Jeremy Wessan treated Allen like he was special. When he saw the cuts and bruises on Allen’s arm, he bandaged and iced them himself. You remind me of my son – you’re a good kid. Allen preened himself on the affection. Desperate. The cash inside the folded envelope was enough to afford ice cream and the cost of Laura’s therapy appointments. Jeremy promised him that he’d be back before nine each night. If he took it and budgeted his month’s paycheck, Allen was certain he could afford to buy the light, rose-colored bunny that Laura had eyed so greedily as they walked home from the grocery store.

He had wanted to give her something new — something soft and good. 

Turning away, Allen abandoned the kitchen. He walked through the wide opening, stepping with silent footfalls on the dark, molded rug. Jackets, shirts, and pants were thrown in large piles in the adjacent room. Their limp cotton limbs fell to the ground and stretched towards abandoned plastic toys, books, and magazines beyond their reach. Cobwebs clung to the spaces between the scratched furniture and the cream-colored walls. Layers of paint peeled and fell in little flurries of white specks to the floor. Against the furthest wall, a grand piano basked in the sunlight beside a plaid sofa. Pulled by an invisible string, Allen moved towards the bright beacon of light. He placed himself in front of the piano and studied it, noticing the places where the once-glossy finish had been scratched off. Slowly, he reached out to touch the long, discolored scratches across the cover. 

He smiled. 

His fingernails scraped the surface, retracing their marks. Allen had always told Laura that if she were in trouble to use her nails. Rip them to shreds darlin’ and don’t you ever fuck stop. Splatters of blood had stained the couch, forming a dark cloud over the parallel stripes of brown, red, and beige. The dent in the wall had never been patched. Cobwebs hung from the splintered wood and a spider had crafted her web within the hole. Fingernail marks were stretched across the base of the piano. Allen glanced at the low-cut cuticles of his nails. 

The blood was gone from beneath them now. 

He closed his eyes. Why am I here? He received no reply. What’s the point of all this? There’s nothing here anymore, no one is here. An answer still didn’t come. All that was left in Allen’s head was a memory — the trembling fear as his fingers swept across the piano keys, relying on muscle memory to push him on. 

Jeremy Wessan said he was a businessman from Idaho. 

It had been a lie. 

Allen’s arms trembled as he played. The large looming shadow of a man cast above him, an ax peeking out in the corners of his vision. As the song came to a close, thunderous laughter and shouts intermingled with the deep chords of a sonata in F minor. Roughly, a hand had slapped his back. 

Faster.

Allen’s fingers had been frantic. 

Faster – come on! 

Light droplets of blood had been left on the keys. 

Come on, boy! Play it louder — let me hear it! 

He had never allowed himself to cry even as the tears gathered in his eyes. 

That’s it, glory hallelujah — keep it going, boy, I’ll lop your fuckin’ head off! Come on, faster!

Laura had always loved it when Allen played for her. She would sit on the bench beside him and lean, her hands neatly folded in her lap as she watched him. It was rare when Allen would have time, he could only play for her when their father was gone, and Allen had to take multiple shifts at the bar downtown. But, when the opportunity came, he tried to entertain her — the music seemed to calm her constant anxiety. As she listened, her eyelids would flutter shut and Allen would feel the weight of her head against his side. Sometimes, Laura would sleepily mumble aloud, reminding him that she liked the sound.

He had wanted to teach her to play one day. 

***

Allen missed his mother. Desperately. The hole in his soul was large and aching, and it was shaped like her. Though she had been gone for years, he could still conjure hazy memories of her. Her bright, wide sharp-toothed smile. The way she laughed like a lion roared, and the roll of her eyes when she reminded everyone that she couldn’t care less of what any man thought of her for it. Sometimes, Allen would list the things he remembered or knew. She smelled like chamomile and lavender. Her favorite color was gold, and she thought dresses were nicer than skirts. Her parents hadn’t been able to afford to send her to college, but she learned piano and made a living playing in bars. They died in a car accident, but she told everyone that she could hear their voices singing loudly when she slammed her fingers down on the keys to play hymns for the church. Everyone said she moved like she was possessed when she sat at a piano. Allen’s mother had married at nineteen, given birth once at twenty, again at twenty-five, and then vanished a month later. 

No one knew where she had gone. 

Allen looked like his dad, and Laura looked like someone completely different. They both smiled and laughed like their mother, but Laura was short, tan, and prone to outbursts. If Allen wasn’t there, she could break into a screaming fit and choke on her spit until she vomited on the floor. A lot of people had things to say about it all to him — theories and speculations about his father’s alcoholism, his mother’s disappearance, and Laura. 

None of it mattered. 

We’re made from the same blood and bones. Laura had his mother’s eyes and her warmth. She smelled like chamomile and talcum powder, and she would raise her hand to ask the preacher in church if anyone had heard from God yet, or if he was still missing like her mother. Always unaware of the way people looked at her and the things they would say.

Allen loved her. How could he not? She was all he had left of his mother – the only thing that could fill the space in his chest that had only seemed to grow with every passing year. He would have done anything for her, and he did everything he could to protect her. When their father came home, a bottle in his hand and demanding to know where the little monster was hiding, Allen hid her in a closet. He took the punches for her and cleaned up the blood – his father’s and his own – so she didn’t worry. 

Laura deserved to be happy.

Looking down, he stared at the chains on the floor. They lay limp on the floor, their surfaces rusted brown and orange. Dried blood discolored the concrete floor. A pillow remained discarded on a pile of sheets. Light, yellow stains intermingled with dark, black spots of mold. A red plastic bucket sat in the corner of the room. Black water remained stagnant within it, and the smell of urine was thick. In the air, the scent mixed with mold, mildew, and decay. It was a putrid, rotten odor, and it fought for dominance against the damp, earthy air. 

Allen breathed it in. His eyelids shut and his head tilted back. He asked himself the question again, though he knew he didn’t have an answer and there was no one else that did.

Why am I here?

In chunks, the gaps filled themselves in — the outline of the sketch finally colored in by some unknown force of nature. A knee pressed painfully into his back, digging into the bruises where a baseball bat had been repeatedly smashed against his skin. The quick electric jolt as a sharp knife split the skin of his shoulder blades, and the searing burn as it tried to push through the tough muscle beneath. Night after night, Allen pissed himself. The smell of vomit and urine was suffocating, but the feeling of it on his skin was nauseating. He screamed. Prayed. At first, he begged God, and then he pleaded with whoever might hear. Please, someone. I don’t want to die here – I want to go home. He had cried for his mother —for anyone, even though no one could hear him. 

Mama.

He didn’t know why he had thought she might save him — maybe she was dead herself.

And now, as he stood in the quiet little underground room, his fingers twitched, aching as if they were still suffering. A raggedy, pink stuffed bunny sat on a table, accompanied by rusted tools – saws, hammers, and dozens of nails. The beady, lifeless black eyes watched him. Allen stumbled forward and fell to the floor in front of it, he reached out to touch it and felt the soft fabric against his fingertips. He tried to grab it and hold it close, desperate to find any comfort as the damp walls closed around him, but the bunny didn’t move. 

Why was he here?

There was no point. The lonely little house had been abandoned for years — left to rot and collapse in on itself. Time would steal it away. In years or decades, there would be nothing left except stone and fragments of a memory that would never be pieced together. 

And nothing would change, none of it would ever matter.

Allen was dead, and he would still be dead decades later. His body would stay in the dirt beneath a tree. An unknown grave among an endless collage of brown limbs and vibrant leaves. No one would ever know where he went. Allen had disappeared, vanishing as if he never existed at all. The bunny remained limp and lifeless – an undelivered gift. A broken promise. Allen stared into its eyes and sniffled as he started to cry. 

This shouldn’t have happened, not to us – not after everything we’ve been through.

The final pieces of his life returned to him.

*** 

Allen raced towards the decrepit home. The front door, weakly clinging to its hinges, was left ajar and it slammed against the wall as Allen barreled inside. Please don’t let it be too late. He offered a quick prayer to God. Navigating through the collapsed piles of newspapers, he gracefully avoided the pools of broken glass and battered, overturned furniture. 

“I’ll fucking kill you!”

In the small space of their living room, his father stood hulking – heaving large, stuttering breaths as he looked around wildly. His hands wrapped tightly around a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. He raised it.

Laura screamed. 

“Don’t fucking touch her!” 

Their bodies collided, smashing into each other. Allen’s chest heaved and ached. Hands turned into fists, and the living room became a boxing ring. Bruised skin. Busted lips. Broken porcelain plates, their intricate patterns cracking and dismantling like a torn-up puzzle box set as Allen collided with every table, cabinet, and chair in the room. The smell of cigarettes and beer was suffocating as his face was pressed against the carpet, his father’s hands around his throat. Blood dripped from his nose. His ribs burned. 

“Stop it – stop fighting!” 

Laura shouted. Her voice wavered weakly – stuttering and warbling like a baby canary. The weight lifted off Allen. He coughed, gasping for breath. His head spun. An ache beneath his eye throbbed as he tried to blink. Droplets of blood stained the beige carpet, and it joined a growing pool of brandy. The bottle of Jack Daniels sat beside him. 

“Please – I’m sorry. Please, don’t be mad!” 

Reaching out, Allen grabbed it. He felt the lingering warmth on the glass. Behind him, the thunder of his father’s voice was growing louder with every passing second. It filled his ears, buzzing like a hurricane of flies as the world spun and swayed. 

“You should have never been born! You ruined our –”

The sound of breaking glass and a heavy thump silenced the living room. Laura whimpered, and Allen stumbled back. He fell to the floor next to his father. They stared at him, lying limp on the ground. For a moment, there was peace – a sudden, undisturbed quiet. 

Laura cried and threw herself into Allen. Her small, stubby arms wrapped around his neck and the wet warmth of snot from her nose smeared against his neck, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–” 

“It’s okay,” Allen hushed her and pulled her close, “I’m right here. I’ll always be here; I won’t ever leave you alone.”

He made it a promise.

***

“I’ll fucking kill you!” 

A hand grabbed his jaw. The fingertips dug into the bruises there, forcing Allen to look at him. Their eyes locked. He tried to hold himself steady, but the hot stub of a cigarette pressed against his cheek. It seared against his skin. A deep, aching pain. 

“I love a good fight; I can’t wait to see you try.” 

A deep, grumbling laugh rattled through his head. Then, the cigarette dropped. Fingers tangled in his sweaty, unwashed hair. 

“You ain’t ever gonna get outta here boy – I could bury your little ass beneath the dirt right now and not a single soul would ever know. Not your father. Not your sister. God himself wouldn’t even know where to start lookin’.” 

The chains rattled loudly as his head collided with the concrete floor. Once. Twice. Again and again, Allen’s head was bashed against the unforgiving ground. His bones cracked, loudly crunching as his nose was broken. Then, the pale blue eyes were meeting his own again. Blood dripped steadily from Allen’s nose. His vision blurred and swarmed. For a moment, he thought he would die. 

A wet tongue ran across his jaw, licking away the blood. 

“But you don’t care, do you? I like that about you. You’ve got a little fight in you. What would your sister say if she could see you like this?”

His heart froze. Three days ago, Allen had promised Laura that he would be back before nine. Through the haze of his spotted vision, he saw the limp corpse of a pink bunny. It lay on the floor surrounded by a pool of blood. Lips pressed against his aching jaw. A mouth clumsily moved across his skin, kissing it with a mocking tenderness. Offering a silent prayer, Allen hoped that this time God would answer. He snapped his head up and bit down, a metallic taste filling his mouth. 

He was going to wash the bunny once he got home.

***

Laura smiled sadly. Her arms tightened around the small, tiny frame and she pulled her daughter close to her chest. Pressing a kiss to her temple, she inhaled the soft smell of lavender and sighed, “He just never came back. I don’t know why he left, but I’m sure that no matter where he is right now, he’d be happy to meet you.”

“Where do you think he went?”

“I don’t know, baby,” Laura sighed as she spoke, but her eyes lingered for a moment on the coffee table beside them. Beneath a pile of TIME Magazines, a newspaper article peaked out. Time had worn away its vibrant colors, but the blink ink on the front remained – legible and clear. The headline was simple: FORTY YEARS LATER, THE TOTAL NUMBER OF VICTIMS REMAIN UNKNOWN.

“I just hope he’s okay – wherever he is.”

Cole Moore is a queer writer from Georgia. He aspires to capture the human experiences and tragedies of existence that have haunted and framed his life.

Biopic Pre-Production Item

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Biopic Pre-Production Item

The house contains a dizzying blend of decorative styles, with art and furniture pulled from the latest Instagram retro fads. Here an egg chair from the 60’s, there an art deco lamp. The carpet is red velvet, several times thicker than the carpet the diva has walked several times already in her budding acting career.

He finds it charming. It tells him she has not hired a decorator, that she picked the pieces herself. A bit of that small town charm still remains. She is not yet a product—not completely, anyway.

He passes posters for the pop starlet’s first few feature films. Musical, remake, sex comedy. A bit part in a megafranchise.

It’s a promising start to acting after the success of her second album. He’s a fan.

But the balance sheets have been run, and he’s been called. The next movie will be her biggest yet–but she won’t be in it. He loves movies, he hates movies. They’re all the same. Each time you hope you’ll see something new. Each time you’re disappointed. But the hope remains.

Now he’s a part of the problem. A fixer for the studio. He makes sure things go according to plan. Exactly according to plan. He’s the one who makes sure things never change.

The carpet muffles his footsteps as he reaches the door.

She lounges in a Victorian fainting chair, scrolling on her phone. A plate of chips sit on the floor, mostly as a prop, he thinks. But maybe not. Maybe her relatable girl image extends to junk food on breaks between red carpet appearances. The room, gazing out over her swimming pool and garden, reminds him strangely of Scarface.

“Oh, you can go home for the day.”

Then she sees the gun.

“Take whatever you want. Just leave me alone.”

“It’s okay. I work for the studio.”

“Oh. What do you want?” She sits up, wrapping her vintage nightgown around herself.

Reflexively, he feels sorry for seeing her like this. Defenseless. Minimal makeup, half-naked. She doesn’t have her armor on. But that’s why he’s here.

“I’ve got good news and bad news.”

“What’s the good news?”

“The good news is that you’re going to be a bigger star than you ever imagined.”

“What’s the bad news?”

He waggles the gun at her.

“But I’ve done everything they’ve told me, haven’t I? I’ve been good.”

She has. She’s fulfilled every request, bounced from pageant queen to child actor to teen pop sensation, and back to acting. She’s hit every career milestone with ease. But there’s a new scheme.

“I know. And you were good at it, too.” He walks up, grabs one of the chips off the plate.

“Do you mind?”

She shakes her head. Her eyes dart to the double glass doors overlooking the pool and garden. The first attempt is coming soon.

“For what it’s worth, I’m a fan.”

“Oh, great.”

“The thing is, the studio ran the numbers. And they think you’d be great in a biopic.”

“About who?”

“You don’t understand.” He finishes chewing. The plate lies forgotten by the couch.

“You’re the subject.”

“They want to make a movie about me?” She’s flattered.

“Well, here’s the problem. You’re not dead yet.”

She runs to the balcony doors–but he’s there first, snaking his arm around her and depositing her back on the couch, almost gently.

“My manager will hear about this.”

“She knows. She’ll get her percentage.”

She wriggles. He holds her down, gun point-blank.

“I’m gonna give you a choice. Either you can be murdered by a mystery killer, Black Dahlia style. Nothing wrong with that. It just doesn’t test as well.”

Another futile spasm.

“Or, and I hope you’ll like this one better–because it’ll be less painful for you and better for the movie–tragic overdose. A problem nobody knew you had.” It also means a bonus for him, but he leaves that part out.

“I have one question.”

“Anything.”

“Who’s gonna play me?”

“There are a few stars in the running...”

Suddenly, he’s stunned, and no longer sees her on the couch in front of him. China shards and nachos fall around him. At first, he thinks he’s seeing stars. Then he remembers the plate of chips.

He turns sluggishly. She’s gotten the doors open and stands on the balcony.

“Don’t.”

She jumps.

Son of a bitch. This isn’t the ending he had planned. The studio, either.

He advances to the balcony, gun drawn.

She’s twisted her ankle, not quite making the jump to the pool. She hobbles to the edge of her garden. It would be trivial to hunt her down now.

He raises his pistol. A silenced round shivers the leaves by her leg. Another busts the ear off a faux-Renaissance bust by her head.

Maybe he’s slipping. Maybe he pulled his shots.

He itches his head with the silencer, then presses it against his temple. It’s only a matter of time before the police find him, or worse, the studio.

Or maybe...

He’s got enough money saved up. Not for Hollywood. But maybe somewhere quieter. Enough old connections to secure an exit. If she can have a new ending, maybe he can too.

She reaches the hedge by the edge of the property. Looking up, she tries to figure a way to climb, wondering why she let the gardeners grow it so high.

As she thrusts her hands into the tearing thorns and prepares to climb, the second unit steps out from behind a hedge. He can snap her neck easily, like a 10-pound cable crossover.

Black Dahlia it is.

The second fixer will get the bonus as he does it, too–and likely report the first for his incompetence. The fixer raises his pistol once again.

It’s a clean shot. The starlet shudders as brains Jackson Pollock the leaves in front of her.

The second unit falls into the hedge, perfectly domed. Fly high, little birdie, he thinks. For all of us.

She begins to climb.

Samuel Bollen is a writer living in Los Angeles. His work has previously appeared in Grattan Street Press and Running Wild Press.

Death Bed

Photographer - Tobi Brun

At the opening, there is a small crowd in the bedroom. They observe the deceased ROSE with their hands crossed over their fronts, their heads bowed. Eventually, the people begin to stir and they walk quietly out of the bedroom. Some of them will touch or hug or whisper words of
encouragement to LARRY. The crowd walks through the kitchen and slowly, one by one, they exit the stage byway of the “house’s” front door. When they’re all gone, the lights over the kitchen fade out.

In the bedroom, faintly lit, is LARRY, sitting on a wooden chair besides a bed. Laid upon the bed is ROSE, with a white sheet over her body and face. She is still.

LARRY
I didn’t deserve you ... I was a terrible husband, a horrible man. I still am. I don’t know why. I don’t know anything – not why I’m living, not why you were the one who –

ROSE
[Quietly] I wish I weren’t dead.

LARRY
[Stirring] Rose? Rose – what did you say?

ROSE
I wish I wasn’t dead, Larry, so I could tell you how much I loved you. I loved you more than you know. And I know you love me too. We love each other and now we can’t say it to each other – I will say it now, at least one final time.

LARRY
Rose? ... Rose – is that really you speaking to me!

ROSE
It’s me, Larry. Do you know? Do you know how much I love you, and how lovely I feel, up here in heaven, that you love me too. We didn’t get a chance to say it so much, didn’t we?

LARRY
We did, Rose, we did all the time. Don’t you know it?

ROSE
No, we didn’t. [ROSE pulls away part of her blanket and looks at him] I want to tell you how sorry I am. I never got the chance to tell you how much you mean to me. I never told you when I was alive ... now I must do it when I’m dead ... one final time.

LARRY
What do you mean, Rose? ... To apologize? Rose, what do you mean?

ROSE

My coldness, Larry – I was a harsh, timid woman my whole life. [Sitting up] If people didn’t
think of me as being a little beautiful, I would never have gotten anywhere.

LARRY
That’s not true, Rose, don’t say that.

ROSE
I was scared my whole life and I ... I hated people, for how I thought they treated me – and I never treated people myself well. That’s what makes me so sick, Larry – I’m glad I’m dead.

LARRY
Don’t say that. Don’t believe such a thing!

ROSE
Thankfully people have thought I was beautiful –

LARRY
You are! You are!

ROSE
They cut me some slack. But I was a rotten person, intelligent and still too smart for my own
good, unfriendly, unloving – you hadn’t any reason to marry me or –

LARRY
Rose! That’s not true.

ROSE
What is the point of lying to me now?

LARRY
Rose! [Taking her hand] I couldn’t have asked for a better wife. The children loved you so much and –

ROSE
The children. [Becoming weepy] Are they well? Where are they?

LARRY
I took them to my parents, Rose. They will stay with my parents until the funeral, maybe longer as we – [Loses words]

ROSE
To push on ... You’re a good father to them, Larry. My parents are terrible cold, and I’m glad that they didn’t intrude.

LARRY

Everyone has been gentle and lovely during this period. You don’t have anything to worry over, Rose. I swear so.

ROSE
I know you swear. [Hiccoughing, crying] My parents aren’t kind, good people, and I’m glad the kids aren’t with them. [Her sobs relieve] They were raised wrong by their parents and I was raised wrong my them and I – [Sobs again] – if I stayed alive –

LARRY
Your parents have been wonderful during this time.

ROSE
My children would’ve turned out like me and –

LARRY
[Desperately] Rose!

ROSE
[Faintly smiling] You don’t have to make up a story for me.

LARRY
No, I’m serious. It’s only that the kids need somewhere to rest.

ROSE
Hopefully they won’t remember any of this.

LARRY
They’ll remember you!

ROSE
They’re too young ... They won’t remember me at all.

LARRY
They’ll remember everything about you. They’ll have pictures and stories – I’ll tell them all our
old romantic stories, Rose – I mean so!

ROSE
That’s sweet of you, Larry ... You’ll tell them nice things about me too, I guess. You were always kindly like that –

LARRY
You were my best friend ever since the day I met you, Rose, and I’m not just saying that to make you feel better ... Don’t you remember when we met? [Sighing, he sits back] It’s nice to talk with you like this, Rose. I know you’re dead and this is all in my head. But it feels good to say a little something to you ... [Pause, as he rests. Suddenly, he slaps his knee and laughs] We had eight wonderful years together, Rose ... Don’t you remember the night we met at Jenn’s house and how were so embarrassed because you spilled the glass of wine down your front and you –

ROSE
[Finishing for him, laughing] I sure was embarrassed. I guess now it’s a funny story.

LARRY
Of course, it’s funny. It’s a hilarious meet cute.

ROSE
I was too serious my whole life – I could never loosen up.

LARRY
I love listening to your laugh, Rose.

ROSE
I wished I laughed more.

LARRY
You laughed plenty. You laughed more than anyone I’ve known!

ROSE
[Grimacing] I could barely laugh my whole life and you know it good as I. [Shaking her head] That was a funny night, I guess. I didn’t think so at the time – too uptight!

LARRY
Don’t worry on that now. Just remember the good times.

ROSE
Good times? I didn’t have those ... I was a heartless, meanspirited girl my whole life and everyone knew so. You’re a nice man for making up stories to me. You’ll be a good father – I guess the kids will even think of me as an alright person –

LARRY
Because you were – you were more than that, Rose!

ROSE
No, everyone hated me. All my friends, even poor little Jenn who didn’t ever hurt a hair on anyone’s head, who didn’t even whine when I told her that you’d asked me out and –

LARRY
[Solemnly] Yes, I understand ... It must’ve been tough on her.

ROSE
She loved you very much ... was a good sport about it.

LARRY
Jenn is a nice alright, but –

ROSE
Jenn loved you more than anyone has ever loved anyone.

LARRY
[Quietly] She was a good sport about it. I mean, I had my eye on her until I met you and then – what was I supposed to do? [They both sigh and laugh a little] I hope she doesn’t resent me much. Nobody can control who they fall in love with and –

ROSE
That’s what I told her ... We had to talk about it once, so we did. There was too much gunk between us.

LARRY
I imagine so. I can’t believe you stayed friends.

ROSE
Jenn isn’t resentful. I just had to go and tell her ... that was hard. She probably thought you liked her –

LARRY
I did ... I mean, Jenn is an alright woman.

ROSE
Very beautiful.

LARRY
[Nodding] She was. Beautiful – not like you, but –

ROSE
She’s too pleasant for her own good. And too forgiving. I sat with her for over an hour in some bar I don’t even remember the name of. I was a little too conceited that night ... so proud that I had you and nobody else and – she was terribly sad, poor Jenn.

LARRY
Poor Jenn.

ROSE
She was crying like it was her last day on earth ... No, I again am being nasty. She was only crying a little – and not at all, for I didn’t really notice – it was only that her eyes were a little damp, and she sniffled.

LARRY
It’s a difficult thing to experience.

ROSE
I tried my best ... I’m not a warm person, Larry, and you know so.

LARRY
You were warm, Rose, I swear you were.

ROSE
[Pause. She sucks in her breath] I remember now how cruel I was. I tried to be there as a friend – but did I care?

LARRY
You cared so much for Jenn – and Jenn for you!

ROSE
Maybe ... I tried the best I could. I don’t have a warm bone in my body – my blood is colder than a milkshake. [Tries to laugh. Inhales] I remember that we sat there at some bar and ... I didn’t even remember to go gentle with her. I just started in talking and suddenly she was ... you know, crying a little. [Cries herself] I held her hand, I tried to make her feel better –

LARRY
I’m sure you did all you can do ... When it comes to emotions –

ROSE
She loved you very much, Larry. She told me that she imagined that you two were to be together– she told me that she hadn’t any idea that I was interested in you, and you in me and –

LARRY
It must’ve been horrible, Rose. I know how hard that can be. But there wasn’t anything that you– [Smiling, straightening] Jenn is a nice and pretty girl who can take care of herself ... I don’t like hearing you speak so poorly about yourself, Rose ... I don’t know if I was a very good
husband to you. I have been thinking of such things, the times when I took you for granted, when I didn’t say, ‘I love you,’ when I should.

ROSE
[Nodding] It was hard towards the end, wasn’t it?

LARRY
[Nodding] We didn’t say we loved each other.

ROSE
Not until I got sick.

LARRY
Then I started to say it ... It felt like too little too late.

ROSE
It wasn’t, Larry! I know so. This whole time the last few months, me lying here, barely being able to move or talk, I felt you with me – not you physically – your soul!

LARRY
My soul?

ROSE
I felt your soul with me, your heart in my hand.

LARRY
[With wonder] That’s rather beautiful, Rose ... That’s poetic! I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a thing before.

ROSE
It’s true. I felt your heart in my hand and I felt that my heart was in yours. And we were each holding each other’s hearts.

LARRY
We did, Rose. We held each other’s hearts. Not too tightly, not too gently. It was a beautiful thing, Rose, when the days were very long and there wasn’t even anything to hope for and all I had was you lying here so desperate and –

ROSE
I wasn’t in pain, Larry. I was only sitting here, remembering my life, and wanting – If I could’ve spoken, I would’ve told you every moment of the day how much I loved you. I wanted to bellow it in your ears. I couldn’t.

LARRY
I know you couldn’t, Rose. The doctors –

ROSE
I would’ve told you so. That I loved you and the children and that I was so sorry for all the hurt I caused you and –

LARRY
It goes both ways, Rose. We both hurt each other – but that’s what people do and it doesn’t really matter now ... There’s no point in thinking on the bad. There are too many good memories of you – there’s so much of you in our children’s faces – their eyes. They have such beautiful
eyes and –

ROSE
[Innocently] They have my eyes, Larry? [Crying]

LARRY
Of course, they do. Your eyes and your ears and your –

ROSE
But they don’t have me, Larry, they don’t have me.

LARRY
They’ll know you better than I will with all the stories I tell them! [Trying to cheer] They’ll know everything – you’ll be like a goddess to them! I swear so, Rose!

ROSE
They won’t have a mother. [Both quiet. Pause] My children will need a mother, Larry. You can’t do it by yourself.

LARRY
I know so.

ROSE
Children need their mother more than their father.

LARRY
I know so.

ROSE
It’s just natural that way, Larry – Children need their mothers more than their fathers. For support and – what are you to do, Larry? I can’t have it, you trying alone to –

LARRY
I don’t know what I am to do.

ROSE
I want you to move on, Larry, I want you to move on soon as you can, to find a wife, better than me, a mother better than me.

LARRY
I can’t do such a thing, Rose ... Not yet.

ROSE
The children need a mother and you need a wife. You’re too good a man to be alone for one moment. I know so!

LARRY
I don’t know what I am to do. I don’t know.

ROSE
You need a woman to take care of you. You need a woman who you can make love to like you did to me and – I must say such a thing, Larry. I must say it. Because that’s what you need. It’s what every man needs, the good and the bad ones. [Kitchen lights turn on, as one of the mourners from prior enters and leads in a doctor and two EMT’s carrying a stretcher. They move courteously, and quickly] Jenn loves you more than anyone, Larry, and you know so better than I. She will be there for you, for the children.

LARRY
I don’t know, Rose, I don’t know.

ROSE
I love you, Larry. I only want what’s best for you and –

[As the doctor and EMT’s enter, ROSE quiets and lies back, dead, as before. LARRY rises and tucks in her blanket. The doctor and others move around her and LARRY stands in the corner watching them with a grimace on his face. LARRY nods and enters the kitchen. He paces about the kitchen, sometimes going back to the door of the bedroom. ROSE is being gently put onto the stretcher. Once ROSE is loaded into the stretcher, and the EMT’s are moving her out of the house, LARRY is less nervy ... When he’s alone, he stands tall and seems rested. He takes out his iPhone and makes a call. As he speaks, he will walk casually about kitchen]

LARRY
Jenn ... It’s good to hear from you ... Yes, yes, she passed peacefully and without pain ... That’s what the doctor said ... Family ... some cousins and – mostly extended family, I guess, I don’t really know them ... No ... No, they’re not here. I brought them to my parents ... They will be there at least through the funeral, probably until they finish school and we can decide what to do... What you and I will do ... That’s right ... My parents understand ... They’re not expecting me back tonight. I told them I was going to stay at the house until the coroners came, and that I
would be away tomorrow morning at the funeral house ... They don’t know anything ... They won’t care. They never much like Rose, I don’t think ... No, they didn’t say anything, but you know ... No, they don’t know anything. But they remember you from – maybe from the wedding – I don’t remember ... Yes, soon.

[LARRY looks himself over in a mirror tacked onto the wall. He smiles, frowns, glares, and smiles again]

... I’m leaving right now, and will be over soon ... It’s alright, I don’t much care ... Do you? ... I know you don’t. It is what it is, as they say. [Laughs] It’ll be good to see you for real tonight … The first real time ... No, the red one ... The red one that I bought you last winter ... Yeah, that
one ... Want me to pick up anything? ... Merlot – Rose always hated Merlot ... No, I think it’s alright ... [Laughing] I’m serious, I’ll be right over and we’ll have a nice night together ... It’s been a long time coming. No more lying. She passed peacefully and it’s over ... I know ... I know ... I love you too.

[LARRY ends the call and checks himself over once more in the mirror. He’s chuckling to himself as he turns off all the lights in the house and exits]

Hunter Prichard is a writer residing in Portland, Maine. Follow him on twitter at @huntermprichard.

‘Cowboy Jones and the Rootin' Tootin' Revenge of the West’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Cowboy Jones was the fastest hand West of the Mississippi and I’d be willin’ to bet East too. He’d walk into a saloon and ‘fore anyone could spit he’d take ‘em out. Yup, he was that fast.

Cowboy Jones liked shootin’. Sharp shootin’, regular shootin’, any shootin’. He’d shoot a loose hair from yer head at 20 yards or clean shoot yer little finger off at 30.

He came out the womb shootin’. Pistols akimbo, he shot his own damn foreskin off ‘fore any doctor could get ter hackin’ at it. That’s what the legends say anyhow. His momma didn’ wannim no more after he did that. His daddy was proud.

Okay, I’m through practicing my southern accent. However, this story is still the story of Cowboy Jones. The reason I chose to write about Cowboy Jones this particular day is the need to grease my wheels. I’ve been on vacation for a week and need to recover my land legs. My land legs of writing that is. I was on a cruise from writing and now that I was back I needed to readjust. So I’m experimenting a little bit and hoping the result comes out fine. We’ll see. Anyway, back to Cowboy.

It’s true what I said before. Cowboy Jones did love to shoot and he shot indiscriminately. He shot his own rabid dog, he shot his mother when they wouldn’t euthanize her and in the end he shot himself. But we’ll get to that when we do.

Cowboy Jones was tall and intimidating. Some estimates say he was six feet seven and others even say six ten. He always wore a black cowboy hat and matching cowboy outfit. He fitted himself with four holsters. Two for each hip and two for each ankle. Rumors said he kept an extra gun under his hat.

He was large for his size too, like Goliath. He was around three hundred pounds and hairy as can be. His weight was well distributed, giving him an appearance closer to Zangief than E. Honda. Rumors say he was bald under the hat, but he never took it off, so it’s hard to say. Even the coroner took the news of his head to the grave.

Cowboy Jones was angry with the world. He came into the world angry. Obviously, he didn’t actually come out of the womb shooting. That’s a legend a la Romulus and Remus being raised by wolves. But I wasn’t there, so I couldn't say with absolute certainty. If I had to guess, I’d say it was legend.

He did, however, come out of the womb with the umbilical cord around his neck, which he tore through with the few teeth he was born with. The doctors were horrified, they had never seen anything like it, his mother wondered what was happening and his father fainted. When all was said and done, he wasn’t screaming crying, he was smoldering mad.

Soon as Cowboy Jones could walk, his father had a gun in his hand. His father had waited all his life for a son and finally got it. His own daddy had died when he was young, so he wanted to get all his fathering in as soon as possible just in case he suffered the same fate. So at two years old Cowboy Jones was shootin’ cans and squirrels and all sortsa things (forgive me for my accent creepin’ in. I can’t help it sometimes when tellin’ sucha story as this).

Having lived past when his own daddy died, Cowboy Jones’ dad decided to teach his boy about the Old American West. He had heard tales in his youth from his grandaddy about the wonders of the west. Wars between Cowboys and Injuns (as his grandaddy said), wrangling horses, hunting buffaloes, diggin’ for gold, spittin’ in spittoons, shootouts in saloons at high noon…

Young Cowboy Jones’ impressionable mind was fascinated. As much as he was fascinated, though, he was pissed. All this glory and adventure and exploration had been stolen from him by urbanization and industrialization. There was nothing left to explore, nothing left to wrangle if ya didn’t have a permit, nothing left of the Olde American West. He started to get his revenge.

As a teenager, Cowboy Jones went ‘round his neighborhood stealing all the carburetors from the cars. He lived in suburbia, a byproduct of industrialization. If he had his way, he’d live on a ranch in the middle of nowhere, living off the fatta his own land. But now everything came from the convenience of grocery stores and all the jobs were cushy office jobs in the city. So he stole all the carburetors. Nobody got to work that morning and there was a lotta yelling and head scratching in front of smoking carhoods.

What did this accomplish? Nothing. Cowboy Jones didn’t give a damn about accomplishing nothin’. He was just mad and he took out his anger however he felt compelled to. It didn’t matter to him if people lost their jobs or kept em. The industrial world was his enemy and he was lashing out.

He started growing crops in his yard and taking school off to harvest ‘em. He argued with all of his teachers, saying all they taught was nonsense and of no importance. If anybody wanted some real learnin’, he said one day, come to my house after school. I’ll teach ya how to shoot, how to grow crops, how ta live damnit.

Only one guy did show up and he and Cowboy Jones became the besta friends. This guy was, of course, Cowboy Jones’ notorious companion, Killy the Bidd. At least, that’s what Cowboy called him.

Killy had no daddy. Cowboy Jones Sr. (real name unknown) took Killy in as his own son. Whenever he got back from work, no matter how exhausted he was, he’d be happy to relate old tales or balance an apple on his head so they could shoot it off, no kiddin’!

This went on for some years. Cowboy Jones and Killy the Bidd were like brothers. Killy always stayed for supper and Mrs. Cowboy Jones Sr was happy to make it. Cowboy and Killy lassoed mirrors offa cars, took out carburetors, freed horses from the local fair just so they could wrangle ‘em (and wrangle ‘em they did), and had all sortsa more innocent adventures.

When Cowboy Jones Sr. died, their innocence did too.

Cowboy Jones Sr. grew progressively wearier and wearier over the years. Long hours and little pay all to support his family. He never took a vacation cause he just couldn’t afford it. Over time, he wasn’t able to relay tales or balance an apple anymore. His hair grew greyer and thinner and he could hardly hold an apple, let alone balance it on his head.  One day he never woke up for work. His alarm rang and rang to no avail.

Cowboy and Killy were a wreck. Of course, they were too tough to acknowledge they were a wreck, but whenever they lay alone in their beds at night they wept silently for the departed Cowboy Jones Sr.

Those tears of anguish soon turned to tears of anger.

“It’s this damned system that killed my daddy!” Cowboy Jones said to Killy, furiously pacing and jamming his fist into his palm. He turned to Killy the Bidd, who sat watching attentively.

“Y’know what we gonna do Killy?”

“What?” he responded, almost in a whisper.

“We gonna get revenge…”

What revenge entailed, Killy the Bidd didn’t know. Over the next coupla months, Cowboy closed himself in his room, only coming out to shoot targets or test dynamite. Of course he couldn’t do this in his own suburban neighborhood. He rode his horse out to a secluded plot of land they’d bought with his daddy’s life insurance money. Killy would follow behind on a steed of his own asking questions all the way but never gettin’ answers.           

Killy looked up to Cowboy as an older brother. He was only two years older than himself, but Cowboy acted so grown up that he mighta well been ten years older. He trusted Cowboy and was excited and nervous for whatever plan he was gonna unfold. He was angry about Cowboy Jones Sr too, who he considered his own daddy.

One day, the plan was revealed. Killy the Bidd lay in bed one full moon night, his room dimly illuminated. He was silently crying about the death of Cowboy Jones Sr when something banged on his window.

“Open up Killy!”

Killy jumped up in bed and turned his face from the window, quickly wiping his tears and collecting himself. He threw the window open and hoped it was too dark to tell he’d been crying. Cowboy Jones all but threw himself in.

“Tomorrow, Killy,” he said, panting, “it’ll all happen tomorrow”

Cowboy explained the plan to Killy, pacing and punching palm as before. Killy sat on the edge of the bed and listened intently. Cowboy Jones was a silhouette against the moonlight as he paced, but as he drew his face close to Killy’s it was half illuminated.

“Ya got it Killy? Are you ready?”

Killy the Bidd nodded. He was ready as he’d ever be.

Cowboy Jones had enough dynamite to bomb a city and that was exactly his plan. Over the months he tested different combinations of dynamite to produce the most monumental results. He’d finally perfected his recipe and was headed for his daddy’s old office building.

Killy the Bidd and Cowboy Jones galloped through the city streets, weaving in and out of honking cars and barreling past civilians. They each had a knapsack on the rear of their horses filled with explosives. Cowboy Jones had a rifle slung over his back and his four pistols in their holsters. He was large, hairy, and maybe bald. Puberty had hit him like the charge of an angry buffalo. Killy the Bidd was baby faced yet, but his voice was deeper. They both wore black cowboy outfits fit with black bandanas over their faces.

Out in front of the glass windowed building, they tethered their horses to a bike rack, unslung the dynamite, loosed their pistols and headed inside.

“Excuse me sir, do you have a-” came the male receptionist as they entered. Cowboy didn’t hesitate to shoot him dead.

They strutted across the marble floored lobby, their boots clicking on the ground. Oddly there was nobody else there. They approached the elevators on either side of the desk. Killy went to the right and Cowboy went to the left. They operated in unison. Pressing the button, they unslung the dynamite from their backs, pulled out the long wick and lit a match. They didn’t light the wick yet. The matches burned down and down and down.

Ding.

They touched the matches to the wick and threw the hissing bags into the elevator. A few screaming businesspeople tried to exit, but they brandished their guns, silently telling them to stay inside. They entered the elevators quickly, hit the button for mid-building, hit the door close button, then ran through the revolting doors to their horses.

With practiced efficiency, they untied their horses and saddled up. They rode off away from the building with Godspeed. Cowboy Jones, hunched forward against the wind, took out his pocket watch.

“Thirty seconds Killy!” he yelled over his shoulder.

They rode on. They needed to be at least ten blocks away after the initial explosion, then twenty by subsequent explosions. You see, Cowboy Jones’ daddy worked in an undercover munitions building in the heart of the city. He worked on top secret projects for the Military Industrial Complex developing high efficiency explosives. They figured if such a thing were disguised as an office building, our international enemies would never catch on. So far they hadn’t, but-

BOOM!

Glass and mushroom clouds shot out of the side of the building.

“YIPPEE!” yelled Cowboy Jones, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder at the loudest damned sound he’d ever heard. He couldn’t even hear himself yell over the deafening roar.

Like Lot’s wife looking back at Sodom’s destruction, Killy the Bidd reared his horse to look back. A sickened feeling came into his stomach as he heard the fearful screams of everyone around. People ran around him, abandoning cabs and cars and briefcases to run. Glass, papers, desks and chairs rained down on the streets.

“Killy! KILLY!” Cowboy Jones yelled over his shoulder without stopping. It was no use. Killy couldn’t hear him over the chaos and was too stunned to even if it was dead quiet. There was a ringing taking over Killy’s ears. His vision was growing fuzzy. Police officers were approaching, but it was no use-

BOOOOOOM! BOOOOOM! BOOOOOOM!

Tears stung the eyes of Cowboy Jones as he felt the heat of the explosion on his back. He knew Killy had been incinerated along with anybody else within a twenty block radius. He spurred the horse faster and slapped the reins. Yah! Yah!

Ten miles outside the city limits, Cowboy Jones made his last stand.

His weary horse galloped through a wheat field until they stumbled upon a barnyard. There was a large red barn with doors wide open. The midday sun beat down furiously. Cowboy Jones guided his horse into the barn, where there was an old farmer tending to his horses.

“What the sam hill?” the farmer said when he saw Cowboy Jones coming straight at him. He didn’t have a chance to say anything else because as soon as Cowboy processed he was there, he shot him.

He jumped from the saddle and tethered her to a post. He then stepped over the farmer’s body and slid the large door shut with all his might, grunting and cursing the whole way.

Inside the farmhouse to the right of the barn, the dead farmer's wife was on the phone with the police. She had seen the TV news about the city and knew now what the explosions she had heard were. She was telling the officers that she had just heard a gunshot and was worried about her husband. The police took down the address and several patrol cars were on their way.

Cowboy Jones took frantic inventory of his rifle ammo.

“Shit shit shit,” he said to himself, loading the rifle with trembling fingers, “it wasn’t supposed to be this way, damnit Killy”

He slung the rifle over his back, set his black hat more tightly against his (bald?) head and climbed the ladder to the second floor. He propped open the window above the barn door. Outside, he had a view of the long dirt road to the house flanked on both sides by the fields. There was a large open dirt yard with a red pickup and a light blue hatchback parked imperfectly in front of the two story white farmhouse. In the distance, he heard sirens and saw the burning city.

“Serves you right, you bastards,” he said, staring angrily at the burning city.

The sirens grew closer. The police cars came into red and blue flashing view and he sighted them. He clicked the hammer back. Bam click bam click bam click. One car lost control and was all over the dusty road, then crashed into the field. Two others were still making their way towards him.

Inside of the crashed police car, the officer used the last of his breath to weakly say “officer down,” into the walkie.

“COME AND GET IT YOU BASTARDS,” Cowboy yelled, lighting a piece of dynamite he had kept on his belt.

He tossed it between the two cars that skidded to a cloudy stop. Four doors opened like insect wings and officers jettisoned from them. The dynamite blew, taking the two cars with it in a fiery explosion. A flaming hood landed on top of the barn.

“YIPPEEEEE!” Cowboy Jones yelled, clicking back the hammer and shooting the ground around the police officers. He was toying with his food.

Toof toof toof. The bullets struck the dusty ground around the police officer as he covered his head. The heat from the exploded car had singed his back. Into his shoulder walkie, he yelled:

“Officer down, we are under fi-”

Cowboy Jones placed a practiced shot right between his eyes, then reloaded.

The flaming car hood still burned on the roof. The roof began to catch fire. More police cruisers wailed in the distance. Cowboy Jones peered down to the first floor where the horses were whinnying and going wild. He put his own horse out of her misery. Although he didn’t want to consciously accept it, just like the death of Killy, Cowboy knew he wasn’t getting out of there alive.

An armada of cruisers came over the distant dirt road like a swarm of bees. Cowboy Jones closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He leaned back against the wooden wall of the barn and stretched his legs in front of him. Smoky air began to fill his nostrils and he coughed a bit. His head became filled with the tales of the Old American West his father had told him.

He removed his hat and placed it next to him. He ran a hand over his bald head (gasp!). He turned the hat over and removed the last stick of dynamite he had. This was the stick to end all sticks. His father had taken it from the lab and kept it in hiding (or so he thought). Cowboy didn’t know what the explosion would be like, but he knew his father often talked about its power.

The wood splintered around his head as officers yelled and shot the barn. The flames started licking down towards the window, feeling hot against the back of Cowboy Jones’ neck. He placed his hat firmly back on his head, lit a match and stuck it to the dynamite wick. He placed the stick in his lap as the bullets whizzed around him and sirens wailed and fired crackled and horses whinnied. He thought of the Old American West and smiled. He removed his great grandfather’s revolver from his waist and placed it in his mouth.

His last thought was about the Old American West. 

And so concludes the story of ‘ol Cowboy Jones. We never did get around to him shooting his rabid dog or his own mother or many things. We’ll conclude with John 21:25: And there are also many other things that Jesus did, which if they were written one by one, I suppose that even the world itself could not contain the books that would be written. Amen.

Riley Willsey is a 23-year-old writer and musician from Upstate New York. His short story, "Bus Station," was published on Half and One's website and “The Revenge of the Potato Man'' on Wordsfaire. Sporadic posts and bursts of creativity can be found on his instagram page, @notrileycreative.

‘girl writer en café’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

girl writer en café

She had eyes like mossy tree bark
that looked at me just once
but I saw the forest of her soul through the trees of her eyes,
My unworthy gaze met hers for the first and only time
And in that moment (I admit) my heart reached for the sun,
She went back to writing in her small notepad
at the table next to mine,
Her rimless glasses bending low to the paper
as she wrote shorthand,
What could she be writing?
I wish I had the courage to ask
but since my youth had been shy and yellow bellied
and will forever never know,
All I have is her short dark hair,
small silver hoop earrings,
Small-chested pink t-shirt
and white platform converse
meeting at the end of a long denim skirt,
My coffee got cold beside my neglected computer
as I snuck glances her writing-preoccupied way,
Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast mere words on a page
with no story or concept
as I struggled to not soak her presence in like a sponge
but failed miserably,
She stood to leave and my sunny heart eclipsed,
When she was gone I could still aftertaste her lingering memory,
But I could finally focus on my work
and begin to wring out the sponge
onto this page.'

Jacque Margaux is a Franco-American writer and hopeless romantic with a sensitive piscine soul. His poetry is his therapy. To cope with the loss of all those who he fears to approach, he writes poetry about them. He nurses his broken heart in Upstate New York. Some of his work may be found on the Instagram page of his close acquaintance, @notrileycreative.

‘Maranatha’, ‘Saints’, ‘Offerings’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

‘maranatha’

on the very first day of the year
we all sat tied-up and watched on the old projector
the same glorious service from a far away church
with a proper garden, a proper pulpit
something we could only dream of
while our mosquitoes flew in circles like the fans spreading out dust and heat
but at that time, we were equal
actually, we felt better than the ones suffering:
global warming, wars, hunger
how beautiful, isn’t it?
the pastor used to scream in complete awe
while the washed off colors of the screen flicked
how close we are from Salvation —
Maranatha we would sing
Jesus will come for us;
seven horns, seven eyes
continuing the year
the word reverberated in my mind
as if i was caged, brought back to that wooden bench:
i looked at the sunsets after thunderstorms
and kneeled praying for my life
i heard ominous music resembling the trumpets
and hid myself inside

Saints

I have Saints in my walls, my shelves, my bags
Some Saints I am not sure who they may concern
I just want to connect everything to the Holy.
Maybe in an attempt to find meaning in the mess my room is
Though I am afraid of reading the Bible
Realizing what it has to say about me
About the sour candy wraps scattered around
I don’t know much about the Gospels;
But I know about the rage of God to Cain
You know, it is the way the church raises that is killing me

offerings

i went to a chapel in a crisp monday morning
to sit at the bench by the Virgin Mary
she looked youthful, with her hands clasped and her kind countenance
the statue was made with white stone
but so colorful it looked with all of its offerings
many rosaries with beads of different colors and materials
flowers around her halo and on the holy ground
bracelets spelling a secret, prayer cards to São Longuinho
i could not even pay attention to my prayers because all i could think was
how beautiful,
it is a canvas of the community
of what we long for, of what we are

Anna Correa is an Brazilian immigrant based on Orlando, FL. She studies computer science and is an editor for her local school magazine. She has been featured at Phoenix Magazine, The Word's Faire, and Wingless Dreamer Publisher. More of her work can be found at annacorrea-archive.com.