Indigo Rising Magazine

2012-02-10T21:58:00.000-08:00

Poetry by Jason Visconti

What The Train Conductor Knows

The train conductor knows it's impossible
to call his whole route.
He's desperate with trying, he enumerates
the switches and tunnels, processes
the waterholes and drains
wet with the grime of dark puddles
in the drone of his naming.

Maybe he knows too much--
you are late with his scenes.
There is track you'll never get to,
a crossing sign that could stop a heart.
As he pulls in take solace that you have a bed
where he won't stop-- unless his eyes grow red.

Dangerous Things

What would happen if the appliances
leaped off their shelves?
Or if that worn funnel of wastepaper
twisted into a tide?
It's hard to think of anything so absurd
as a ball point pen
casting ink clouds on a blank page
or a door slamming shut
on an honest question
but what if that lawn mower
opened up its ugly jaws?
What if that coffee table
picked up its pen
and wrote on its own?
What would we do? Who would we see?
And what if that light switch
that turns on the power to all the world
flickered and died
whom or what should light the most difficult
of our dreams? What if everything from that mantle
at once? Would we be doomed to pick up
after each other's lives?
And that chair, that chair where
we sit and are allowed to imagine
the very place where we exist
is it coasting on the brim of some regret?
Do our beds trot away with our sleep?
And that clock, that harmless timeless clock
that clock that runs on wishes and dreams
is it finally ready to fall and stop our own heartbeat?

2012-02-10T21:24:00.000-08:00

Poetry William Wright Harris

Whiskey

is Irish for
Water
and
should be
treated such:

sacred

And
deadly.

the state lottery office

swells with human
cattle pushing them
selves through the
doors, their heads
disappearing into
a dark mass of
conformity van
gogh i know you
felt as a l one
as i do in this life

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2012-02-04T17:57:00.000-08:00

Heroes are not born, they are forged in the fires of apocalypse...

In the heavens above, the three moons crash together, streaming fire and death in their wake; below, the seas rage as the roiling face of the world shatters. After Prince Varis Kilvar steals powers to transform himself into a god, chaos reigns from the king's city of Ammathor to the forbidding walls of the Black Keep. At his heels marches a demonic army torn from the very bowels of the Thousand Hells, and the risen God King uses terror to stake his claim over all lands.

Betrayed and bound to Varis by powers he does not understand, mercenary Kian Valara is forced to masquerade as the world's savior, while a beautiful Sister of Najihar prepares him for his last battle. Victory against a living god is far from certain, but vengeance? For Kian, when the battle rage falls upon his soul and the sword hilt is hot and alive against his palm, vengeance is never out of reach.

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2012-01-28T19:01:00.000-08:00

Purge
By Joe Jablonski

Day 25

‘A new world for a new tomorrow’

The words are welded to the far wall of the green house section of my small research complex; six inches tall and painted a glossy blue. It’s the motto of the Colonization Initiation Project, placed there with the intent to help me keep focus on my work.

Fresh from the decontamination chamber, it’s the first thing I see as I walk in. The letters seem to glow neon in contrast to the red hue bathing everything else in sight, a refraction of the planet coming through the clear, double reinforced thermal windows separating me from the unlivable conditions beyond.

Temperature control keeps this place a level seventy-six degrees but it feels much hotter. I continually wipe the sweat from my forehead as I examine each of the eighteen test pots, each as barren and lifeless as the ground outside.

Another day, another failure…

My domed research complex is just one of three dozen scattered across the red planet, each with its own area of study. Collectively it’s our mission to lay the ground work for a large colony, completely self-sustainable from Earth. The entire project is funded by contributions from corporations and governments around the world.

I’m a botanist by trade. My job is finding a way of making the Martian soil compatible with Earth vegetation. If I succeed, acre spanning greenhouses will be built across the planet, able to grow all the colony’s nutritional needs.

If I succeed.

The centrifuge timer goes off, long and loud. I walk over to where it’s placed in the corner of the room just as its rotation slows to a stop.

Inside, I’ve place various rock samples infused with microbial fossils native to this planet in the hopes, through the use of localized static charges, of extracting biological Martian proteins where I can then mix it in with the recent load of varying fertilizers I’ve just received.

Outside, a glint in the distance catches my eye as I work. A boxy, metallic water tanker approaches on its rounds from the mining operations set up deep in the glaciers of the northern hemisphere.

Partially obscuring the view, my reflection stares back at me from off the outer glass barrier. A series of heavy weights tied at strategically place points across the length of my body keep me grounded and protect me against the atrophying effects of living in 50 percent earth gravity. Scattered patches of beard betray the fact I haven’t shaved in months and my black hair hangs long and tangled atop my, what was more that once described, disproportionally tiny head. A dusting of food particles which covers my shirt rounds out the image quite nicely.

When did I become such a slob, I ask myself.

But I already know the answer.

Back past my reflection, the rover transverses the rocky terrain with little effort. Judging by its speed, it should be here in about an hour.

I move quickly, mixing the samples and fertilizers in different combinations with a batch of fresh Martian soil, trying to finish before they arrive. Then, after planting each of the eighteen pots with the seeds of various fruits and vegetables, I turn up the water lines to a slow seep until the soil obtains an even layer of moisture.
Now, there’s nothing left to do but wait. They say patience is a virtue. It also happens to be one of the many I don’t possess.

Day 59

Sunrise on this planet is absolutely beautiful.

Still fighting the last remnants of sleep, I stubble mindlessly from my bedroom wearing nothing but a bathrobe and a pair of wore out bunny slippers over to the coffee maker and pour myself a cup of day old java. It’s cold and tastes a little stale, but still, it goes down smooth enough.

In between sips, I grab a seat next to the small, convex window of my living quarters in preparation for the birth of a new day and gaze out at infinite desert. The sun is now just below the horizon; a single line of light cutting planet from sky. There’s a sudden and brief flash just before it emerges.

Slowly light creeps across the darkness to reveal a desolated landscaped littered with rocks and soaked a deep vermillion. In minutes the sun is in full bloom. I close my eyes as its’ light washes over me.
Just on the edge of hearing, the dull scrapping of metal on metal comes from somewhere unseen as, mounted on top the complex, three large, curved solar panels rising thirty feet in the air are triggered back online and auto-redirect for maximum efficiency. They shimmer as they absorb the light and convert it into not only heat and energy, but oxygen as well. These oxygen molecules are then synthesized with the contents of a large hydrogen tank producing a breathable air-like substitute.

As I begin to doze back off, my message indicator beeps from my desk top, snapping me back into alertness.

With an exaggerated sigh, I walk across the room and flip on my monitor. As the screen flickers to life, Laura Espinosa is staring back at me. She’s head of communications at Central Hab. “Morning, Dr. Hideyoshi. How are you today?” she asks with her signature false smile.

“It’s too early, Laura. Just tell me what you need.”

Her smile falters for only a moment. “Ok then. Well, we received a transmission for you from Mission Control. You want me to patch it through now?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

The feed switches from Laura to a distorted image of a dark skinned, mustachioed gent named Earl Mier standing in front of a large WSA (World Space Agency) logo. His words are already mid-sentence as the recording begins playback. “…everything is going well up there. Listen, I’m just going to come out and say it. Not to put any added pressure on you, but because of your lack of progress, the Redding Corporation is threatening to cut funding to your research…” My heart begins pounding, “…I hate to lay this all on you but unless you can give them something/anything by the time the next supply vessels reaches orbit, you’re ordered be on it and return back to Earth. It left about two months ago, so that gives you around another four and a half months. I pulling for you, buddy, I really am. Good luck to you. Mission control out.”

Fury is all I know. If only they knew everything I risked—everything I’ve lost—to get this assignment…
The screen goes black and I can no longer control my rage over potentially losing everything I’ve trained and worked for over the past ten years.

“Fucking bureaucrats,” I yell as I sweep the clutter from the desktop, regretting instantly.
After several deep breaths to get control on my emotions, I bend down and start picking up the clutter feeling strangely numb.

Minutes go by in a mindless daze until I reach to bottom of the pile. There, the corner of an old photograph laying face down peeks out from underneath the crumbled wrapper of a food ration. I clear the mess off the top and stare at its white glossy back. Then, after a long moment, I pick it up and turn it over for the first time in months.

It’s a faded picture of a woman with long, dark hair and eyes so brown, they’re almost black. Her smiling face takes up almost the entire scene with the exception of a cloudless blue sky haloing her beautiful feature. The picture was taken on a park bench in New York City roughly three months before I left for this mission. Her diagnosis came two weeks later.

Asuki…

I can only look at it for a second before having to turn away. Sadness and guilt threaten to overwhelm me. The tears are unstoppable.

I told her was canceling the mission so I could be with her in her but she begged me to continue, knowing how important it was it me.

She said her death was inevitable, but I still had so much to live for. She said couldn’t live her final days with the thought that after she was gone, my life—my career—would be in ruins. She said she wanted to die the on her own terms.

I refused to hear any of it.

Finally, she said she didn’t want to be remembered as she would be on her death bed; a withered, useless husk.

After six hours of fighting, I conceded.

She died on a Thursday, six days after my arrival, just long enough to know I made it.
The only good thing about being on this planet is nothing reminds me of her; nothing except the 3”x4” testament to my current dejection I’m holding in my hands. But with that dejection comes purpose and now that I’m on this damn planet, failure is not an option.

Day 73

It’s been two days since I’ve slept. The pressure I’m under has me working to the point of collapse.
I stubble over to test pot nine weighed down by a bag of fertilizer over my right shoulder. Heavy weights hang from my eyelids and I can barely focus on what I’m doing.

As I gently lower it to the ground, my forearm scraps against a jagged, rusted screw protruding from the waters’ piping system lining the edge of the pot.

Pain and blood come instantly. I stumble backwards cradling my arm.

The wound is deep. Blood gushes out between my fingers, sticky and warm. I pull the strap of my robe from the loops and twisted it around the wound. One end goes between my teeth. I pull as hard as I can on the other. Slowly the flow subsides, but I’ve already lost much.

After catching my breath, I glance around the room. I’m so dizzy I can barely stand and my surroundings pulsate in my vision. My eyes pause on pot nine and I can only stare through a disoriented haze as the patches of soil stained with my blood begins to bubble. A smell something like ocean breeze spreads throughout the air.

Pain turns to wonder. At this moment, my flesh wound doesn’t exist.

The surface becomes leprous with a dozen pools of blue liquid seeping to the surface in the exact patterns layout by the blood splatter. They absorb instantly back into the soil as quickly as they came, leaving no trace they ever existed.

It’s over before I can even react.

“No, no, no,” I say as I claw through the soil with my bare hands. The bright glow lights only inches from my face burn into my retinas. Particles dance in my vision.

I dig until my fingertips bleed, but my efforts produce nothing but the dry, lifeless soil which has plagued me for so long.

Day 74

I’m standing on top of a large canyon somewhere on the Martian surface as nothing more than an entity, shadow by a series of jagged cliffs behind me. My body only exists as a concept, more of a sensation of being then a physical manifestation.

Far in the distance, a gigantic bonsai tree floats free just above ground, radiating a soft golden aura. Its leaves are bright green and ripple in a nonexistent wind. I walk towards it for what seems like forever but it always remains the same distance away.

With a sudden burst, a network of roots explodes from the bottom, ripping in and out of the ground in large arcs. They extend out to every direction as far as the eye can see, growing larger and multiplying with each passing second until the entire ground is covered with the twisted, cord-like extensions. I gently swipe the perception of a finger on the surface of the nearest root as it coils around me.

On contact, its surface flakes off into weightlessness then combusts into thousand tiny blue embers. The infection spreads to all the roots and soon, none remain. Glowing blue embers fill the sky like fireflies so thick I can see nothing else. Then, as if at some unseen signal, they all dissipate to nothing.

I look back to the tree just as its truck parts at the base and a figure steps from out the darkness. The three inches of survival suit does little to hide the soft curves of a woman. As soon as she’s free the tree wilts and collapse in on itself.

The woman moves with the fluidity of low gravity as she hops across the terrain in slow strides. Sunlight reflects gold from off her faceplate. I can’t take my eyes off her. Footstep shaped patches of grass twitch into existence in the wake of her every step, growing and spreading at an uncontrollable speed.

In seconds she’s just in front of me and the face place opens. Only a black void exists within, a localized singularity sucking in and feeding on my sense of self. The harder I struggle, the faster it pulls my in. All around us the surface is covered in jungle-like foliage, thick and plentiful in every color you could image.

Lulled by the beauty of it, I finally give in.

As soon as I accept my fate, a single word booms across the firmament in a female voice—“PURGE.”

I wake up screaming hearing a dull pitter-patter coming from somewhere between sleep and consciousness. Levity comes slow. I’m still enthralled by lingering emotion from the dream which I can’t seem to shake.

The sandstorm warning light blinks a silent red in the darkness from the control panel in the other room. Putting two and two together, panic takes over as I realize the sound is that of Martian debris slamming against the side of my complex.

I run to my desk and switch on the live feed to the green house just in time to see a large rock smash a spider-web crack in one of the outer panes. The entire complex shakes, but the glass holds from shattering completely. It looks like it could go at any second.

I can see nothing but a furious cyclone of rust colored dust beyond it, bombarding it from all sides.

The feed switches cameras between to pots at a three second interval. When it reaches pot nine my eyes go wide. It’s the one amalgamated with both the ancient Martian protein and my own blood.

Six tiny stems of tomato plants are sprouting from the soil, only about a half an inch tall, and thicker than they should be. They look transparent, almost gel-like. The strange puddle of the blue, alien liquid has returned, nearly flowing over the edges of the pot.

So it wasn’t a dream…

I run for the green house with the hopes of reinforcing the windows before I lose everything, the elation of success overtaking the fear of death.

The action was never meant to be. As soon as I’m in the room, a pebble penetrates the thermal window with a loud thump, narrowly missing my head. It shatters through three grow lights before finding its final resting place somewhere in pot three. Fragmented ceramic marks its entrance. Artificial atmosphere seeps from the point of origin with a high-pitched squeal. The glass throbs against the gaseous flood.

I run for the entrance of the decontamination chamber, but I’m too late. Emergency measures have the door to the greenhouse section of the complex sealed tight. Nothing short of a plasma torch will get it back open.

Seconds go by.

The escaping pressure proves too much for the small, bullet sized hole too handle. Violently, a large chunk of panel is ripped free, forever lost to the storm and unforgiving elements of Mars.

The air is sucked straight from my lungs instantly. I make a run for my habitation suit, where it hangs on hook near the door to the decontamination chamber. I put in on as fast as my muscles will allow, fighting against the current of depressurization. My eardrums pop, blood pour from my nose and my eyes feel as if they’re going to implode.

Finally, after what seems like an eternal struggle, I snap the helmet into place and drop to the ground, breathing heavily and completely exhausted.

***

According to the oxygen meter of my suit place on the underside of my left wrist, I have about six minutes to live. All attempts at communication with Central Habitation have eluded me.

Surrounded by the discarded contents of the greenhouse, I sit with my back leaning against what’s left of a thermal window, next to a jagged halo of broken glass and broken dreams.

It seems as good a place to die as any.

Pot nine is just to me left, toppled over sideways with soil vomited out from its rim. Tiny drops of the strange, blue liquid from yesterday covers the spilled concoction. Watching them move, a riled up colony of ants comes to mind. Until now, I hadn’t even noticed, so lost in thoughts of Asuki, failure, and how the two coincide.

Suddenly, a few of the droplets break from the rest and roll towards me, eventually reaching and climbing on top of my glove. I bring it in close to my face for a better look feeling the sullen nothingness a man feels when he accepts his death. The drops look brittle with a consistency something like chunks of spoiled milk. As my focus narrows in, I see them for what they are.

Each drop is a gathering of tiny microbes, collectively radiating a soft, florescent glow and moving as a single entity. After a moment they slide off my fingertips, down my glove, down my arm, each lapping around it in multiple directions as they journey lower and lower until they collect over the spot in my suit that covers the previous days’ wound. Once there, they begin to move faster, almost as if agitated, crashing into one another and reforming, over and over. My heartbeat knocks flesh through my veins in response.

The rest form six pools my peripherals, centered around a network of visible roots blossoming beneath each of the discarded stems from pot nine. Incredibly, the plants still seem to be alive, if only barely. Sometime in the last four hours since the incident, tiny, twin leaves have sprout from now downturn tips which are slight twisted towards the direction of the broken wall. It’s as if they’re gasping for what little atmosphere exists on this planet in a final, desperate attempt for survival. Ten years of working as a field botanist screams at me that they’re not going to make it much longer.

Switching back and forth between them and the microbes on my arm, everything becomes clear.

I look again at my wrist. Three minutes to live.

A strange lack of sensation comes over me as I take out the picture of Asuki from my pocket and stare at it, gently caressing her two dimensional features with my gloved index finger. Only now in my final hour, do I realize she was right all along. I was just too stubborn and selfish to admit it—she always was the better person.

Taking one last look at the picture, I hold my breath and rip it to pieces. This is my moment. What I do, I do for myself.

I pull myself to my feet bringing with me a large sliver of glass, my muscles screaming against the effort. Once vertical, I slice through suit and flesh alike just over the wound without hesitation. Blood erupts instantly, pouring down my arm and onto the floor in an immense cascade. The cold on my exposed flesh is overwhelming but does little to subdue the flood.

Purge indeed.

The microbes pouch on it before the first drop even hits the floor, all of them coalescing into a single, undulating mass which grows in size by the second as it feeds. It forms a perfect circle which throbs with an increasing intensity. Finally, it reaches its apex, collapses and spreads across the room covering dirt, rock, sand, floor and misery alike.

My oxygen tank hiss to nothing and every breath becomes fire.

My last intake of air is the most painful of all. I trash around the room in vein trying to find a breath that isn’t there, finally landing hard on the floor, twitching; my face half buried in spilt soil and microbial residue.

Time slows to a singularity. Just outside the domed glass of my face plate I watch with awe as a multitude of tiny stems pierce the dirt in all over.

I was sent here to create life and I’ve succeed in a way I could have never dreamed. God to plant, now God to microbe. Now that it’s over, I can finally let go.

Hearing goes first. As silence prevails, visions of Asuki dance in my head in perfect acuity—smiling, always smiling. It all comes storming back: they way she smelled when we first met, the way she tasted when we first kissed, they way she caressed my face oh so gently…

My struggle against the lack of oxygen only lasts a moment. Death’s only moments away and I’ve never been better. Slowly, everything fades black as I’m lulled into the sweet peace of asphyxiation, forever whispering Asuki’s name.

2012-01-28T18:04:00.000-08:00

No Safe Place
By Sarah Ponder

Because there was nowhere else I could possibly run to,
I gave myself up to their plan,
allowed myself to be put into my own hearse,
my mother the depressed driver,
had nothing to say except,
"you know, you're dying."
Clutching the pills that got me there,
I was going to the place that haunted my childhood dreams,
where they used to take me for years of therapy,
except this time it would be me
behind those large iron doors.
I clutched my box of pills like a child clings to a favorite toy,
it was my safety net.
I looked out towards the trees,
knowing it would be the last time I saw something other than white walls
for awhile.
Today a nurse scrutinizes every inch of me,
she tells me i'm a lost cause,
but i'm, i'm not lost,
I just don't know how I got here.
Today I am very impatient,
I don't like playing these games,
I don't like the way they think they know everything,
and how every word i say is like writing my own psychological will.
everyone has left me in this room,
my mom didn't say goodbye,
even the nurse has left,
I don't think she could stand to see me cry.
I hear an intercom paging my doctor,
saying "new patient arrival, deliver to adolescent psych ward."
I was all signed in,
a part of their game.
A game i'd have to learn how to play,
if I wanted to survive,
or make it out with my own mind.
In this place it's just as i expected,
the suicide case,
the anorexic girl with her cigarettes and laxatives,
the girl who played with a lighter a little too much,
the sad gospel singer who tried to hang herself one too many times,
the enraged girl who played with knives,
the schizo with her imaginary world,
the OCD freak with an obsession with time,
and me, the one who let drugs control her mind.
Meanwhile, my mother was signing the papers
to leave me in this place
for how long I wasn't sure,
but what i did know was to trust no one,
there is no safe place.

2012-01-27T23:39:00.000-08:00

Dreams of the Drowned
By Wendi M. Lee

My dreams resuscitate the air
back into lungs, arms and bones awakened, clotted crown of funeral
dirt cut from your hair.

You are whole again.
I press one ear to the thrum
of your livid heart, loud enough to drown husbands.

Death did not suit you. Instead you prefer
our brambled days, dazed by river silt
gliding through cupped fingers. The murmur

of water against stone disturbs you not. You have been
to the depths, witnessed the pulse of blood fade and flow.
You know this river like a prayer.

Your eye, you say. Now that is a sad death. My veil
glistens tears in the clench of light, empty socket
a full dull ache. Your hands reach out, read my mourning like Braille.

And I burn with dark prayers of my own:
to drown in these dreams, or wake intact,
my girlhood bed of wrought iron and gingham, alone.

2012-01-27T23:13:00.000-08:00

Steaming
By D.A. Cairns

‘What the hell is that?’

Neil Williams stood scratching his head with one hand as he gestured towards the object of his attention with the other.

‘Dunno Dad,’ replied his son, Michael as he thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his stained overalls.
The two men took a few hesitant steps towards the pile of silver cylinders. Each one about a metre long and as thick as a punching bag, reflected the bright morning sunshine in all directions making it hard for Neil and Michael to see. Slow rising steam wafted lazily from the cylinders into the air, as they approached cautiously.

‘Smell anything weird Dad?’

‘All I can smell is cow shit boy and there’s nothin’ weird about that stuff.’

‘Well whaddaya reckon it is?’

‘I reckon I’ve never seen anything like it,’ he said putting his arm across Michael’s chest to stop him walking any closer. ‘And I reckon we better call someone.’

‘Sergeant Hammersly?’

‘Yeah, he’ll know what to do or who we should call. Let’s get back to the house,’ he said but as they turned away, Neil had a thought. ‘We’d best throw up some sort of fence in the meantime to keep the herd away from it, eh?’

Sergeant Ron Hammersly was a tall, solidly built man who used to play first grade footy in Sydney before his knee gave out. As the only cop in the rural town of Burrudgie, he didn’t have much to do but whatever he did he did it well and had the respect of every man, woman and child in the district. He was used to being called out for all sorts of strange goings on, and not often to what his city police buddies would have called real police work. Neil Williams description of steaming silver cylinders in his top paddock fit the bill of unusual, and Ron was suitably intrigued.

‘G’day Neil,’ said Ron as he climbed down from the cabin of his Toyota Landcruiser. ‘Michael,’ he said with a nod of greeting. ‘Show me the cylinders.’
When the three of them were standing staring at the steaming pile, Ron told them he called an environmental expert down from Sydney to have a look.

‘Good call Ron,’ said Neil.

Michael strolled around the other side of the cylinders and began to point at them.

‘Check this out!’ he said. ‘One of the tubes is melting and I can see inside and...’ he paused to sniff the air like a hound dog, ‘and I can smell something pretty weird.’
Ron and Neil arrived and followed Michael’s gaze to a tube at the bottom of the pile.

It looked like a sausage thrown onto a hot barbecue plate, the way the skin peels away on contact with the metal. Inside the cylinder was a dark brown and blue substance, riddled with strands of what could have been hair had it not been so thick and silvery.

‘Those silver strings,’ said Michael, ‘are they moving?’

‘Turn it up, mate,’ said Ron, waving his hand in front of his face to brush away the foul smell. ‘You’re imagining it. The stink is so crook it’s making my eyes water. I can’t see properly.’

‘Shit,’ said Neil, ‘Mine too, what is that stuff. We better clear off for now. Come on.’

Michael continued to watch in fascination as more and more of the silver coating on the cylinders came off to expose more of the putrid smelling odd coloured contents. Though his eyes stung and his head ached, he could not draw away. As his father grabbed his arm to pull him away, Michael began to gasp for air and clutch at his chest as the toxic fumes invaded his airways. By the time, Neil had pulled him away from the cylinders, the poison had overwhelmed him and he collapsed in the sweet smelling grass of the top paddock unconscious.

Having been updated by Sergeant Hammersly on the phone as he travelled down to Burrabudgie, Environmental Protection Agency agent Andrew Rostankovski arrived at the William’s farm expecting the worst. What he found were two paramedics treating Ron, Michael and Neil inside the farmhouse, and two police cars, a fire engine and a dozen or so locals surrounding the pile of cylinders at a distance of some fifty metres. The cylinders themselves were no longer silver, nor steaming nor emitting any noxious gases.

Quickly summing up all he saw Rostankovski knew he was just the man for this assignment. Like his hero in the X-Files, Fox Mulder, he was given all the inexplicable and probably unsolvable cases by faceless superiors. Working for the E.P.A, this meant investigating mysterious environmental phenomena. He had a strong suspicion as to what the silver cylinders might be before he even laid eyes on them so he was not too disappointed that they appeared to be inactive now.

Andrew greeted the three injured men, although Michael could not yet speak or open his eyes, and told them he would come back soon to ask them some questions, if that was all right with them. The attending paramedic advised he would be finished soon. Then Andrew left the house and strode out into the paddock.
‘How long ago did the cylinders stop giving off gas?’ he asked a police officer as he approached.
The officer turned slowly to look at Andrew and then just as slowly to look at his watch before finally saying, ‘Thirty three minutes, mate.’

‘Has anyone else, besides Sergeant Hammersly and the farmers, been affected by the cylinders?’

‘No,’ said the officer, then adding as an afterthought, ‘You know Michael Williams is dead?’

‘Michael Williams? No, he’s not dead, he was knocked out, that’s all. He’ll be fine.’

‘Lucky bastard,’ said the officer shaking his head slowly. ‘We all thought he was gone.’

‘I’ll be inside,’ said Andrew. ‘Call me if anything happens to the cylinders, okay?’

Hurrying back to the house, Andrew asked Ron and Neil for exact descriptions of what had happened. Overcome with the emotion and shock of nearly losing his only son, Neil was unable to continue when he began to tell how Michael had been the first one to notice the silver skin peeling away, so Ron took over the narrative.

‘You know, it was like rotting,’ said Ron, ‘but real fast, you know what I mean?’

Andrew nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘So it sounds like the cylinders were, or maybe still are, living tissue or some living organism decomposing at a rapid rate. Abnormally fast.’

‘Yeah’ said Ron rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Just like a carcass. I mean they look like giant pellets...’

‘Pellets?’

‘You know turds, pieces of shit and they smell like it too, but I never seen shit with skin on it and definitely not that colour.’

Andrew had heard this all before, he could have been playing any one of dozens of taped interviews he had recorded following similar events.

‘I think,’ said Andrew without a pause or warning, ‘That those cylinders are actually organic stools.’

‘Stools?’ said Neil suddenly back in the discussion.

‘You called them pellets,’ said Andrew looking from one man to another and back again. ‘I think they are pieces of shit.’

Ron laughed. ‘I think that’s what you’re full of mate.’

Neil said, ‘What on earth could drop something like that out of its arse? You’re mad!’

The reaction, like the phenomenon itself was no surprise to Andrew so it was no stretch for him to maintain his composure in the face of ridicule.

‘Nothing on this earth could have dropped those,’ he said.

Picking up on the stress placed on the word earth, Ron asked, ‘Are you suggesting that pile of steaming silver pellets are droppings from somewhere besides earth?’

Andrew nodded. ‘Exactly. Extra-terrestrial.’

The two wise old country boys were about to launch a round of howling protest when a uniformed officer burst in through the door.

‘Mr. Rostankovski, you asked me to let you know if there were any more changes in the cylinders,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I think you better hurry and see this.’

Andrew ran to the site as police were ordering people to back away. Thick blue smoke rose in a solid tube from the pellets straight up into the air. On closer inspection, Andrew found the pellets had
disappeared. Countless red, blue and silver threads were strewn around the ground where the pellets had been. The earth was blackened as if scorched by a fast moving grass fire.

As the physical evidence was disappearing before his eyes, Andrew ran back to his car to gather his sample collecting equipment. On his return, all eyes were focused on the sky where a large black sphere had appeared at the top of the blue smoke column.

Ron turned to Andrew who had come alongside him to watch the spectacle.

‘I guess you were right,’ he said.

‘I guess so,’ said Andrew, stunned like everyone else.

After five minutes the blue smoke had disappeared inside the sphere, and the sphere had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Andrew moved inside the temporary fence erected by the farmers to collect some samples but they were all gone. Running a Geiger counter over the burnt ground, Andrew received no indication of radioactive residue so he declared the site clean and safe. The crowd came closer for a better view but there was nothing left to see.

Coming over to Andrew as he stood up and put his hands on his hips, Ron put a large hand on his shoulder, and said with a touch of sadness in his voice, ‘At least they cleaned up after themselves, eh?’

2012-01-25T22:06:00.000-08:00

A Final Request
By Joe Mynhardt

The phone gently slid from Hans Ruben’s grasp as he slumped into his office chair. “It’s not possible,” he whispered.

Hans stared at his hands, determined to never leave his home office. The thought of sharing the news with the rest of the family crossed his mind, yet, if he had to be honest, he hardly cared for them anymore. How could you love someone who only loves your money? Getting re-married had been the biggest mistake of his life.

His breaths quickened. His heart ached, entombed in a squeezing fist, his insides gutted.

Hans stared at his drawer. Considering that he had nothing left to live for, perhaps it was time to finish it all. He removed a hidden key from below his desk and opened the drawer. A dull pain struck his chest as he saw the .38 Smith and Wesson special.

He struggled to breathe. All he wanted to do was scream, to stop the overbearing pain. “Unhappy people shouldn’t die,” he whispered, “Not before they get a chance to be happy.”

His shaking finger pressed against the trigger, wondering if perhaps he shouldn’t put it off till after the burial. Maybe it was all a lie, some horrible dream he would eventually wake up from.

All Hans could think about was what his last thought should be before he pulled the trigger. The only happiness he had ever known was now gone. He began to squeeze, waiting for the knock, the stab of pain . . . the darkness.

A belligerent sound rumbled from the living room. It cut through his distress and he lowered the revolver, placing it on the desk.

With his mouth wide and his arms hanging limp by his side, Hans left the office.
Inside the living room sat his two step-daughters, staring at the television. His wife, Kelly, stood with her arms on her hips, shouting at Hans’s only son, William.

Hans reached for the wall, barely stopping himself from fainting to the floor. His lips moved, but his voice faltered.

“What have you done now?” Kelly said.

William emanated an aura of enthusiasm. “Quickly, Ma. Change to the news channel.” He could barely stand still or conceal his widening smile. Hans hadn’t seen William so happy since before his biological mother died.

Kelly turned to Hans with a pinched expression on her face, her eyes rolling. “Can you believe this son of yours? Shouting orders us.”

Hans only stared in silence.

“Quickly, before it’s too late,” William said.

William’s youngest sister grabbed the remote from the coffee table and changed channels. Everyone turned their attention to the screen, except Hans, who kept his gaze on his smiling William.

The words ‘News Flash: Apartment complex inferno’, highlighted the bottom of the screen.

“I can’t believe it, Dad,” William said, his face radiating.

A female reporter on the screen pointed toward the smoldering leftovers of the building. “It is right here,” she said, “at the Constantia Apartment complex, where a small kitchen fire quickly turned into a blaze that consumed all twenty three homes.”

William stared into his father’s eyes. “I saved them, Dad.”

Hans frowned. He turned towards the television.

“The fire is now under control,” the reporter said, “and it seems that no one has been seriously injured. But it is another story, a story of heroism, which has brought this community together tonight. A young man, a local resident to the area, witnessed the blaze before the firefighters arrived, ran into the building and saved several elderly people as well as a young girl.”

“I’m famous,” William said as he smiled to Hans. “I’ve finally done something.”

The family all stared back at him with unbelieving eyes, but Hans kept his gaze on the screen.

The reporter wiped a tear from her cheek. “We do have reports that young William Ruben has however been escorted to the hospital. It is unclear at this time exactly why . . . wait.”
She pressed her hand against her ear. “Oh, no . . . this is terrible. Ladies and gentleman, I’ve received word that William Ruben, the courageous young man who saved so many here tonight, has slipped into a coma and perished on the way to the hospital.”

Hans turned his attention towards William, who, staring into his father’s eyes with loving warmth, faded out of sight.

Kelly and the children cried out in horror and disbelief. With their hands over their mouths they went in search of William, while Hans, caught in an overwhelming sensation of tearful laughter, returned to his office and picked up the revolver.

His son, who had lived a life of clinical depression and continuous setbacks, had died a happy man – a man who will be remembered. A hero.

It was with a bittersweet smile on his face that Hans placed the revolver back in its hideout and went in search of his son’s body. “People deserve to be happy before they die,” he told himself. “Even me.”

2012-01-23T21:23:00.000-08:00

Lyn Lifshin, Unemployment, and the Fine Art of Critiquing Poetry
By James Valvis

Been out of work nearly 6 months,
Waiting for a call from the post office
or the schools or the hospitals.
Now reading a chapbook by Lyn Lifshin.
It’s the best I’ve read of hers
in years. My wife is in the other room.
It’s Friday or Saturday, hard to tell
when you’re unemployed.
In the kitchen there are 3 submissions
To the magazine I’m doing, which
almost went belly up before
the 1st issue. Like I was saying,
reading a chapbook by Lyn Lifshin
and it’s very good indeed.
Soon my wife will come back in here,
looking for a shirt or the dog
or something, and I’ll yell, “Jesus,
can’t you leave me alone for a minute!”
And she’s saunter out of here
mumbling, “Get a job.” But as I was saying,
The Lifshin Chapbook, it’s good
though sometimes repetitive.
I guess that’s what happens
When you write in that much bulk.
I certainly wouldn’t know,
having written only 2 poems
in a month. My wife walks in and says,
“They’re looking for help at the Burger Bash.”
“Ok,” I say, “give me a minute.”
I start to get dressed and then
look at the Lifshin chapbook.
“Lyn,” I say, “you’re the most prolific
poet I know. Can’t you bail me
out of this?” But Lyn doesn’t answer.
Instead my wife yells, “Will you
hurry the hell up?” And I put on
my shoes, thinking,
Christ, this chapbook sucks,
her worst in years.

2012-01-23T21:14:00.000-08:00

Poetry by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Birdless Sky

he never left her
in his mind

thousands of miles
separate

his addiction to solitude
like a birdless sky

thoughts of her touch
keeping him alive
suffering recluse
malnourished

he finally made the journey
back to her

gravestone in the spotlight of the sun

Premonition

breeze sighing in the trees

clouds swift
disappearing behind the mountaintops

swoosh of cars on the distant highway

every roof an obstruction
since the beginning

something there
we should have sought

arch of sky and beyond

Desperado

he walks down a dusty street
opens a squeaky door
wood splinters branded in his hands

finds the butt of a cigarette
strikes a match
lights the cigarette remembering a woman
in the flame
his world burning him down
slowly

he inhales all the lies
blows them out with a hacking cough
sits on a bed
too tired to take his boots off

2012-01-21T21:56:00.000-08:00

The Dark Recesses of the Mind
By Ryan S Dodd

Turning on the TV, the News blared its usual headlines - rape, murder, war, hopelessness, I turned it off. Today it seemed was not a good day to create one of my 'Mindscapes'. I was a painter of modest success, creating pictures not of particular people or places but of moods. Like capturing a single moment in time. I never enjoyed eating first thing in the morning and with this hangover, today was no exception. I found a half empty bag of chips in the larder, and managed to scarf down a few. An unpleasant thought trickled into my hazed mind. Where had I been last night?

Drinking alone was something I was no stranger to, but I felt as if I still had the night air on me. Had I done something new and different to my usual routine last night? Perhaps that was a delusion, a fantasy. I had become a loner, consumed with my thoughts, and my paintings. I rarely went out anymore, especially at night. Life can seem too real sometimes. Maybe these misgivings were just my mind rebelling, telling its own story for once, why not indulge it? I lit a cigarette, not to calm myself, just out of habit. I sat on the bed, the smoke drifted dreamily up to the ceiling. Perhaps today was a good day to create a 'Mind scape' after all. I felt completely out of my own skin, unlike my self, no better a time to paint.

Over the next few hours, I set up a canvas and painted. Slashes of red, pale, icy blues, stipples of green, savage purples and oranges filled the canvas. I worked feverishly, despite still being hung-over and having a mostly empty stomach. I was consumed with my creation. When I finished, I felt had something not good, but great. A piece of livid expression, of violent beauty.

I stepped back to gaze upon my masterpiece, but to my horror I did not recognize what I saw. It was unnatural, cold and yet very much alive. A creature, thin as a skeleton, with eyes that were slits, dark and penetrating. It stared into me with indifference.

Who was this? Why had I made it? My mind flashed, lights flickered around the apartment like some strange trip. I felt as if the Earth were spinning too fast. Then as I stood dazed, a scene began to play in my mind.

I was outside in the woods, it was dark. Trees stretched out ominously above me, blocking out the little light of the stars. There was a path I was walking along. I could hear a running stream close by. Ahead was a monument it was a bizarre, triangular shaped rock, covered with symbols I did not recognize. The symbols had been cut deep into the rocks surface. I touched the symbols, running my fingers along them. The ground opened up. There appeared what seemed to be the entrance of a tomb. I descended down an ancient stone staircase. The creature had not found me. I had gone looking for it.

I felt the desire to make another painting. I was usually burned-out after making just one. But right now, I felt energized, hungry for more. And so I prepared another canvas, my confidence growing. Hours past, still hung-over, still hungry, I was relentlessly painting. The work seemed effortless, automatic. I painted the wood at night, the stone monument, the stairway. And at the bottom, I painted who I always paint. Not a particular place or person, but a mood, or rather, a self portrait of the dark recesses of my mind.

2012-01-20T17:34:00.001-08:00

Reminders
By Gabby Holt

Some sweet reminders
Some sweet memories
Drifting through pink morning skies
Drifting, treading my mind
So beautiful to receive a smile
How sacred, the gift of exchange

2012-01-20T14:39:00.000-08:00

The Tell-Tale First Line

By Jacqueline Doyle

It was Edgar Allan Poe, in his well-known 1842 review of Nathaniel Hawthorne's Twice-Told Tales, who insisted that every great short story focuses on a "single effect," and that every word should contribute to that effect—in his words, should "tell." Poe was the first to suggest that if the writer's "very first sentence tend not to the outbringing of this effect, then in his very first step he has committed a blunder." The opening line of "The Tell-Tale Heart" has to be one of the greatest first lines of Poe's short stories, of all short stories. At the heart of his enterprise in the story is a demonstration of how to tell a tale. He begins: "True!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been, and am; but why will you say that I am mad?"

We immediately notice several things. This is direct speech, first-person narration, so we are dealing with a character. The character, and we're not sure why, seems to be addressing us directly, and seems to be starting in the middle of a story. Already he doesn't seem fully rational, ready to conform to the logic of a beginning, middle, and end. We may even feel a bit assaulted by his opening question—by his irrational and immediate presumption of intimacy. He is after all a stranger, who doesn't deem it necessary to introduce himself to us, or to introduce his story.

The first word of the opening sentence is "True!" We already sense the possibility of an unreliable narrator, and thus a story where we will be called upon to read between the lines in order to assess the truth of the narrator's assertions. The tell-tale exclamation point suggests overemphasis, overexcitement perhaps, an impression reinforced by the rest of the sentence.

"True!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been, and am …" The dashes create a spasmodic rhythm that is indeed nervous—not just nervous (we pause to take that in), but "very, very dreadfully nervous." Two dashes and a comma indicate pauses, maybe a gasping for breath. "Very, very dreadfully nervous" seems a burst of thought, someone who is not in control of the pacing or content of his ideas.

"I had been and am" is also peculiar. Why is he distinguishing the past from the present? Why "had been" instead of simply "was"? The syntax is convoluted. The speaker doesn't seem to be thinking straight. He seems unstrung and overwrought.

"… but why will you say that I am mad?" We are backing away from this madman already, who appears to be hyperventilating, paranoid, accusatory. "I never said you were mad," we think, but also, "Someone obviously said you were mad, and they were undoubtedly right." The odd emphasis on "will," coupled with the opening exclamation mark, makes the speaker seem unduly agitated. He is angry at us, but also seems to inhabit the solipsistic universe of the mad. He is muttering, jabbing his finger in the air, ready to grab any passer-by to tell this story.

Immediately he will tell us about the "disease" that has heightened his senses, without ever explaining what it was, and that he can hear "all things in the heaven and in the earth" along with "many things in hell." It's obvious he's a raving lunatic with no self-awareness of his state. He asks what he thinks are rhetorical questions. "How, then, am I mad? Harken! And observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story." Poe is asking us to observe how he tells this story of this murder, beginning with an opening line by a diseased narrator who is anything but calm. "My manner had convinced them," the murderer gloats when the police first interrogate him, as Poe calls attention to his manner of telling the story, and the narrator becomes increasingly "nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous," so nervous that in a state of high hysteria he admits to his crime.

"'Villains!' I shrieked, 'dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks!—here, here!—It is the beating of his hideous heart!'" "Here, here!" draws attention to itself, playing also on "Hear, hear!" and the earlier "Harken!" We already guessed something like this from the very opening line, villainous listeners attentive to those exclamation points and jerky rhythms at the beginning of the narrator's keyed-up apologia. The heart of the tale becomes evident from the very first sentence, several pages before the narrator sentences himself to death.

IRM Issue 23

2012-01-20T14:00:00.000-08:00

We have a new issue out featuring our best work from the past few months. Pick up a copy and check it out. We have local artist Michelle Colbert as well as photographers: Jacob Oet and Marcin Majkowski. Issue 23 is are most unique compilation so far.

Remember. Check out our site as we are really kicking it into high gear over here with enough judged and accepted pieces to keep new work on display every single day!

A new contest is opening up soon and our press for the independent publishers out there is opening soon. Any questions or comments? shout to indigorising@hotmail.com and we'll listen. We'll even shout back.

-Tannen Dell
Editor-in-Chief
IRM

2011-12-10T15:19:00.000-08:00

I understand
By Preeti Sharma

The responsibility of a life in your very hands, used to make you tremble with fear and excitement, both. You felt eager to spill all the lessons that life taught you so that the little face, looking up at you with admiration and curiosity blended together in those glittering eyes of innocent childhood that would easily avoid those trenches of failure that you couldn’t escape. You moved forward headlong, clearing away all the dirt and thorny bushes of harsh reality so that there be none left and your piece of heart can truly live, forever smiling and content. Somewhere, deep down, your selfish gut patted your back for being a perfect parent.

But was it ever meant to be so? You soon found the answer when you saw those big round droplets of tears dripping down from the eyes of your child for a lost crayon, a small bruise or the boogeyman, a character you regret mentioning. The sources of all the troubles grow bigger and gruesome and the chains of reality kept you bound, away from your child who felt exposed to the world, all of a sudden.

The world was brought down to your child’s feet to be seen and admired. You pushed against every odd and enlarged the possibilities that you saw glowing in that little face. You dreamt of endless success as you saw your child create beautiful sketches, play the most melodious tune on its toy instrument and you simply knew that this gift of God was a packet of multiple talents. Your love and pride dissolved into each other as you smiled looking down, playing the super-hero for the little one and getting used to the feeling.

The wheel of time did not stop turning as your felt the years slipping down from your hands. The child was growing up fast and suddenly, the super-hero was demoted as the latest teen pop sensation took its place till, gradually, there was no place left in the child’s life for super powers and twisted, fairy-tale explanations. You felt ignored and useless but somewhere tried to console yourself that this was always meant to happen. And you didn’t mind it too much for the frequent problem solving sessions that made you go back to those good old days where you had the power to fix apparently everything. You racked your brains for elementary school home work, grudgingly sacrificed your precious night’s sleep to work on a project single handedly, offer incomprehensible words of wisdom but yes, you were there to fix some things, if not everything.

But could you fix a broken heart? No you couldn’t. And you realized it the first time it happened. No longer being the keeper of your child’s secrets annoyed you and suddenly, you became a ‘parent’ from a ‘friend’. You took up the role, reluctantly, hardening you heart because you knew that the time had come to lay down some rules and boundaries.

But the questions and the retorts and all the angry out bursts became too much to handle. You couldn’t believe that you were being lied to and came close to hitting the very person who was the centre of your world till now. All you wanted was its safety and yet, you couldn’t realize when the same turned into confinement and your child suffocated. But you tried. You tried and placed your blind trust into your kid, hoping for the best. You knew the world was too cruel and if it was possible, you would keep your child clutched to your heart, and stop the time so that you could wonder at this miracle with ease. But with equal intensity, you wanted your child to go out and fight the obstacles and gain endless fame. You knew you had taught well the lessons and techniques but you were never too sure of it. The dilemmas kept you occupied as the years went by.

Time has always been of essence but back then, it seemed as if the work load had long surpassed the minutes you had warily set apart to devote to things beyond your family. You felt caught up with life and struggled to keep your pace with the world. The connection and communication with your child weakened as you both, for some time, got swallowed up by your immediate interests and suddenly, felt strangers to each other. You desperately ran to catch the frayed ends of your child’s life but you felt alienated nevertheless. Your anxieties and fears grew threefold as you observed your little kid not being so little anymore and heading unflinching to what you saw as the ultimate doom. You tried everything and when shouted back in an unfamiliar manner, you suppressed your indignation and carried on with your mission of bringing your child back to where it belonged. But you couldn’t succeed and the frustration kept piling up, uniting you to an equally unfamiliar feeling of utter helplessness. The super hero stepped into the shoes of a common man and wished back the powers to its aid as well the child’s.

But you found peace at last, when you saw the determination and courage your child displayed as the world closed numerous doors in its face and felt proud to have raised a person so firm in its humility. The rebellious rage, now channeled into creativity brought you face to face with the real potential of your kid as your eyes found themselves hooked to the sight of the hard work put into by your precious one with a mixed sense of curiosity and admiration. And somehow, you tried to convince yourself that things might not go as you planned them out and the times ahead might me the most difficult to go through but you felt at peace because you somehow knew where the powers of that old super hero had actually gone and manifested themselves. Never again, did you think of yourself anything but a proud parent. Never again, did you doubt the abilities and strength that you yourself passed on to a younger life and now that you feel pride swelling in your chest, let me tell you that I understand, dad.

2011-12-10T10:56:00.000-08:00

Poetry by Duane Locke

Socrates Overcoming His Inner Compulsion To Show Off Writes A Quasi-sonnet On A Quasi-thursday In Quasi-isolation

Thunder played by fingers composed of light
Borrowed from the moon emitted piano sounds,
A round music of owl eyes, the unfolding muted hoots,
That were abstractions of summer, or tiny golden specks
On the green, the green of Pan’s eyes, the green
Pear skin. The sound foretold of the forest’s opening
Where when the sunlight becomes ocean waves’ foam tips
On white sand scattered with pine needles and reveals
The spider-web branches of the night birds’ mystic foot tracks.
This is the time when the blue straps over toes of the sky’s sandals
Oozes through the white-painted metal of blinds,
And whose taps on floor woods whisper that outdoors
Has a mystic language in its white weed flowers and leaves.

The Gold Finch

Still bronze
Never flies, the bronze bird atop bronze pole
Is immobile.
The bird of metal only moves
When the braided bishop holds the pole.
The bishop has the shaky hand of a disease.
Out in sun, indoor under candelabras,
Carried in ceremonies,
The bronze bird is gold.
The bronze, now gold flutters
As the diseased hand of he braided bishop shakes.
The bird flutters gold as if made of feathers.
Congregation sees the bronze bird turned gold by light as a goldfinch,
Due to the pole
Being held by the shaky diseased hand of bishop.

White Dust From A White Cliff

As Wallace Stevens say it is the function
Of the poet to hear sounds. The poet hears a sound
And seeks the words that approximates the sound.
Her shoulders were silent until the crack
In the chalk cliff. The cracked cliff dropped
White dust on the bareness between shoulder straps.
His inefficient brushing off turned his fingertips
Into ruts on a non-existent road. Ruts were indecipherable
Since the ruts were not shaped by indentations
Of wheels of a herd of hooves, or any thing
That had weight heavier than dandelion’s future in the air.
But the ruts’ quiver spoke, emitted a untranslatable language
That stymied the translations of savant neurons.
The result: hallucinations of hallways, many hallways,
Long floorless hallways lit by candelabra, but no houses present.

A Peace Rally In The Public Park

It was something to see, the bright sun shining
On a man in white.
He stood in a front of a gathering of those dressed in white suits, white dresses, white slacks, white shorts.
All held placards, cardboard tacked on raw wood sticks,
That the bright sun had bleached blank and
Emitted a blinding light.
The glow from the grass of the park dazzled.
The man in white stood on a white, barren spot surrounded by grass, spoke:
“We cannot go to war with them,
For they are our best customers.
We cannot kill our best buyers.
We can not go to war and destroy the consumers of our products.
Our economy depends
On their greed, their materialism,
Their desire to show off
By ownership of our expensive,
Prestigious, although useless, products.
We must save the welfare of our nation
By not going to war over a triviality,
Our different ideologies.
We must maintain peace, maintain our trade.”

2011-10-23T18:23:00.000-07:00

James Joyce’s Lotus Eaters and Hades: The Distortion of Death and the Living Dead
By Michelle Salyga

Ulysses’ Leopold Bloom, in Lotus Eaters and Hades, finds himself ensnared between the world of living and dead. Between these lines of drugged receptivity (living dead), internalized apparatuses of institutional Catholicism, and the procession of Dignam’s funeral, Joyce uses Bloom to identify the correlation between a stupefied Irish republic and the reality of death.

As Hart and Knuth state in their guide to Ulysses, the central theme of the “Lotus Eaters” chapter might be defined as the “loss of a sense of personal direction.” Additionally, Blamires describes the episode as “a loosely moving sequence” of impressions to which Mr. Bloom “surrenders freely…” Both references allude to the implication that Bloom has become consumed by his surroundings, visually contemplating the immediate impotence of his environment. Furthermore, Bloom’s position in Hades as a latecomer, outsider and anomaly during the cab ride and funeral procession, allow Bloom to provide the implicit representation of demise. Because of this heightened exploration of background, Bloom becomes intertwined with death, and thus death’s raconteur.

In the opening of “Lotus Eaters,” Bloom’s first reflection of drugged escapism is redistributed to the Far East. Bloom states, “Lovely spot it must be: the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them” (Joyce 58). Upon initial reading, one might identify this section as a positive representation of the east, however, Bloom continues by stating, “Sleeping sickness in the air. Walk on roseleaves. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Where was the chap I saw in that picture somewhere? Ah yes, in the dead sea floating on his back, reading a book with a parasol open” (Joyce 59). This implication of sleeping sickness reflects upon the notion that the East restrains its public to a zombie like state, thus the living dead. Bloom’s reference to eating cowheel also reflects the idea of disease and sickness, suggesting the inference of hoof-and-mouth disease. Additionally, this infectious and potentially fatal viral disease can cause lameness, identifying with the drugged receptivity or impotence. Furthermore, the image of the man floating on his back reflects the idea of a corpse drifting in the water. Joyce’s choice to leave “dead sea” in lower case letters also suggests that the man is adrift in a literal sea of death.

This parallel of the living dead and drugged weakness are also seen in the “Curious life of drifting cabbies,” and his depiction of the carriage-drawn horses stating “Damn all they know or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags. Too full for words. Still they get their feed all right and their doss” (Joyce 63). These “drifting cabbies” can represent two ideas: firstly that the drivers have become lost in the drugged escapism, moving through the streets in a surreal reality. However, a second image, representing the cabbies as transportation beyond the grave, supports the concept that those who have been lost to their impotent state are awaiting this ride with “drifting cabbies.” This lingering idea of the zombie like state intertwines with the perception of immediate death. Even as the horses “get their feed,” or surreal reality, their “doss,” or forthcoming death, will be served to them as well.

Joyce also successfully juxtaposes the perception of escapism and death during Bloom’s religious experiences. Specifically, Bloom’s acuity of the public’s compliance with religion contrasts with his ‘religious death,’ or relinquishment of religious duty as an Orthodox Jew. Reflecting Joyce’s current position and illustration of the Catholic Church, Lernout’s argument in Help My Unbelief: James Joyce and Religion states “the weakening of the Church’s temporal powers was met by tightening its political control over local churches and its ideological control over dogma” (31-32). This increasingly conservative and intolerant avoidance of liberalism, free thinking and Modernity can be seen in Bloom’s representation of Mass. Bloom states, “Latin. The next one. Shut your eyes and open your mouth. What? Corpus: body. Good idea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don’t seem to chew it: only swallow it down. Rum idea: eating bits of corpse. Why the cannibals cotton to it” (Joyce 66). Again Bloom’s heightened awareness of environment points to the surreal, drugged Irish republic during Mass. Additionally, this immediate mix with death, or cannibalism, implicates the possibility of the people’s admitted defeat by death, consuming what they too will become.

The demise of religion, regarding Bloom’s limited commitment to the faith, is further explored as he ponders his understanding of Mass. Bloom states, “English. Throw them the bone. I remember slightly. How long since your last mass? Glorious and immaculate virgin. Joseph, her spouse. Peter and Paul. More interesting if you understood what it was all about” (Joyce 67). Like Bloom, “Joyce’s detachment from Christianity and his literary challenges to Catholic doctrine cannot be seen as evidence of a man struggling to maintain his faith, but as the signs of a man who consciously chose to abandon the faith of his family and nation” (Hibbert 197). Therefore, this scene can be explained as the separation from church, or the death of religion through Bloom’s eyes, the living dead its only residual pupils. Because “the Catholic Church of Joyce’s time was traditionalist and unmoved by dissent, resorting to expulsion, anathema and excommunication to defend its dogma from change,” this movement from practiced religion reveals Bloom’s dissociation with the ‘living dead’ and his commitment to the freedom of life unseen in the powerless followers of the church (Hibbert 199). As referenced by Blamires, Bloom acknowledges the “effectiveness of its psychological devices like Confession, and the competence of its financial administration” (33).

As Bloom continues to ponder over the effectiveness of Mass, Joyce offers another depiction of living dead. Bloom states, “Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding” (Joyce 66). Bloom’s initial reference to the “Lourdes cure” provokes the assumption that something or someone has been restored to health. “Approximately 35 claims are brought to the attention of the Lourdes Medical Bureau each year,” however, the International Lourdes Medical Committee have only accepted 12 “medically inexplicable” cases, suggesting that death prevails over life in the Catholic community (Wikipedia). Additionally, the “waters of oblivion” represents a memory-destroying body of water that upon submersion, the victim loses any recollection of past. Coupled with the notion that religion has the stupefying power of control, here Bloom suggests that the church can force one to forget, thus promoting a dissent into consumption. Lastly, Bloom’s mention of the “Knock apparition” suggests that the religious world too is haunted by the living dead. This apparition was located at the Knock Shrine, a major Roman Catholic pilgrimage site in County Mayo, Ireland. The claimed apparition states that the Blessed Virgin Mary, Saint Joseph, Saint John the Evangelist and Jesus Christ appeared in 1879 (Wikipedia). Again the living dead, or ghostly appearances, plague the religious community of institutional Catholicism.

As Bloom continues to pass time in “Lotus Eaters,” he finds himself once again in the hotspot of drugged escapism. He states, “Enough stuff here to chloroform you. Test: turns blue litmus paper red. Chloroform. Overdose of laudanum. Sleeping draughts. Lovephiltres…Poisons the only cures. Remedy where you least expect it. Clever of nature” (Joyce 69). Bloom’s note on blue litmus paper turning red can be established when an acidic element comes in contact with the litmus paper. One such acid is ammonia, which can be found in trace quantities in the atmosphere. Interestingly, these trace amounts are produced from the putrefaction, or decay of animals. Seen earlier in Catholic Mass and the consumption of the corpse, this idea of feeding off decay continues to intertwine itself within the drugged receptivity of the Irish republic. Joyce thus proposes that this republic is doomed to an existence of base instinct, feeding and dying. Following Achterhuis (1998), ten Bos declares that the embodiment of such distractions “subordinate the individual to the collective, a world where nothing is left to chance,” and thus cannot avoid death in order to ensure a harmonious order. In Bloom’s ending statement, it can then be concluded that the only way to avoid death is to outsmart it, thus poisons being the only cure. This “remedy where you least expect it,” avoids the zombie like state as well as death’s control over a bemused Irish republic.

This correlation between life and death in “Lotus Eaters” and “Hades” utilizes Bloom as the transporter, ultimately becoming the reader’s own “drifting cabby”. Therefore, it can be concluded that Joyce uses Bloom to transfer the reader from these near death experiences into the world of the dead acknowledged in “Hades.” The reader is immediately reminded of this continued movement in the opening lines of “Hades” where Cunningham, Power, and Bloom have entered their own carriage. Here Bloom will remain as an observant, watching through the cab windows with detailed perception as death begins to surround his environment. Unlike traditional novel characters that are established as sentimental or sad in death’s close proximity,
Joyce continues to use Bloom as death’s narrator, offering the reader insight into the reality of demise.

After entering the cab Bloom sees and old woman, “…an old woman pepping…extraordinary the interest they take in a corpse. Glad to see us go we give them such trouble coming” (Joyce 72). This first inclusion of death places Bloom outside its proximity, ushering him to contemplate on women’s roles in bringing life to the world and then tending to corpses as life leaves. However, to be fully submerged as death’s narrator, Joyce offers propinquity between Bloom and death through Bloom’s deceased son Rudy. “If little Rudy had lived. See him grow up. Hear his voice in the house” (Joyce 74). This reminder of death’s inescapability pushes Bloom away from the world of drugged receptivity and further into heightened exploration of its form in the Irish republic.

While Bloom remains preoccupied with funeral processions and the images of coffins, Joyce once again utilizes the text to approach religious ideals. Mr. Power, a devout believer, states the worst death “is the man who takes his own life…The greatest disgrace to have in the family” (Joyce 79). As Blamires suggests, Bloom takes this opportunity to reflect “on the Irish Catholic mercilessness towards suicide and infanticide (37). Bloom states, “They used to drive a stake of wood through his heart in the grave. As if it wasn’t broken already (Joyce 80). This subtle tie in the previous episode of “Lotus Eaters” again provokes imagery of the living dead. For instance, such practices of driving a stake through the heart were theories used on bodies that were believed to arise after death. Additionally, Mr. Powers’ character as a Catholic follower exemplifies the Catholic Irish Republic as intolerant, avoidant of liberalism, and incapable of free thinking. According to Wurtz’s Scarce More a Corpse, Irish religious associations “take on the added burden of political affiliation, [as well as] national identity fragmentation” (104).

Joyce continues to ensue the ideals of the Catholic religion through Bloom as he ponders over the Roman Catholic practice for the Absolution of the dead. It should be noted, especially in the case of Dignam’s suicidal death, that “The absolution of the dead does not forgive sins or confer the sacramental absolution of the Sacrament of Penance. Rather, it is a series of prayers to God that the person's soul will not have to suffer the temporal punishment in purgatory due for sins which were forgiven during the person's life” (Wikipedia). Like Mr. Power’s character, this lack of free thinking and acceptance of church dogma are resolute in the Irish republic surrounding Bloom.

As the funeral proceeds, Bloom references once again the stupefying power of Latin used in the Catholic Mass stating, “Makes them feel more important to be prayed over in Latin” (Joyce 85). Bloom continues with this passage referencing to the “inflating power of bad gas and the grim need to burn off the accumulated gas from the coffin vaults” in which Blamires notes the main theme in Bloom’s mind, “the monotonous repetitiousness of Fr Coffey’s grim duties” (39). This instillation of reality, “Once you are dead you are dead,” continues with Bloom as Dignam’s funeral draws nearer (Joyce 87).

The Dignam funeral soon begins, Bloom’s continuous observation of surroundings becoming more gruesome between the correlation of death and the surreal. “Chinese cemeteries with giant poppies growing produce the best opium Mastiansky told me…It’s the blood sinking in the earth gives new life.” Bloom continues this thought by stating “Nothing to feed on feed on themselves” (Joyce 89). Here Joyce implores the idea that death feeds the drugged republic, “producing the best opium.” Therefore, in Blooms later statement, it is implied that the Irish republic feeds off death, and thus feeds off one another in the transition. Further we find a reference to Spurgeon’s Morning and Evening, “a series of daily reflections on Scripture to form the basis of meditation and prayer.” In a surprisingly direct way, many of Bloom’s reflections are mimicked in the Scripture reference for June 15 p.m. - Revelation 3:7, “Some bear in their hand the deadly nightshade of superstition, or the flaunting poppies of Rome, or the hemlock of self-righteousness.” Again this image of deadly flowers cultivated from the soil of death, superstition, and self-righteousness point to a religiously conformed community. Wurtz acknowledges such instances “as a more specific influence on Joyce, for the paralysis that Joyce identifies as the central problem affecting Ireland, imbues the Irish specifically with its qualities of spectrality and death” (106).

Once the funeral procession has begun, Bloom takes a moment to step back and count the attendants. He states, “…counting the bared heads. Twelve. I’m Thirteen. No. The chap in the macintosh is thirteen. Death’s number…Silly superstition about thirteen” (Joyce 90). According to the Roman Catholic religion, “The apparitions of the Virgin of Fátima in 1917 were claimed to occur on the 13th of six consecutive months.” Additionally, the Catholic devotional practice associates the 13th with Saint Anthony of Pauda and his “Thirteen Tuesdays of St. Anthony involving prayer every Tuesday for a period of thirteen weeks” (Wikipedia). Interestingly, on both accounts, this image of living dead surfaces once again. The apparition of the Virgin sustains this community suppression of spectrality and death. Additionally, St. Anothony of Pauda, when exhumed after death was claimed to have a tongue that appeared to be alive and moist. His tongue remains displayed for viewers in the basilica built to honor him. Bloom’s choice to associate the number as “death’s number” successfully illuminates both uses of the number in the Roman Catholic religion (Wikipedia). Again the living dead becomes meshed with the Catholic religion, providing recognition for Joyce’s separation of church and the literal death of the Irish republic.

Shortly after Dignam’s coffin has been laid into the ground, Bloom again connects death with animals. Seen before in the “Lotus Eaters” episode, Bloom identifies the horses as receiving their “doss” of drugs and furthermore eminent death. In “Hades,” however, Bloom identifies with the donkey choosing to illustrate the reality of death that has fallen upon him. “Far away a donkey brayed. Rain. No such ass. Never see a dead one, they say. Shame of death. They hide” (Joyce 91). Blamires states that here “Bloom ponders the strangeness of human identity… [dwelling] on the restfulness of death accomplished and the unpleasantness of the actual moment of death as it approaches” (41). Like the suicide of Dignam and Bloom’s father, the donkey too hides from the shame of death. However, unlike the majority of the Irish republic in “Lotus Eaters,” they have accepted death and beaten it through nature’s poisons, sleight of hand, and veiled demise. Wurtz acknowledges this choice of death as having “something Christ-like about his sacrifice, as though he could redeem through his suffering, those who had died before him and those who would die after” (106).

Another image of living dead surfaces as the gravediggers begin covering the coffin. “Of course he is dead. Monday he died. They ought to have some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the coffin and some kind of a canvas airhole. Flag of distress (Joyce 91). Once again Bloom mentions “piercing the heart,” seen earlier with the Catholic mercilessness to infanticide; a typical ritual to kill the bodies of the literal living dead. Additionally, Bloom presents the idea that this corpse, presumably dead, may not be dead at all.

Here it seems that Joyce was evoking not simply the paralysis of a perpetually entrapped present, identified in the trapped man, but the repression of something nightmarish in the intertwined history of Ireland. Wurtz addresses this position as an “employment of the ghost and the vampire, Joyce links the tragedy with the paralysis affecting Dublin, a condition in which the past’s grip over the present transforms the living into the undead” (109).

Ensnared between the world of the living and dead, Joyce effectively produces Bloom’s character as an observant and overseer of an Irish republic lost within a drugged receptivity. The fluid imagery and juxtaposing prose allows Bloom to identify a stupefied community, opening the reader’s eyes to the reality of their death. Using the internalized apparatuses of institutional Catholicism and the procession of Dignam’s funeral, both “Hades” and “Lotus Eaters” episodes illuminate Bloom’s consumption of his surroundings, visually contemplating the immediate impotence of his environment. Consigned to these margins of colonialism and Catholicism, Joyce gestures towards a mode of existence which breaks from this paralyzing conformity of Ireland. Therefore, working as Joyce’s undertaker between the worlds of the living dead in “Lotus Eaters” and the irrefutable demise of life in “Hades,” Bloom’s character effectively surfaces a stupefied religious community, the loss of personal direction within the community, and the certainty of death which cannot be avoided.

Works Cited

Achterhuis, H. 1998. De erfenis van de Utopie [The legacy of utopia]. Amsterdam: Ambo.

Clive Hart and Leo Knuth, A Topographical Guide to James Joyce’s Ulysses, Part I Text (Colchester, 1975), p. 26

Geert, Lernout, Help My Unbelief: James Joyce and Religion, Oxford Journal, London: Continuum, 2010.

Harry Blamires, The Bloomsday Book, A Guide Through Joyce’s Ulysses (London, 1966)

Herbert, Jeffrey, Joyce’s Loss of Faith, Yasar University, Turkey

Joyce, James. Ulysses. New York: Random House, 1986

Spurgeon, Charles Haddon, The Dictionary of National Biography, Vol. 18, ed. Sir Leslie Stephen and Sir Sidney Lee (London: Oxford University Press, 1917), 841-42

“Wikipedia.” Absolution of the Dead, 6 Mar 2011. Web. 14 Oct 2011

“Wikipedia.” Lourdes Medical Bureau, 17 Sep 2011. Web. 13 Oct 2011.

“Wikipedia.” Waters of Oblivion, 24 Aug 2011. Web. 12 Oct 2011.

Wurtz, F. James, “Scarce More a Corpse: Famine Memory and Representations of the Gothic in Ulysses” Journal of Modern Literature (Indiana University Press)

2011-10-22T17:19:00.000-07:00

Mixed Messages

You walk among the statues

there before you, there before your dreams,

in the hotel lobby where you inquire.

Ah, the music is deceptively happy!

But there is no shuttle in the offing

to weave its way through the twisted streets

and carry you on to your destination.

You must find your own way as always.

Might as well blame a bee for honey.

You say people will serve the least they can.

You say the world will end on May 21st.

Then you say there is no balm in Gilead.

But boarding the city bus sitting backward,

you watch a light rain settle the argument

2011-10-22T17:17:00.000-07:00

6.10am

sleep stares back
from the ceiling.
crusted lids cemented
like the day-old weetabix
in your unwashed bowl.
I watch the resurfacing of your breath,
the decay of your dreams
in the crinkle of your eyes,
amazed to find
you survived the night.

2011-10-22T17:09:00.000-07:00

Mbutagi

Somewhere within my chromosomes,
hid many years ago
Woven deep in helixes of whiteness
Cherokee blood flows
I can feel it call sometimes, into the
wild it draws me out;
A tug on my heart I know Jack London
only dreamed about
.
I think its about time I get on back to
what is real,
Skyscrapers daily making wounds the
earth just cannot seem to heal
Concrete and cable may be able; hold
their weight for a time
But when the rumbles have them
tumbling do we see the signs?

Been so many miles, these city streets
just giant swirling mazes
This body cannot know the isolation of
my soul now for some time.
This trail lost long ago what ever looked
like any blazes
Lost my way, my friends all months
ago, but I don ’t seem to mind.

Two roads diverged in a wood and I-
Distracted by the beauty of the world
trough time did fly-
Missed the signs altogether, plowing
headlong through the brush
I didn ’t ever seem to notice, stop to
hear all of the fuss
Reminders how its just not right;
society follows in line.
You ’ve got to hold the straight and

narrow if you'll ever make it there in time.

That old yellow brick road has faded;
lost in emerald seas of green,
Here deep within heart of nature,
naked, I see as I have never seen.
Myself I find amidst the branches, in
the whispers of a summer breeze,
Kept safe with ancient wisdom; native
graces, on the forest floor I find my
peace.

Taken in, as family, my whiteness
seems to fade
While once these jungles beckoned me
to teach, again a student I am made
Of a people still in harmony with home,
it is the earth
Consistently reminded by jaguarete,
what life is really worth.

I find myself amongst the sounds of
twisted foreign tongues around,
They speak of love, and happiness, in
truth;
I hesitate to mention the now crazy
home, where I was born, where we
guiltlessly
lay waste to sky as well as ground.
For fear I might corrupt such pure
humanity, you see, they only know
togetherness abounds.

“She ro hai hu”— I need not call upon old
Mr. Webster’s ways just now.
They say I love you, known without a
passing thought, with no translations
sound.
Reality revitalized, my heart fulfilled
as such pure soul reflects through tiny
ache ’ eyes.
I learn to feel so deep within, such
kindred jubilation in this life: they ’re
not the least surprised.

A day did come when “all to war” was
shouted from the kids.
As I looked around my eyes beheld a
sight like here: I never did.
In hand machete, bow, and arrow, and
from fearless hearts did blast,.
A stare with such intensity of purpose I
begged for any chance to ask.

Until at last one met my gaze with
whom I knew I could converse,
And after prying from the now scared
childrens arms Confirmed the worst.
Another tribe approaches, come to take
what we hold dear:
And with a nod of understanding made
my place among them clear.

And as I walked with those my
brothers, towards such wild uncertain

war.
I saw so far up in the distance, one who
chose to walk before.
It was not the youngest, dumbest son,
for he: he took the rear.
But Cacique, in his wisdom led the way
and murdered fear.

Ramble On

And after I had walked a thousand years or so, long since I measured
by the miles

The sounds of silence raging; waging consecrated war on foreign
tongues behind a shroud of broken smiles

Unleashed their symphony in harmony with unexplained ferocity upon
what I can only say felt like a soul

And there swept up within the rapture of an ignorant epiphany; in all
of this grew dark, and damp, and cold.

Stared through the mirrors of eternity; I braved the blazes of their
gaze as it recounted in a vivid epicocity the paths I chose to go so
far away, a searchin’ for the light.

And there within the shadow of the universe, instinctively, abandoned
by all reason or philosophy, all faith and creed was taken from my
sight,

Here blinded as the night murders the day I have no life, and love, I
find: a being all its own.

All it seems that he could utter in that last prophetic stutter’s that
“the end’s just pure illusion when there’s no real seed you’ve sown"

2011-10-16T18:05:00.000-07:00

Poetry by John Pursch

Air Tortoise Jellies

A blight of lumbering barnacles,

a filcher of spackling peas,

thrown industrial particles

atop a bland spanner of energy peat,

and tempted by flashy coincidence,

in dimly lit Senegalese.

Crepuscular notices travel amidships,

hobble a captive bezoar, and gently pry

four frozen rapiers from the frustum,

splendid in its moral elite.

Showing half a frugivorous smelting pot,

a decanted rotation deftly ponders

an idiotic despot's wrenching prayer,

gargles concoctions of air tortoise jellies,

and dips its elemental purr,

frothing episodic and serene.

Cool, Penumbral Cataclysm

Flotation spins hillocks,

dislocates carnivorous lamb tempters,

and imperils a gorgeous chancre,

disagreeing with your own worst carbuncle.

Ridge lines emote longitudinal weaning ploys.

Episodic antlers fend for selfish cookies

in a lost penchant for modern brows.

Lunar sparrows pass legislative benches,

gifted to the bent armature of a chosen wasteland.

Hamstrung flotilla salesmen enjoy cool, penumbral cataclysm,

mixing brick factions with a factotum of response.

Shirts ride height machines.

Gravel spears the unmentioned fern.

Spines adorn a gimbal, granting gymnasts

two half-turns of the clock commode,

entrusted with cardinal yelps.

Artifice entitles waves to plunder ebbing tortillas,

spreading bears through the wading pool's official grip.

Who

Who has heard the scribbling air brake,

the skylight of shattered hooves,

the baked beef in modular filings,

the luminous tendrils of hope

in the vast, columnar wastage

of man's triumphant gloaming?

Who has asked the final signpost

for just another plastic meal

of crab and soda, ample torture,

and a pseudopod's keeling smidgen

of overture in merriment?

Who has lied to the zebra,

the plastered minions,

the spanner's moonshine,

the stellar canyons of lasting taste,

the subtle simplicity of coral,

the overgrown nobility of forest beards,

the rivulet of granitic marshland,

the stumbling peg of a frittered year,

the monstrous aging of us all?

Who has floundered at water's edge,

mere inches from the shore,

clamoring for sickles of frozen treacle,

pleading with captives for a spin of the dial,

holding out for a starving of wolves,

dancing to the backstreet chatter

of cured, civilian loneliness?

2011-10-16T18:02:00.000-07:00

To the Gallery Lady

By Julie Beckham

I had no tongue until I saw the tongues in your eyes,

Then I grew tongues on my fingers;

I lick the canvas with the colors of your seeing.

Your tongues speak because they are listening;

They listen because they can see.

My fingers speak because they listen to you.

I am the artist because you are the artist.

When we kiss (which is always) these colors invent themselves.

2011-10-16T17:58:00.000-07:00

Poetry By Jennifer Lobaugh

Tuesday at the Bus Stop

Eyelids are weighted down by the
dull proletariat. Sleep is
anesthesia, a
commodity I crave.
I am an arms dealer,
with my sharp and shiny litotes;
you are an innocent—
a predictable punch-line.

So bring me your optimism (the
blood that I thrive on).
Look into my eyes,
just a little too bright.
The rainbow’s erupted in
mirage and quicksand;
locomotion spasmodic,
brain function gone wild.

11:52

Buzzing buzzing buzzing
Sound of static poking fun at me
Whining at too high a frequency
Accosting my inner ear

Yet another headache
The alarm clock’s nagging eulogy
I can feel their eyes dissecting me
I am bored with all of this

Caffeinated nightmare scenes
My hands, they shake in front of me
It’s hard to swallow this defeat
I am trapped in my decay

Dark alleys get the best of me
Drowning in the hot concrete
Forty thousand fathoms deep
The world is standing still

Time is so oppressive
I rebel against reality
This fire is just too much for me
I want to jump out of my skin

Sugar

Oh toothsome Casanova,
entice me with your candy lies;
be my saccharine destroyer—
confectionary conquistador.
Beguile me with sweet chimeral promises
and cascades of cassonade.

Poetry By Joan McNerney

2011-09-25T17:54:00.000-07:00

Blue your eyes

Blue your eyes
this edge of snow
in silent sky.
Brown eyes soft
tree bark patterns as
yellow flicks
sparkle in wintry sun.

And now it seems
your eyes are green
green as spruce
turning to grey eyes
glancing across as if
from a mountainside.

Your eyes two violets
hidden beneath frost.
Close your eyes
as sleepless stars
glide through night
in aerial ballet.

Black coal eyes
glowing on fire
red flames leaping
out of eyes burning
blue your eyes.

While

That long afternoon
air became heavy wiping
willows along skyline.
Blue jays sped to bushes
startled by thunder.

Rain drops linger on face
cascading arms
falling from fingers.
Lying on lips now
precious cool.

We listen to rain
caress marigolds.
Circles of water
spreading wider wider
laden with moist
smells of summer.

Rain walks over
side streets pelting
metal roofs in
slippery symphonies.
We hide under cover
our bodies as damp
as silver willows.

Counting minutes

We hurry through afternoons
of thunderstorms.
Drizzle zig zag splashing
fast steps as winds
brush over trees.
Trance-like and in a fog,
we have discovered
no solutions.
Does any one have answers?
Going home across moist
blackness. This day finished.
Another piece of the puzzle gone.
Sprays of lost thoughts.
Raindrops shimmer on branches....
alluvial petals, watery bouquets.

2011-09-15T20:35:00.000-07:00

Athena
Maria Stanislav

"Thank you very much for your interest in the project, Miss-"

"Wenscombe."

"Yes, thank you. Julia, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, got that one right, at least. What is the world coming to when a man can't read his own handwriting? In any case, would you mind answering a few questions? Just basic background information, general profile, that sort of thing."

"If this is going to be an IQ test, you might end up a bit disappointed."

"I'm sure you're just being modest, but no, this has nothing to do with test scores or college degrees. The machine doesn’t care if you're a Harvard professor or an illiterate tribeswoman. But the more we know about you, the more precisely we can calibrate it, and the more efficient the whole experiment will be."

"Whatever. Fire away."

"Let's see here, then. Wenscombe, Wenscombe… That sounds a bit British. Were you born in the United States?"

"As good as. My parents traveled a lot. I think they had me in Europe, but every memory I have is already of being here."

"What's your earliest one? Memory, I mean. This isn't for the list, just professional interest."

"A big white dog, licking my face."

"Family pet?"

"No, I actually have no idea whose it was. We didn't have any pets in the house, and our neighbors had cats. Maybe it was with someone walking past in the street, or playing in a park. I don't really remember anything else about that day. Just the dog."

"Well, memory tends to work like that… How old do you think you were at the time?"

"Five? Maybe four."

"Right… Says here you're twenty-seven now. That means you were, what, seventeen, at the time of the war?"

"Just turned eighteen. Got out of high school."

"Were you planning to continue your education?"

"Yes. I was going to be a lawyer. Had a few colleges to choose from. Nothing too fancy, I mean, I was never Ivy League material, but had a decent enough GPA and didn't worry too much at the time. Figured I'd have a gap year before enrolling. Turned out to be a gap decade."

"Good, very good… I mean, not the part about the war, of course, but… Anyway. Where were you when it happened?"

"You want a zip code?"

"No, of course not… Just, you know, were you in a city? In the country? Did you see any of the bombing first-hand, or only on the news?"

"Do you even remember where we were when the bombs fell, Jack? Do you?"

"Yes, I damn well remember! It's not every day you see the Golden Gate Bridge fall over and try to get your head around it – that it's really happening, that it's not another goddamn movie! But that isn't the POINT!"

"Miss Wenscombe?"

"I'm sorry, I got distracted."

"I understand it's a sensitive subject, even after ten years, so if you'd rather not talk about it-"

"No, it's fine. I was in a city, and I did see the bombing first-hand."

"Very we- I mean, yes, thank you. That should be all we need to know about your past. Just a few more questions left, about present day. What do you do for a living?"

"I'm an iron monger."

"Do you mean, like an arms dealer?"

"No, like an actual trader of actual pieces of metal. We- I mean, I travel around looking for abandoned bits of metal, then take it to people and places that can use it for something."

"That sounds fascinating. I had no idea there were people out there who did this sort of thing… Then again, I guess there's no end to things I don't know, always locked up in my lab, eh. But back to you. Isn't it a difficult job for a woman, hauling chunks of metal around? Not to sound chauvinistic, but…"

"Please. It's not like I move the stuff by hand. I've got a truck, and a crane, and a forklift. When you get the hang of it, it's no more difficult than driving."

"Fair enough, fair enough. Like I said, I can be a bit out of touch with reality, sitting here all the time. So, do you have any sort of home base, or do you move around all the time?"

"Most of the time, really. No point settling down anywhere if I'm not going to be there much. I'm away for months at a time, so I'd just have to kick out whoever will have moved in by then. And I could never afford a place in a city."

"So you're, what was that word… a roamer?"

"Yes."

"Is that different from a clinger?"

"Very."

"Right… We're almost done. One last thing – are you single?"

"I'm not married, if that's what you mean."

"Oh, well, marriage's not very popular these days. Any kind of long-term relationship you're in?"

"No."

"No children either, I understand?"

"None."

"Thank you. Oh, and I know I said that question was the last one, but just one more. Could you describe in a few words what sparked your interest in Project Athena in the first place?"

"Actually, I'd rather keep that to myself. If that's okay?"

"Certainly. Thank you very much. You should get some rest before tomorrow, Miss Wenscombe."

"Julia, please."

"Have a good night, Julia."

#

The place given to me by the nice people from the research center was a veritable palace – two rooms, a separate bathroom with running water, hot and cold, and a kitchen containing enough food to feed a family for a week. Delicious though it looked, gorging myself probably wasn't a good idea. I limited my dinner to a sandwich and nibbled on some of the more interesting-looking fruit. There was even some alcohol in the fridge, but I decided against it after a few minutes' consideration. When Jack and I traveled together, we'd have an occasional drink, while making sure that at least one of us was sober enough to drive if we needed to leave somewhere in a hurry. Alone, I didn't feel secure enough to let my guard down, so I hadn't had a drop of anything stronger than coffee in months. Even a can of beer would probably give me a hangover now, and tomorrow of all days, I could use a clear head.

A long bath was a much safer way to relax. I spent almost an hour there, playing with bubbles and pouring sweet-smelling shampoo on my head as well as in the water. In the end, the foam went over the edge and I had to mop it up, feeling horrible for using a clean towel for a rag. Putting my long-unwashed clothes on felt almost as bad, but I didn't want to walk around the apartment naked, and the clean pyjamas I found on the bed made me feel like a patient in a mental hospital, for some reason. They would probably insist I changed into something for tomorrow, anyway, but my old stuff would have to do for now.

Getting some sleep was a good idea that also turned out to be impossible. I lost count of the times I had changed position on the all-too-comfortable bed, wishing my trailer was somewhere within reach, not parked on the other end of the city. Finally, I managed to doze off after moving my pillow and blanket onto the floor. My dreams that night I couldn't remember, which was probably for the best.

#

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yes," I lied to the smiling face of the same young man who had interviewed me yesterday, a Dr Reese. He looked so genuinely happy to see me that I would've hated to let him down.

"Excited about today?"

"Very." That one was at least partially true. I felt a mixture of anxiety, curiosity and a weird resignation that I couldn't put my finger on. I could understand being resigned to a fate chosen for me by someone else. But I had volunteered. This was my choice, made with full awareness of the risks… and the rewards.

Contrary to my expectations, I was not asked to change clothes, or answer any more questions. On the way from the entrance to the experiment room, Reese chattered excitedly about the machine being fully prepared, the information provided by me yesterday being very helpful, oh, and did he mention how fortunate it was to have a participant without any academic training, oh no, that came out all wrong, he never meant to offend me, who was a very bright woman, all he meant was my lack of background in exact sciences, with more inclination towards, ah, practical application. I assured him that no offence was taken and that collecting scrap metal for a living didn't require a degree. He seemed to be appeased by the knowledge that I hadn't been insulted.

The room itself wasn't anywhere as big as I had been expecting, nothing like the various impressive setups of old science fiction movies. In fact, it was actually a movie theater that the place made me think of – a movie theater with only one seat, that is. I told as much to Reese, who was busy attaching some wires to my wrists and temples.

"Your analogy actually isn't very far off. Except that you're more of a projectionist than a viewer here. Your mind is the film reel. And these," he gestured at the walls at either side, "are the projectors."

"They look a bit like amps, actually."

"Amps?"

"You know, speakers. Amplifiers."

"Oh, that's another delightful analogy there. In a way, they are. They will amplify your thoughts, your mental processes, and we will see the result in the actualizer. That will be our movie screen. And yours, too."

"So what are the wires for?"

"Just to monitor your vitals. Now, I'm going to leave you here-"

"Wait, you never told me what to actually do!"

"Nothing. You don't need to do anything. You can't do anything, for that matter. The machine will simply use what it finds in your mind."

"Well, do I need to think of anything in particular, at least?"

Reese shook his head.

"Think of anything you want. It won't make a difference. Your unconscious will do all the work, and you can sit back and watch what it creates. No one can enter the room while the machine is working, but I will keep in touch with you through this earpiece."

I put the earpiece on and leaned to the back of the chair. Somewhere behind me, a door closed. A short time later, I heard a humming noise. Looking around, I realized it was coming from the speaker-like panels on the walls, which seemed to be moving closer to me.

They were moving closer to me. I looked around nervously, trying to estimate how far it was to the door, and how long it would take me to leap out of the chair and reach the exit, were the walls to keep closing in.

"Don't be alarmed," Reese's voice informed me from the earpiece. "The walls will create an enclosure about ten feet wide, then stop."

"Could've told me before," I muttered, still shooting a nervous glance at the walls. Soon enough, they stopped just as Reese had predicted, and the hum died down when movement ceased. Silence persisted for a while, and then there was light.

It was probably coming from the walls, but it seemed to come from everywhere, and be everywhere at once, not bright enough to blind, but just enough to become irritating after a while. I closed my eyes and found that it made no difference whatsoever. Now I fully understood what Reese meant by comparing my mind to a film reel – I was well and truly projected through, by the light that felt almost tangible, seeming to electrify my body, one cell at a time.

The resulting feeling, even though it took a little getting used to, wasn't pain or even anything more than slight discomfort. Keeping my eyes open was easy now that I knew that closing them didn't change anything. Besides, I now had every reason to keep looking. Something was happening on the screen.

"Look!" Reese's excited voice sounded in my ear. "Look closely!"

But I was already looking as hard as I could. In front of me was the image of a tree, appearing to be projected onto the screen, but it took me a few seconds to realize it was three-dimensional rather than flat. A miniature maple tree, its leaves and branches moving with non-existent wind, was on the screen that I could now see was not a screen at all, but a large glass box with a white back wall.

"This is extraordinary," Reese from my earpiece just as a metal hand appeared from somewhere beyond the top of the box and retrieved the tree. "It's in front of me now, it's fully tangible, and it shows no signs of deterioration after being removed from the actualizer. Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Julia Wenscombe and I have just created a life form."

I could hear applause at the other end, a different male voice saying 'that’s one way to do it, I suppose', and an explosion of laughter.

I was staring ahead of me blankly. This was something I had been told. That was what Project Athena was all about. Materializing thought. Creating tangible things out of the intangible.

What I had not been told was that life could also be created this way.

"Julia? Julia, are you alright? Your heart rate went up. Can you hear me?"

"Yes, yes, I can hear you. I'm fine. Excited, that's all."

"Oh, you should be. Would you like to stay there for a little longer and see if anything else happens- I mean, it shouldn't be dangerous, all your vitals are still in check, and the tree is looking great, too, but if you'd rather leave-"

"I'll stay."

'That's one way to do it', the unseen man had said. For me, that was the only way.

"Julia, what have you DONE?"

I stared at the white screen at the back of the actualizer. Now that it was empty again, it seemed impossible that something had been created in it, out of nothing but my thought. I had been expecting the experiment to be a complete failure, further proof of the fact that I had nothing left in me capable of creating anything at all. Let alone life.

A matchstick would've made me happy. It would've been just enough for me to see that there was a spark left there somewhere, that I wasn't yet dead throughout.

And instead, there was the tree. Real. Living. A life form. A life.

"It was a LIFE, Julia, a life that we had created!"

"It would not have HAD a life!"

I closed my eyes.

"Julia? Can you hear me?"

"Yes, I can hear you."

"Maybe we should stop for now."

"Is there nothing?"

"Uh… I don't think it's working out. We can try again later. Julia? Julia?"

Reese's voice sounded more worried by the second, but I wasn't answering, staring into the glass box of the actualizer, at the thing that was floating in mid-air in it. Halfway recognizable as a child- no, a baby- no, a fetus, but malformed, misshapen, as if it had been taken apart and then put back together by an inexpert hand that forced things to mold together when they wouldn't fit otherwise.

"Not the point? First there, and then ten years of running around the wastelands! Ten years of fallout, Jack! What kind of a child do you think we could POSSIBLY have?"

"Julia, listen to me. Don't worry. Everything's fine. We'll just remove this, and then you can go get some rest. Don't worry. We'll take it away. It'll only take a few moments. Then it's going to be okay. You-"

"-won't feel a thing."

I screamed as a red-hot metal grip closed around my wrist. Another one grabbed my head. Through the pain, I could smell burning hair.

"What's happening? This shouldn't be happening, what- why- Julia! Take the object out of the actualizer, quick!"

The malformed creature flailed against the metal hands holding it. Gash after gash appeared on my arms.

"No, wait! Let go of it! Let go of that thing right now!"

I collapsed back into the chair, feeling my spine relax. The burning pain was still there, as were the wounds on my arms, but at least no new ones appeared.

"Julia, can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"I don't know how this happened, I don't know what went wrong, but I don't think we can take you out of there yet. The machine can't be switched off when there's still something in the actualizer, and it looks like we can't take that thing out without- er…"

Killing me.

"It's not ready yet. Give me some time. I can-"

"Make it right? How can you make it right? There's nothing LEFT to make right!"

"I can make it right…" I didn't care if Reese, or anyone else, heard my whisper.

The digital clock in the corner of the actualizer blinked green, showing two ones and two zeros.

The digital clock in the corner of the actualizer blinked green, showing a one and three twos.

The digital clock in the corner of the actualizer blinked green, showing a one and three fives.

"Jack…"

"What? What did you say?"

"Bring Jack here."

"But where- how-"

"BRING HIM HERE!" I screamed with what strength I had and fell to the back of the seat again, sobbing quietly.

The thing- no, the fetus- no, the baby was still floating in mid-air. I heard that new mothers always said their child was beautiful. Mine wasn't. It was no longer the molten lump of flesh, but neither was it a regular shape of a human newborn. The arms seemed too long, and there was something wrong with the legs. But it- she had a face. And she was looking at me.

I knew I was going to die. I just wished they could find Jack. So I could give back to him what I had taken away. It might not be the same, but it was the best I could do.

The digital clock in the corner of the actualizer blinked.

"-can't go in there, it's too dangerous, sir-"

"Julia!"

For the first time in hours, I was hearing a human voice that didn't come through the earpiece.

"Julia, my god, what's- Your arms! We need to get you out of here- what?"

I didn't have the strength to speak, so all I could do was keep pointing to the actualizer with my eyes, until Jack's head turned to follow my look.

"A- Athena…"

The one word I managed to get out seemed to be enough for him to understand.

"Just hold on."

There was no way to stay out of the light in the small enclosure created by the walls of thought amplifiers, but Jack pushed my chair as far back as it would go, taking my place in the middle. It was almost as if the machine was more eager to feed on his thought, fresher and stronger than mine, as the light around him seemed to grow brighter, taking on a silvery blue shade. Electric light. Of course. Funny how I never realized what it was before.

My first memory was of a big white dog licking my face. As first memories went, one could do worse. My last one would be of Jack standing there bathed in lightning that reflected in the eyes of our daughter. As last memories went, one couldn't do better.

#

"Morning."

I squint at the light pouring in from the open tent flap.

"Morning, Jack. Where's Thene?"

"Running around with some kids. Turns out that the place we picked for the night is also where one of the caravans stops on the way north."

"Are they okay? They won't hurt her or anything?"

"The last I saw of them, they were begging to be taken on a ride 'in that shiny wheelchair that's, like, awesome, seriously, man, totally rad'." Jack chuckles. "You'd think 'rad' wouldn't be a good word anymore, but maybe it's a bit like 'sick' or 'crazy'. Both of which they already declared her to be, by the way."

"They called her sick?"

"Yes, and she shone like an isotope when she heard it, so I think they meant it in a good way."

I clamber out of the tent and don't even have enough time to stretch before being knocked to the ground by a ballistic wheelchair.

"Whoops! Sorry, Mom!" Thene giggles and delivers a light smack to the back of the head of a boy who is picking himself up from the ground. "I TOLD you not to mess with the speed controls! No more rides for you."

"Oh, come on…" the boy whines. Thene ignores him as she drives in circles around me and Jack.

"Can I ride with the caravan kids for today? Please, Mom? They're going in the same direction anyway!"

"Only if your father thinks it's okay."

"Daddy?"

"Oh, alright. Just be careful and don't knock anyone else over, okay?"

"Promise!" She's gone in a flurry of shiny wheel spokes. The boy follows suit, shouting for her to wait. Jack lifts me back to my feet.

"She seems so happy," I say quietly, looking at the dust clouds raised by Thene's wheelchair as she is now playing tag with the no-longer ignored boy.

"She is happy, Julia."

"Do you think she hates us? Or just me?"

Jack shakes his head.

"No."

"Not even a little? Not even sometimes?"

"Not even a little. Not even sometimes."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"What do you think?"

"I think…" Jack strokes the uneven skin on my arms and kisses me just above my left ear, where the hair never quite grew back. "I think that you're the bravest and most beautiful woman I've ever met, and Athena is the most amazing child in the world."

"Do you really think so?"

He nods. I believe him.