CultureCult Magazine (Issue #9)

WINTER 2018

THE COMEBACK ISSUE

#

9

Contents Issue Nine

A Magazine of Arts, Literature & Culture JAY CHAKRAVARTI (Jagannath) Editorial Team S. DUBOIS || SHANKAR BHUSHAN Layout Design JAY CHAKRAVARTI © CULTURECULT Published by Jagannath Chakravarti from 11/1, Khanpur Road, Kolkata - 700047, West Bengal, India. All rights reserved. No part of this magazine can be reprinted/reused in its entire form or in part without the written permission of the publisher.

Cover Art: Jay Chakravarti culturecultmagazine.wixsite.com/home CultureCult Magazine is presented by

Volume Three ● Number One ● Winter 2018

Editor

E DIT O RIAL A RT I C LE S

DIBYAJIT MUKHERJEE Understanding the essence of Fascism: A Marxist Analysis

JAY CHAKRAVARTI Tintin: Down the Rabbit Hole

BLACK NOISE

18 12

SERI A L NOVELLA

TOTI O’BRIEN General Gate (Part 1)

POETRY

45 83 11 48 04 37 63 47 55 59 94 06 46

02

72

DRAMAS

ALAN CHERIAN

DAVID-MATTHEW BARNES

ALEX R. ENCOMIENDA

The Snack Queens

ARATHY ASOK

MICHAEL VERDERBER ARRR PG

90 22

AVA BIRD FICT IO NS

BENJAMIN BLAKE

JULIA BENALLY

BOB McNEIL

Kittylyn

ROHIT SAWANT

CARLA M. CHERRY

John Doe

DARREN C. DEMAREE

SCARLETT R. ALGEE Patient 49

GLEN ARMSTRONG

LINDA M. CRATE LYNN WHITE

49 67

SHO RT FI CT I O NS

JARED MORNINGSTAR KAIKASI V S

38

57 88 16

CON CHAPMAN REX BUTTERS SCOTT THOMAS OUTLAR SERGIO A. ORTIZ

Shiny Things

MICHAEL CHIN (Five linked short fiction)

PETER COWLAM Combat

60 95 85

EDITORIAL THE CultureCult TEAM

Beginnings and Comebacks Born in a society where there is no dearth of inherently good individuals striving to push the collective human race towards a higher state of cultural consciousness, CultureCult is yet another drop in the vast ocean of concepts that are designed with a view as polysemous as they come.

We have no more sense of what the future holds for us than the nameless author of the Altamira cave-painting who set out to depict a lively bison in all her natural, artistic grace.

We wish to be no more than a platform of expression, kindling the spark of creative inspiration like a black canvas of a dark cave wall in some timeless era.

Cover of the FIRST ISSUE of CultureCult Magazine

Politically sceptic, thematically indulgent, socially extrovert and theologically ‘open‘, CultureCult is a tangible extension of the modern thinking mind that is yet to define itself within the structural confines of a predetermined -ism.

We intend to be a ceaseless work-in-progress that will both strive to attain perfection and know in its heart of hearts that perfection is not something that can be achieved or sustained as easily as working towards it with a faithless heart.

The leap is to have faith in the written word.

There is no better time to take the leap. []

The Editorial piece of our first issue (October 2015) has been republished here

ART: The famed bison of the Altamira cave paintings

ART: Jay Chakravarti

POETRY BENJAMIN

BLAKE

Chimerical Stumbling into this diffused dream Gilded rays of light Caress forgotten skin The forsaken do their time, naturally And I have drowned myself in the fountain of youth Many times over Her lily-sweet breath Expelled the water from my lungs Those delicate fingers Dressing wounds in clean bandages And her lips pressed soft Against the flesh of my cheek Awoken to a nightmare Laid bare upon cold stone A heart beating in a clawed hand And losing more blood by the second []

Axe & Scythe Driving through endless cornfields Grain silos sprout from their midst An overcast Midwestern afternoon Grey clouds stretched for miles The old farmhouse sits somewhere around here Sags on its weary piles, long abandoned Once home to a hardworking, honest family And as the story goes The First Nebraska Bank sent word Of seizing the well-kept house and grounds Father, mother, two lovely little girls Sent into a state of irreparable shock Days of cellar-distilled whiskey Has rendered him spent of body and mind Until one fateful moonlit night He took a scythe to those cherubic daughters And an axe to his weeping wife Finally, taking his own life By hanging from the rafters Nothing left But the creak of wood And the south-pointed toes of scuffed boots Swaying softly in a phantom breeze []

Transitory Behind the wheel of an old Cadillac Coffee and cigarettes keeping me awake Along with the cassette in the car stereo And the hum of the blacktop Beneath the tires

ART: The Pine Trees screen (Shōrin-zu byōbu) is a pair of six-panel folding screens (byōbu) by the Japanese artist Hasegawa Tōhaku. The precise date for the screens is not known, but they were clearly made in the late 16th century, in the Momoyama period, around 1595. The screens are held by the Tokyo National Museum, and were designated as a National Treasure of Japan in 1952. [Info: Wiki]

Road signs and all night diners Long distance phone calls And photographs taken Of small, fleeting things A sky strewn with countless stars The cold sundown of the desert Finding warmth in blankets and booze And the promise of the rising sun I once had dreams Of falling in love Now I only wish For a life lived True to one’s own heart []

Empty Picture Frames Volcanic tips of cigarettes The center of their ashtray universe Burning deep into the night Reality/Unreality It’s one in the same for this ineffectual mind Where’s Freud when you actually need him?

One must hope that this is right: Dreams are worth dying for The alternative would be Death []

Mayflowers Loose-stemmed girls in summer dresses Partaking in something Quite extraordinary As the dogs run rampant Over croquet courts And somewhere A father wipes at a stray tear Spilling down his greying cheek With hands that won’t seem to stop trembling []

BENJAMIN BLAKE was born in the July of 1985, and grew up in the small town of Eltham, New Zealand. He is the author of the poetry and prose collections, A Prayer

for Late October, Southpaw Nights, Reciting Shakespeare with the Dead, and Standing on the Threshold of Madness, and the novel, The Devil's Children. Find more of his work at www.benjaminblake.com

POETRY L I N D A M. C R A T E

rid the world of ruin i will not surrender my divinity to fit in any cage or box no one will ever chain me to their need, and i am done crucifying my heart so others can drink my blood like wine; i am who i am and i won't be ashamed to be wild, fierce, intense, and passionate— my heart i use for love and light so there is no shame in the song that is my name so many people will say they know me perhaps they know of me, but so few truly know; so many fools eager to wag their tongues not enough people listening to what's really being said they'll twist and contort anything to fit their needs regardless of the truth— i am here to burn through empty words and nightmares because this world is dark enough there is no more room for evil monsters i was the valkyrie sent to rid the world of this ruin. []

ART: “Lucretia”

by Artemisia Gentileschi

06 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

LINDA M. CRATE is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville.

Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has five published chapbooks, the latest being Splintered with terror (Scars Publications, January 2018).

i will break you with your ruin they love to kick me from their lofty thrones acting as if they are kings or maybe gods, but i don't mind using their sceptres as the very weapon to break them; there is no truth in their words and their lack of empathy or heart doesn't impress me it is no talent to be dead before your time— glazed eyed zombies always with a speck of reality and a thousand lies drunk on the thought they're brilliant in some way their arrogance oozes like the crap that

comes from their mouth they've forgotten the purpose of lips so they use it as a second ass, and i cannot tell you my disgust; their lack of depth and shallowness makes it all the easier for me to sever ties and i do especially the people that tell me that i can't— i am rooted so deep within myself don't need anyone who cannot bloom with honest flowers for themselves because it means they won't be honest to me, and i will not sit at the table with liars who promise me forevers they don't even mean. []

Artemisia Gentileschi was an Italian Baroque painter, today considered one of the most accomplished painters in the generation following that of Caravaggio. In an era when female painters were not easily accepted by the artistic community or patrons, she was the first woman to become a member of the Accademia di Arte del Disegno in Florence and had international clientele.

ART: “Judith Slaying Holofernes”

by Artemisia Gentileschi

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 07

i am a name this familiar hell won't do for me anymore i know i am meant to do more in this life than be bored and chored with the very day Artemisia Gentileschi specialized in painting pictures of strong and suffering women from myths, allegories, and the Bible - victims, suicides, warriors. Some of her best known themes are Susanna and the Elders, Judith Slaying Holofernes and Judith and Her Maidservant

i have been given want this unknown heaven i've been dreaming of ready to break this vile spell because i want more than medocrity i will never praise it will choose a better reality than the fantasy they profit from my narrative will be my own i am done being just another cog in the machine let the machine break for all i care because frankly my dear i don't give a damn the status quo can exist without me i am a name not a number. []

ART: “Mary Magdalene in Ecstasy�

by Artemisia Gentileschi

08 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

ocean of light they have always criticized me Artemisia Gentileschi was known for being able to convincingly depict the female figure, anywhere between nude and fully clothed. Artemisia was also famous for her skill and talent in handling colour, both overall in the composition but also in building depth.

ART: “Allegory of Painting�

by Artemisia Gentileschi

because i've never wanted anything rational my dreams exist in me as a guide won't rest until i make them a reality i know that they don't believe in me, but i believe in myself i have seen how i can push it harder and to a higher level; will always make them crow when they speak ill of me because my dreams are higher than their iq, and if they are speaking behind my back it only means they're behind me my eyes face forward so there's no need to look them in the face; i know better than to walk backwards the past can only grant me ghosts and i don't do haunted houses so i will just keep walking there are so many beautiful dawns and sunsets i have yet to experience won't be dragged down to their level of immaturity because monsters reign a plenty, and i am the girl meant to slay all the nightmares with the power of her heart and her dreams and they've never met any ocean of light deeper than me. []

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 09

ART: “Self-Portrait as the Allegory of Painting”

by Artemisia Gentileschi

i won’t be silenced i am the keeper of golden moons no one will tear me from my cosmos into the chaos of this world because i have too much to lose if i unravel myself because like any star i can burn, but i was born to shine; won't allow anyone to steal my luster my dreams are mine and mine alone— they can try to break me into a thousand pieces, and bury me beneath the sea; but still like air i'll rise i find that i don't need the approval nor entitlement of the masses which so often is spelled with a silent m— my destiny is my own, and my voice will not be silenced; i am who i am don't really care if you approve or not because i will not issue an apology for who i am there's a reason and a method behind my every madness that you would dismiss so i won't kiss you with the petals of my heart but rather the thorns because anyone who wants to stop me: won't. []

10 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

The fact that Artemisia Gentileschi was a woman painting in the seventeenth century and that she was raped as a young woman by Agostino Tassi and participated in the prosecution of her rapist long overshadowed her achievements as an artist. For many years she was regarded as a curiosity. Today she is regarded as one of the most progressive and expressive painters of her generation. [Info: Wiki]

POETRY

Hope She writes all the lines

ARATHY

ASOK

As they said she has to.

She closed the doors before She cut up Flesh blood and bones And filed them then Under the earth Where the trees bloomed red flowers Dripping honey eyes That kept looking Looking At the sky For children who swam the skies To reach safe shores. []

ARATHY ASOK currently teaches at Government Victoria College, Palakkad, Kerala, India. She has published poems in national and international journals and is currently working on a book of poems and short stories.

Knowing There can be different ways to lose.

The war is always fought before the fight, Inside the mind, the borderlands of hate Where winning is the proof of how much you put to dust, Another sound, another mind, another dream.

It has no trace. It thins out.

History forgets; Till someone from a forgotten land decides to walk back the sand dunes of time And find with shock, truths half buried where they could not strangle it.

There is always a tomorrow. Too late. [] ART: “Hope�

by George Frederic Watts

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 11

ARTICLE JAY CHAKRAVARTI

Down The Rabb

it Hole

JAY CHAKRAVARTI (Jagannath) is the editor of CulureCult Magazine

My first foray into the world of Tintin was with The Black Island, in hindsight a rather reticent little masterpiece that shines in parts but pales in comparison when put beside the pure fun of several of its peers. To begin with, it is missing the delightful appearance of Captain Haddock, neither is it benefitted by the presence of any favourite guest such as a Bianca Castafiore or General Alcazar, although the bumbling detectives Thomson and Thompson made quite the lasting impact.

It had, however, enough visual and storytelling panache to capture the imagination of a six-year-old to revisit the book multiple times in the course of a year.

12 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

Fake currencies, nasty little plans to murder the young reporter, a drunk Snowy and a mysterious island no one returns from – it had elements galore to whip up several re-reads in secret and I even remember the stray proverb I seemed to have picked up from that particular Tintin comic: “Necessity is the mother of invention”.

Anonymously translated into lucid and thoroughly entertaining prose by the versatile genius Nirendranath Chakraborty, the Tintin series in Bengali revealed to me the colourful world of the brilliant Belgian journalist who never backed down in the face of injus-

tice and always managed to keep a cool head, even in the snows of Tibet, searching for a friend whom the world believed to be dead and gone.

It was a while after I read the bittersweet Tintin in Tibet (where the abominable snowman turns out to be the Samaritan Yeti) and the conspiratorial Seven Crystal Balls/Prisoners of the Sun that I was inducted into the Tintin fare that any article looking to eulogise Hergé and his beloved creation must not speak of.

I must confess that even as a proverbial fan, I have never had the urge to go ahead and pick the very first Tintin comic ever produced. While it’s black and white interior can be traced to its marginal unpopularity,

the work that is definitely far more embarrassing than Tintin in the Land of the Soviets happened to be the second ‘album’ in the series where Tintin visits the Congo, participates in big-game hunting, comes forward as a saviour of the indigenous tribes in a way that critic Tom McCarthy goes on to refer to as “a kind of God” by exposing the fraud Babaorum witch-doctor Muganga.

Even as McCarthy ends up equating Tintin to a Prospero or a even a Kurtz from Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, it is perhaps easier to concur with Hergé biographer Pierre Assouline’s view of Tintin being rather like a “boy scout” out on a day of African adventure rather than a representative of the “civilized” Bel-

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 13

gian state out to impose its way on the natives, as claimed by Jean-Marie Apostolidès in his psychoanalytical study of the Tintin adventures.

Nevertheless, even if one deems it fair to absolve the boy reporter of his digressions, it is difficult to overlook the fact that at the time Hergé was penning Tintin in the Congo (1931-32), alternative narrations were beginning to emerge as far as the black African milieu was concerned. Of course, it could have been really simple for the young Hergé to rather tap into the populist sentiments of the time and of course, listen to his boss Norbert Wallez, a proud fascist who would carry a signed photograph of Benito Mussolini with himself wherever he went and who also happened to be the editor of the newspaper Le Vingtième Siècle.

It was in the Thursday children’s supplement of this newspaper, Le Petit Vingtième (The Little Twentieth), that Hergé had the privilege of publishing the first adventures of Tintin, including Tintin in Congo.

Norbert Wallez would eventually be removed from his position as editor come 1933, but not before he made the 25-year-old Georges Prosper Remi aka Hergé marry his assistant Germaine Kieckens in a union neither of them were reportedly happy with.

The two would eventually divorce forty five years later.

TINTIN IN AMERICA In 2018, Tintin in America runs the risk of appearing as a social discourse in the disguise of parody. The methods in which the young reporter is continually framed and Tintin’s similarly wily escapes are reminiscent of any Wile E. Coyote roadrunner quickie or a hilarious Tom and Jerry framework, even as they are underlined by themes that are vehemently critical of white American supremacy, capitalism and organized crime.

The particular album was essentially penned for an ultra-conservative readership in Belgium that despised capitalist ideals but was equally abhorred by the concept of a socialist state, a dying breed who would finally give up on their glory days as World War II would come to a boisterous close and the great empires would topple one over the other for good.

14 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

The series of books that would eventually make me adopt an attitude towards the Belgian reporter that comes perilously close to the American concept of ‘fandom’ were, however, ones that took the young reporter on grand scales of adventure that were as topheavy with intrigue as they were sprinkled with biting satire and a swashbuckling quality of adventure about them.

Consider the full page spreads from The Crab with the Golden Claws for a moment, or the sheer element of mystery in Cigars of the Pharaoh. One need not rely on a sly political smirk alone to get swamped up in the narcotic mystery that has everything from Egyptian tombs to secret societies and ancient plots to kill Indian Maharajahs in its 62-page structure. One is liable to find it intriguing, of course, that a sequence in the album portrays a group of Hindu men nearly sacrificing Snowy on the altar for chasing down a ‘holy’ cow. Many citizens in recent years have proven to be not as lucky as the white terrier, in our great secular nation.

The sheer cultural diversity that comes across in Tintin’s pages speaks to the lengths its creator would go to ensure that Tintin’s trips across the globe are journeys for readers to remember for a lifetime. The virulent roller coaster rides take Tintin to the Amazon in The Broken Ear; he can be found chasing goons and rescuing the son of an Arabian Emir in Land of Black Gold. The boundaries set by the Earth’s atmosphere is surpassed (before humanity could) as Tintin makes a remarkable trip to the Moon, beautifully enunciated by Hergé in double header albums.

Hergé’s penchant for crossing genres has produced works of polarising gravity, including a quaint juvenile mystery such as The Castafiore Emerald. The same man has sent his favourite creation underwater in search of lost pirate treasure. The genre of science fiction has not been far behind either, with The Shooting Star and The Calculus Affair being cases in point.

TINTIN: POLITICALLY CORRECT The Belgian investigative reporter comes into his finest act as he gradually manages to overthrow his merely observational ways and transfers the same to the new

boy-scout figure in the series instead. Captain Archibald Haddock may very well be best remembered for his hilarious antics and potty mouth but he is also the representative of a generation past that still dreams of conquering the seas and revels in the manners of the olden days (as touched upon in Steven Spielberg’s 2011 film).

With the sceptre of bygone days transferred to his bearded friend, Tintin moves forward in a fashion that is (oddly enough) politically poetic, and perhaps indicative of the problematic ‘white man to the rescue scenario’ too.

However, it is tremendously difficult to not enjoy and revel in the bloodless political coup conducted primarily by Tintin on behalf of his old friend General Alcazar. In Tintin in the land of the Picaros, Tintin is never the man after the throne and is instead thrown into a situation where he has to help an old friend and his ragtag group of revolutionaries successfully overthrow a government. The manner in which the reporter stages the carnivalesque coup is something only a South American ‘banana republic’ setting could provide Hergé, and it works its charms till the very last frame. In my humble opinion, Tintin in the land of the Picaros has no peer in the Hergé oeuvre, even as themes as politically

polarising as supporting one dictator instead of the other might disturb a neoliberal mind.

The good Arabian Emir in Land of Black Gold, and his mischievous son Abdullah are dominoes in a strange political puzzle too, showing the hierarchical nature of the Emirates and the realities of how far a rich little kid can go to fulfil his childish desires. It is with great pleasure that fans of the series would recall how the outrageously mischievous Abdullah dodges the criminals and the good guys alike with punches and threats, for he is the son of the rich and powerful Emir.

Thus, it is entirely welcome to the readers when Captain Haddock finally loses his (already short) temper and indulges in a classic method of delivering corporal punishment to the spoilt little brat. * Even as we keep putting our objects of admiration and desire in front of lenses anew to determine, time and again, whether they deserve our unconditional faith and love, I find it oddly comforting to equate Tintin to not only the child in me, but perhaps the one in Hergé himself: struggling, faltering and finally succeeding to make some odd sense of life. Well, as long as one restricts oneself to 62 pages, of course. []

A full page spread from The Crab with the Golden Claws

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 15

POETRY S E R G I O A. O R T I Z

SERGIO A. ORTIZ is a two-time Pushcart nominee, a six-time Best of the Web nominee, and 2016/17 Best of the Net nominee. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Valparaiso Poetry Review, Loch Raven Review, Drunk Monkeys, Algebra Of Owls, Free State Review, and The Paragon Journal. His chapbook, An Animal Resembling Desire, will be published by Finishing Line Press. He is currently working on his first full -length collection of poems, Elephant Graveyard.

Discomfort Ashes were always in view, sparkling, grainy ashes, a tribute to our reluctance, to the future of those yet-unheard goodbyes. We carried the endearing discomfort of tears flowing like minuscule markers over each other’s shadows, tracking our miseries with solemn tenderness.

This was our treasure, mystery, and mighty force.

What we are, and were always meant to be: scarred tissue, tears falling over the wars fanned by fires that kept us joyfully alive. []

16 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

Let's talk about us We’re not simple, we're vulgar.

I'm not sad or happy about this, my resentment is made up of frost, understand me?

We need very little.

For example, more time to kiss two or three other mouths without committing.

We need plausible passion in the background of what we’re willing to receive, maybe loyalty and commitment.

But we’re soft and stupid, and never stop crying.

Mud drags the earth that unites us. We’re misery of infinite nothingness, and everything’s understandable frost. []

Under a Beech Tree Dancing through stillness the stars learn of the bleak future of thinking.

Possibilities unknown, they cross the cosmic streets, flaunt their lives, their afterlives, cling to sensations when physical bodies are absent. Bodies used to hearing songs while lying on Mexican blankets, drinking poems, reading wine, heads stuck in the heavens. []

Lovers these days Both dressed in impudence.

Blue jeans glued to their thighs.

Beards, shaved heads, so young it was scary, absorbed by an imaginary point, never seeing each other, joined by nothing, or something so fiercely pure it couldn’t be seen.

Walked hand in hand to all places.

Loved without sadness, or joy, or anything else. Looked at each other yet saw nothing. Sat on a bench without hearing each other.

One, very attractive but stunned, the other fierce and emaciated.

They didn't talk, had nothing to say.

Together without any desire, frightened, yet still holding hands. []

The Tumble The man falls and I didn't even know it.

He said, today he distills the sugars in his life by facing the sun in the park in front of his house.

Counts on the image of his two-stroke perfect existence.

The sun bathing on his skin, the same rays touching us all.

Its caress sets the stage for survival. Tap on to his life for the details of those days.

I couldn't recognize the battle in his voice, the sigh I understood was his first time.

He tells me: Man falls. []

ART: Steve Johnson

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 17

ARTICLE DIBYAJIT MUKHERJEE

UNDERSTANDING THE ESSENCE OF

FASCISM A MARXIST ANALYSIS The history of fascism is at the same time the history of the theoretical analysis of fascism.

The concurrence of the appearance of a new social phenomenon and of the attempt to understand it is more striking in the case of fascism than in any other of modern history - Ernest Mandel

The capitalist state machine, when stripped of its inessential features, can be reduced, in the words of Engels, to “armed bodies of men”. Even in its most “democratic” form of parliamentary democracy, the state continues to possess its police force, army, judges, prison wardens and bureaucracy to safeguard the power of the ruling class. In other words, capitalist democracy is really just the disguised dictatorship of the banks and monopolies. For them, this method of class rule is the most stable form of bourgeois state. So long as they are able to continue to rule by these means, the ruling class has no need to resort to fascism or open dictatorship. In times of acute crisis, however, this is not always a viable option. Under such circumstances, where the capitalist politicians are too weak and discredited to rule by the old methods, and where the working class is not ready to take power, the state can assume great powers and the “armed bodies of men” can rise above the classes.

Splits and divisions open up in the ruling class as they squabble about how to proceed. Only a revolutionary party can end this deadlock and offer a way forward.

However, if the workers organisations are not up to the task, the initiative can fall to a party of “law and order”,

18 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

balancing between the classes, and rising itself up as an independent arbiter. Marx described this as the “rule of the sword”. The prime task of such a regime is to defend the existing capitalist property relations, while taking a slice of the loot for themselves.

This regime is what Marxists call Bonapartism, or military-police dictatorship, after the dictator Napoleon Bonaparte. The “Bonaparte” balances between the different classes and groups, playing one off against the other but always coming down on the side of private property. There have been many of these military juntas at different times and different countries throughout the twentieth century, from Greece in the 1960s and Chile and Argentina in the 1970s, as well as in the latter years of Franco’s Spain and Salazar's Portugal until their overthrow. Bonapartism is a product of complete instability and reflects an insoluble crisis within society. However, even Bonapartism can prove insufficient to resolve the problem. It can keep the lid on things for a time, but sooner or later it becomes exhausted. In the 20th Century epoch of world wars and revolutions, capitalism gave birth to new forms of reaction, more ruthless and terrifying than before. The decay of the capitalist system

gave rise to armed hoodlum gangs with which to counter the working class, intimidate and murder its representatives, destroy its organisations and undermine its resolve. The Black Hundreds in Russia and the Freikorps in Germany were examples of such auxiliaries to the organs of state repression. However, even these counter-revolutionary gangs, which employed ruthless terrorism, were not strong enough to completely smash the workers’ organisations. This required something special; it required a mass fascist movement.

No ruling class in history has been squeamish in acting ruthlessly to defend its power and privileges. For example, a point was reached in the crisis in Europe between the two world wars when the very existence of the workers organisations was deemed incompatible with the existence of capitalism. The trade unions and workers’ parties were considered an obstacle to the enslavement of the working class. Resolving this problem for the bosses could not be accomplished by laws or decrees from on high. This task required the services of fascism, a mass movement of reaction, based upon a frenzied middle class and what Marx called the lumpen proletariat, the most ground-down, disorganised and backward elements of the working class, ready in the

words of Trotsky to “believe in miracles”. Its system of informers and spies penetrate into every housing block, institution and school. Its mass base allows it to penetrate far deeper into the fabric of society than any military-police regime. This is its most distinguishing feature in being a mass movement of counter-revolution. Unlike a military police state, which lacks a mass social base, fascism destroys all vestiges of democratic rights and organisation and atomises the working class.

The fascist bands are recruited from the dregs of society, those ruined by capitalism, peasants bled white by the banks and monopolies, the most demoralised elements of the long term unemployed, de-classed and criminal elements, desperately seeking a way out of their misery. This human trash is fed with demagogy and poison against the greedy bankers and workers’ organisations. They provide the shock troops of the counterrevolution. First of all, fascism triumphed in Italy, where the bands of cutthroats organised by Mussolini, armed and financed by the capitalists, took revenge for the revolutionary factory occupations in 1920. Step by step they bombed and murdered their way to power. In Germany, following the betrayal of the revolutionary wave from 1918 to 1923, the fascists were used to terrorise

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 19

France, May 1968: A factory occupation

the workers. Eventually, as the crisis reached fever pitch, finance capital poured huge resources into the Hitler movement. They had come to the conclusion that only the destruction of the powerful German workers’ movement would resolve the situation in their favour. With the full compliance of the bourgeois state, they unleashed the fascist counter-revolution, which led to the victory of Hitler in 1933. The bourgeoisie had relinquished state power into the hands of the Fascist brigands and gangsters. The fascist regimes of Hitler, Mussolini as well as Franco in Spain destroyed all visible opposition to the rule of capital. All resistance was broken.

However, as soon as fascism is victorious, the state betrays its social base and degenerates into a Bonapartist regime, propped up by the inertia following the catastrophe. The ruling class is politically expropriated, having lost control over its state. This is a heavy price to pay for saving capitalism. That is why when employing reaction the bourgeoisie prefers the rule through the generals rather than the fascists. The generals are more reliable, linked by marriage, education, social connections, to the banks and monopolies.

Today, in comparison to the pre-war period, the

20 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

working class is a thousand times stronger. The class balance of forces is weighted overwhelmingly in its favour. The peasantry has been reduced to a tiny proportion in most countries, if it has not been eliminated entirely. The middle class professionals in, such as the civil servants, bank clerks and teachers have become increasingly proletarianised. In Europe the students, who had overwhelmingly fascist sympathies in the pre-war period, are today firmly on the side of the working class and look towards the left1. This means that the classic social reserves of fascism have been completely undermined by the very march of capitalism. Any attempt by the bourgeois even to turn to a military police state would be met today with general strikes and civil war, in which they would not be confident of winning. The ruling class also burned its fingers over Hitler and the fascists and would not be keen on repeating the experience.

Then they lost half of Germany to the USSR as a consequence.

Right-wing anti-immigrant parties have certainly increased in Europe but this cannot be compared to the rise of fascism in the 1930s. Far from it, even if these right-wing parties succeeded in coming to power, they

would act like any traditional bourgeois party. The working class is certainly not defeated and would resist any move in this direction. In fact, a Le Pen government, if it ever came to power, would not be able to solve the problems and would lose support very quickly. It would not stabilise the situation for French capitalism but, on the contrary, would destabilise it, bringing workers and youth out on the streets. There would be the likelihood of a social explosion as in May 1968. That is why big business does not support the FN, despite their traditional parties being in crisis. In any case there are not only shifts to the right but also shifts to the left, as has been seen with the support for Mélenchon. Support for the Front National has also come from some disenchanted workers, repeatedly betrayed by the leaders of the Socialist Party. But this support for Le Pen is only skin deep. These disillusioned workers could be easily won to a revolutionary position in the future. The real fascist organisations that do exist have been reduced to small sects, apart from in Greece, where the fascist Golden Dawn has a certain base of support. Even here, the Greek capitalist class are not interested in their services and have placed its leaders in jail. Of course, these “democrats” would not hesitate to unleash these gangs against the workers’ organisations, or use murder and thuggery, to defend their rule if the time came. But that would mean civil war. While we recognise the threat from the right and mobilise to oppose it, we refuse to engage in scaremongering about the “imminent danger” of fascism, which is complete nonsense. There is no danger of fascism - or even Bonapartist reaction - at the present time in any advanced capitalist country. That could change, however, if the working class was repeatedly defeated and betrayed by its leadership. Today, with the deep crisis of capitalism, the situation is very favourable for the growth of revolutionary ideas. Of course, the movement to overthrow capitalism will not take place in a straight line. There will be inevitable ups and downs. Periods of stormy advance will be followed by periods of despondency, defeats and even reaction. But every attempt to move in the direction of reaction will

prepare an even bigger swing to the left. The bourgeoisie will not resort to open reaction until all other possibilities have been exhausted. Long before this, the workers will have had many opportunities to take power in one country after another. Only after a series of big defeats of the working class would the danger of a military solution be posed. But we are a very long way from that.

In fact, revolutionary explosions are on the order of the day. It is these events that we need to prepare for. In one of Trotsky’s Last Article written in 19402, he gives the following advice: “No occupation is more completely unworthy than that of speculating whether or not we shall succeed in creating a powerful revolutionary leader-party. Ahead lies a favourable perspective, providing all the justification for revolutionary activism. It is necessary to utilise the opportunities which are opening up and to build the revolutionary party”. ____________________________________ Notes 1. In India, however there is a rise in the ABVP (Akhil BharatiyaVidyarthi Parishad) membership, which is a student body of the RSS. The RSS or the RashtriyaSyawamSevakSangh, is an organisation which believes in transforming India from a secular country to a Hindu Nation.

Their praxis comes from a politics of hatred directed at Muslims and Communists. The RSS however is a very popular party and has a huge mass support. These masses are usually the middle class and the victims of the wage slavery or unemployment. The RSS creates a mythic and fictional enemy instead of pointing out the economic factors of the violence of Capitalism.

2. Check https://www.marxists.org/archive/ trotsky/1940/08/last-article.htm [] DIBYAJIT MUKHERJEE is an assistant professor of English at the Institute of Engineering and Management, Kolkata, West Bengal, India.

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 21

MICHAEL VERDERBER is a south Texas playwright whose work focuses heavily on nontraditional stagings, unconventionality, and a heavy emphasis on culture. He is a lecturer in Rhetoric & Composition, Short & Drama, and Playwriting courses at Texas A&M University - Kingsville.

Visit www.zerountitled.com

22 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

DRAMA MICHAEL

VERD ERBER

ARRR

PG

CAST OF CHARACTERS MR. WATERS / WATER PIRATE – teacher on recess duty, chorus pirate DERRICK – nerdy DM, new to school AMANDA – enthusiastic tomboy player LOCO LUPITO – ghetto player KINNEY – pirate who resembles Amanda and copies her commands BRUMHILDA – pirate who resembles Loco and copies his commands SEARCHING PIRATE – chorus pirate JACK PIGEON – pirate who resembles Disney’s Jack Sparrow CRINGING KID – child on playground ANJELA – bully girl STEPHANIE - other bully girl GUARD PIRATE #1 – tougher looking chorus pirate GUARD PIRATE #2 – tougher looking chorus pirate SFX PIRATE – chorus pirate wearing a sign around her neck PIRATE CHORUS – Twenty Pirates; can be some of the pirates listed above; # can be modified

NOTE Music by Flogging Molly would be good preshow music.

Double and triple casting is strongly encouraged.

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SCENE I (A school bell rings and a cacophony of children playing is heard.

MR. WATERS and a 7th grader, DERRICK, carrying a “Dragon Booty” box, enter the stage. Periodically, other actors walk across the stage; all are middle school students with the occasional teacher. Eventually, costumes will come into play.)

MR. WATERS – Ok, Mr. Owens— DERRICK – Derrick is fine.

MR. WATERS – Very well. Derrick, this is the recess area. Recess will be fifteen minutes and then you must go straight to your next class. Which should be (pulls out paper) Mrs. Perez’s Social Studies class.

DERRICK – And where is that?

MR. WATERS – Right over there. (Points offstage) Should be room 106 or 108. I’ll check for you.

DERRICK – Thank you, mister…

MR. WATERS – Mr. Waters. Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to learn everyone’s name on the first day.

Where did you say you were from?

DERRICK – Omaha.

MR. WATERS – Well, welcome to McArthur Middle School. (gestures around) DERRICK – Thank you, Mr. Waters.

MR. WATERS – Have fun at recess. Maybe you can get someone to play that board game with you.

DERRICK – It’s an RPG, not a board game.

MR. WATERS – Well, whatever…Ok let me at least see if— (Kids run by. LOCO and AMANDA run by) MR. WATERS – Whoa now! Slow down, Amanda. You too, Lupito.

LOCO – Man, whatever, estupito.

MR. WATERS – I don’t know what that means, but in any case, slow down. Oh, hey here, this is Derrick, he’s new to the school. Would you two like to play with him?

LOCO – “Play with him?” What kinda gringo stuff is that, guey (note: pronounced “whey” or “way”)?

MR. WATERS – You know what I mean, Lupito.

LOCO – Es “Loco”, estupito.

MR. WATERS – Fine. Es Loco Estupito, please show Derrick a good time.

LOCO – Say what?

AMANDA – Will do, sir.

MR. WATERS – I need to check on a few things for Mr. Owens. Play nice. (exits) (Long pause)

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AMANDA – Hi! I’m Amanda!

DERRICK – Hello. I am Derrick.

AMANDA – Well, what’s up, Derrick? Oh, this is Lupito.

LOCO – Nah, guey, call me Loco. It’s my gang name.

AMANDA – Shut up, Lupito, you are too young to be in a gang.

LOCO – Yeah huh, I am! My brother told me!

AMANDA – Anyway, uh, where are you from and what do you do?

DERRICK – I’m from Omaha.

LOCO – Like, the mutual firm company on TV? DERRICK – Maybe…

AMANDA – Hey, what’s that?

DERRICK – Oh this? (gestures towards box) This is Dragon Booty.

LOCO – You got a dragon’s butt in that thing?

DERRICK – Oh, no no. It’s a game. An RPG game.

LOCO – Man, if you can’t steal cars in it, it’s not a game, homey.

DERRICK – Well this one uses imagination.

AMANDA – Lemme see that.

DERRICK – Here. There are character sheets and this is the expansion box for a pirate’s quest.

LOCO – Ay, whoa, slow down. They got like Pirates of the Caribbean in that?

DERRICK – Come again?

LOCO – Orale! He said to come again! (laughs) AMANDA – Anyway! Never played it. How does it work?

DERRICK – Oh, well, I am the DM, or Dungeon Master, and you guys just tell me what to do and we do it in the game.

AMANDA – Well, that’s pretty sweet. Let’s play, uhh… over here! (points to a nearby table. They cross to it and sit) DERRICK – Ok, so everyone has character sheets. You guys can just use my old friends’ sheets. They won’t need ‘em anyway.

LOCO – Your old friends took a what in that box? (laughs again) AMANDA – Lupito, shut up.

LOCO – Whaaaat?Thass what I heard!

AMANDA – Shut up. Go ahead.

DERRICK – Ok, so the sheets here tell you some of your abilities and how strong your character is and what you have to roll.

AMANDA – I gotcha, I played Skyrim. Let’s do it!

DERRICK – Wow, you really wanna play?

AMANDA – Well, yeah, it’s either that or Loco will want to play “Beat Up Amanda”.

DERRICK – Ah. AMANDA – Yeah, he always wins.

DERRICK – Ok, so here are the character sheets.

Amanda, you can be Brumhilda.

AMANDA – Sounds too wimpy.

DERRICK – Alrighty…well, uhh…(searches sheets) here.

You can be Kinney, the Mighty Templar.

AMANDA – What’s that?

DERRICK – Oh, he’s just like a warrior. Kills stuff.

Loco, you can be Brumhilda, the Chamber Maid.

LOCO – What’s he do?

DERRICK – She. She makes love to the warriors.

(AMANDA gives him a condescending grin.)

LOCO – What?! What kind of mess is that?

DERRICK – Whoa whoa! Let’s just change the name, she-he, uh, is a really strong character. She can do one hit kills with her…her chains and whips.

LOCO – Ok, that sounds better. I should change her name to Tupac.

AMANDA – What?

LOCO – Hey, shut up, you got the mighty temple dweller or whatever.

DERRICK – That’s fine guys, let’s just play. Ok, so we have dice that we roll to determine if our attacks are successful.

LOCO – So, where’s the money?

AMANDA – What?

LOCO – Whenever my brother and his vatos play, they always got money out and chicks everywhere. They got like bottles and stuff.

DERRICK – That’s not this kind of game.

LOCO – What about the— AMANDA – Shut up, Lupito, or I’ll tell Derrick what happened to you last week with that dog.

LOCO – Hey, shut up, man. He was bigger than he looked!

DERRICK – What’s going on?

AMANDA – Loco’s brother told him to— LOCO – (Striking AMANDA) Hey! AMANDA – Alright, geez. Let’s just play.

DERRICK – Ok, well this game’s quest is called “Plunder the Pirates”.

LOCO – I thought it was called Dragqueen Booty. (points to the box) DERRICK – What? The game is called Dragon Booty, but the quest is called “Plunder the Pirates”, ok?

LOCO – Whatever…looks stupid to me…

DERRICK – Ok, so the point of this quest is that there are a bunch of pirates that are terrorizing a local village.

So our characters dress up like pirates to infiltrate and (reads booklet) oh, take out the captain.

(A girl dressed as a pirate with a blade, KINNEY, runs across the stage and stands at the edge of stage. Only AMANDA notices, but doesn’t blatantly address the pirate.)

AMANDA – Uhh… DERRICK – Amanda?

AMANDA – Huh?Whu? DERRICK – Your turn?

AMANDA – (Beat) What can I do?

DERRICK – Anything you want really. Prepare for the pirates maybe.

AMANDA - Uh, I guess I’ll sharpen my blade in case I get attacked, right?

DERRICK – Good idea.Roll for that. Since it is easy, just roll a 5 or higher.

So the point of this quest is that there are a bunch of pirates that are terrorizing a local village. So our characters dress up like pirates to infiltrate and take out the captain AMANDA – (Rolls) Seven. What now?

(KINNEY sharpens blade.)

KINNEY – Ha haarrrr!

DERRICK – Well, that’s it for your turn. Now it is Lupito’s— LOCO – “Loco”.

DERRICK – Sorry, Loco. It is Loco’s turn. (KINNEY freezes) LOCO – Remember my name, guey.

AMANDA – Dude…

DERRICK – What do you want to do? (BRUMHILDA enters and stands on the opposite side of the stage from KINNEY.) LOCO – Steal a car.

AMANDA – Really? You are SUCH a wannabe.

DERRICK – You want to steal a car in an RPG game?

LOCO – Why not? My brother won’t let me do it, might as well do it here.

DERRICK – Well, you’ll have to roll to find a, uhh, boat to steal.

LOCO – Sweet, I knew I could do it. Time to steal me some boats!

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DERRICK – Ok, roll for boat stealing...I guess.

LOCO – Nah, you roll up on the car to steal, not for it. (snickers. BRUMHILDA gives LOCO a look of dissatisfaction, but LOCO doesn’t notice.)

AMANDA – Lupito, chill out. Derrick, go ahead.

DERRICK – Ok, roll to find the boat.

LOCO – I guess. Roll what?

DERRICK – Well, you are near a beach so it shouldn’t be hard to find.

LOCO – Can’t you just put me near an Audi dealership or somethin’?

DERRICK – Um… AMANDA – (Reassuring) Don’t worry about it.

DERRICK – Just roll a fifteen or higher.

(BRUMHILDA gestures like she is looking for something) LOCO – (rolls) Two. What the heck, man?

DERRICK – Ok, you couldn’t find the boat.

(BRUMHILDA looks, shrugs as if she couldn’t find anything, and freezes) LOCO – That’s stupid, man!

AMANDA – Dude, it is just a game, chill.

LOCO – Whatever, this game is broken or something.

Can’t find boats…on a beach ...stupid game…

AMANDA – Are you gonna play or be a little punk, like with the dog?

LOCO – Hey! I told you to shut up!

AMANDA – Then just play! Derrick?

DERRICK – We don’t have to play…

AMANDA – Nah, he’s just being stupid. Go ahead, man. This is funny.

LOCO – Maybe for a dummy like you!

AMANDA – Anyway, go on.

DERRICK – Ok, well once you two are done, it is the DM’s turn.

LOCO – Whoa, whoa, whoa! You never said nothing about no police, man.

AMANDA – What? He said DM, not police! How did you even think that?

LOCO – Oh…I just thought….nevermind…

DERRICK – The DM, or Dungeon Master, is the one that controls the bad guys and moves the story along and stuff.

LOCO – Can he get me some sushi?! I want sushi in this game!

AMANDA – I just do NOT understand you, Lupito.

DERRICK – Um, so, it is my turn and— LOCO – Can he?!

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(AMANDA strikes LOCO) DERRICK – And the pirate ship’s captain has sent a pirate to survey the island, the same island you are on.

He is looking for two people pretending to be pirates.

That’s you two. The captain intends to kill the two conspirators.

BRUMHILDA & KINNEY – Ha haarrrr!

(SEARCHING PIRATE enters and starts looking around the stage. Again, AMANDA notices, but the others do not.)

AMANDA – Umm… LOCO – Just give the pirate dude some sushi.

DERRICK – So the pirate who is looking has to roll an eleven to a fourteen to catch you two. (SEARCHING PIRATE is now standing directly next to BRUMHILDA, but does not acknowledge nor see him. DERRICK rolls) You lucked out. Six. He didn’t see you. (SEARCHING PIRATE looks directly at BRUMHILDA, but sees “past” him.

SEARCHING PIRATE shrugs. BRUMHILDA breathes a loud sigh of relief.)

AMANDA – Really? Just like that?

DERRICK – Well, it is a game, so there has to be some variable to it.

LOCO – Varia-what?

DERRICK – Nevermind. Ok, Amanda, you are up.

AMANDA – Sweet. Um, I try and attack the spy-pirateguy-dude.

DERRICK – Roll an even number to successfully initiate combat.

(AMANDA rolls.)

AMANDA – Yes! Got it.

DERRICK – Now, for the combat portion all nearby players pretty much have to join in.

LOCO – A’ight.

AMANDA – Sweet.

DERRICK – Roll to see if you landed a critical attack from the back.

LOCO – Cheap! Attacking from the back! (laughs) AMANDA – That’s strategy, right, Derrick?

DERRICK – Uh huh.

AMANDA – Is there any way I could just stab Loco’s face with my sword?

DERRICK – Of course, but I wouldn’t recommend it.

Before you roll, announce what you plan to do.

AMANDA – Alright, I’m going to try to slash at the pirate’s back with my sword. What do I roll?

DERRICK – Eleven or higher.

AMANDA - (rolls) Man. Can I reroll?

DERRICK – No. Ok, so you missed and got the pirate’s attention.

(SEARCHING PIRATE sees KINNEY and freezes comically) DERRICK - Loco?

LOCO – I give him sushi.

(BRUMHILDA offers the pirates his empty hand.)

DERRICK – You never had any sushi.

(BRUMHILDA sees that there is nothing in his hand and then freezes.)

LOCO – Oh, yeah. I run him over with my Audi!

AMANDA – We have cars!?

(All PIRATES unfreeze heads only and look at players, confused.)

DERRICK – You can’t do that.

LOCO – And why the heck not?

DERRICK – It doesn’t fit the time period. We are in medieval times.

You could run him over with a horse— LOCO – Aw, heck yeah!

ART:“Capture of the Pirate, Blackbeard, 1718” by Jean Leon Gerome Ferris DERRICK – (overlapping) -if you had one.

LOCO – I can kick his butt?

LOCO – C’mon, man! So what can I do?

DERRICK – I would kill him.

(BRUMHILDA returns with a pool noodle. She looks at the LOCO – I already tried that. audience and shrugs.)

DERRICK – Your character has a weapon.

(BRUMHILDA reaches into an invisible sheath and pulls out an invisible sword.)

DERRICK - Read your sheet.

LOCO – (looks down) I have a…“Enchanted Staff of Aktah.” What does that even mean?

(BRUMHILDA exits) DERRICK – It is a weapon that gives you a stronger attack. The pirate has an HP of fifteen.

DERRICK – Sure, but you should probably kill him.

Just roll a number higher than ten and you can hit him for seven damage.

AMANDA – Dude, that is like half of his health! Roll it, man!

LOCO – (Rolls dice) Hell yeah, I rolled a fourteen. That attacks, right?

DERRICK – Yes, that means your character strikes the pirate.

(BRUMHILDA hits SEARCHING PIRATE in the stomach.)

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LOCO – Where?

DERRICK – What do you mean “where”?

LOCO – Where do I hit the vato? His head?

(BRUMHILDA hits SEARCHING in the head.) His hiney? (BRUMHILDA hits SEARCHING in the butt.) His foot? (BRUMHILDA hits SEARCHING in the leg.)

DERRICK – It doesn’t matter.

(BRUMHILDA hits SEARCHING in the body.)

LOCO –Ok, I’m done I guess.

AMANDA – I’m up, right?

DERRICK – No, it is the pirate’s turn.

(PIRATES reposition themselves in an attacking stance with SEARCHING holding up his blade above his head. Realizing he has no blade, he exits and returns with another pool noodle. He repositions himself in the attack stance with noodle held above his head.)

DERRICK - I’ll roll an even number to attack you, Amanda, or an odd number to attack Loco.

(As DERRICK rolls, SEARCHING goes into slow motion swing towards BRUMHILDA. He continues his swing motion until DERRICK drops the dice on the floor.)

DERRICK – Ok, here goes. (Rolls dice but drops it on the floor.) Oops, re-roll.

(Exasperated, SEARCHING begins his swing all over again, aiming at BRUMHILDA.) DERRICK – Oh! I rolled a twelve. The pirate is attacking Amanda.

(More exasperated, SEARCHING repositions himself again and aims at KINNEY. DERRICK rolls.)

DERRICK – Alright, my attack lands, hitting Amanda for four damage.

(SEARCHING connects hit at regular speed, smacking KINNEY across the face.)

AMANDA – Whoa! Is that a lot?

DERRICK – Not really, both of you guys have 25 HP since you are using old characters.

(SEARCHING rears back and taps KINNEY across the face daintily.)

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AMANDA – Oh, good.

DERRICK – Plus, he’s a low level pirate.

(SEARCHING frowns to audience.)

DERRICK – He pretty much sucks. Easy kill.

(SEARCHING motions a “What the heck?!”to DERRICK, which goes unseen.)

DERRICK – Ok, your turn, Amanda.

AMANDA – Uhhhhh…decisions! Ugh, what do you recommend?

DERRICK – Well, since he is so low-leveled, if you land a hit, you could kill him.

LOCO – Hey, wait, I wanted to kill him!

DERRICK – But you didn’t during your turn. You softened him up though, right?

LOCO – Man, whatever…next time we are playing “Beat Up the New Nerd Kids” game.

DERRICK – We don’t have to play…

AMANDA – Nah, he’s a crybaby, let’s just— LOCO – (whiny) I am not! Am not!

AMANDA – Get ahold of yourself. Please. Ok, well let me hit him again.

DERRICK – Roll above a ten.

AMANDA – (rolls) Bam! Eat that fourteen, Mr. Pirate dude!

(KINNEY strikes a blow to SEARCHING, who dies melodramatically. He then exits.)

DERRICK – Alright, so you guys slew the pirate and now receive some pirate booty.

AMANDA – Like what?

DERRICK – New equipment, money, whatever I can think of.

LOCO – Sweet.

DERRICK – First, you guys check the body.

(KINNEY and BRUMHILDA look but can’t find it.)

LOCO – I’m not gonna check out dudes! That’s gay!

AMANDA – Check as in “search”, stupid. (unsure) Search. Right, Derrick?

DERRICK – Yup. LOCO – Oh. Ok. DERRICK – Ok, so you check the bodies to discover the Blunderbuss. It is a weapon that does a one-time, one-use kill.

AMANDA – Like a grenade?

LOCO – That’s like Gran “Theff” Auto ‘n stuff!

DERRICK – Yeah. Ok, so now you guys swim to one of the ships and you need to take out the pirates. There are twenty (holds dice showing the “20” side).

AMANDA – Oh, man! (Lots of pirate actors enter the stage and line up) What are we supposed to do?

LOCO – Kill ‘em all!

DERRICK – There are twenty on one boat, but the nefarious Captain Jack Pigeon has two— LOCO – Say what?

(JACK PIGEON appears amidst the crowd of pirates, threatening other pirates and perhaps even audience members.)

JACK – Ha ha! Arrr!

DERRICK – Sorry, I’m not very good at making up names. (JACK shrugs) So anyway, Jack Pigeon is guarded by two, um, guards who are stronger than the Searching Pirate.

JACK – Ha ha! Arrr! (exits) DERRICK – So, what do you guys wanna do?

LOCO – What are we supposed to do?

AMANDA – We can’t take down twenty flipping pirates!

ALL PIRATES – Ha ha! Arrr!! (all pose in threatening or comical ways) DERRICK – (eyes the game booklet) Well, the DM can award you for being creative with gameplay.

AMANDA – Oh, so we can— LOCO – Shoot ‘em up, guey! Drive by, man!

DERRICK – No. AMANDA – Wait, didn’t you say you had that Blunderbuss bomb thing?

PIRATES – A bomb!? (shivers in fear, holding each other) DERRICK – Yes, you do.

AMANDA – Cool! Ok, we can use the bomb.

PIRATES – Oh no! (more scared) AMANDA – Alright, so we swim out to the ship.

(WATER PIRATE enters with a cardboard cutout of waves and places them in front of KINNEY) DERRICK – You’ll need to roll a 14 or better to successfully make it.

LOCO – You got this, dawg.

AMANDA – (Rolls. Flatly.)Six. (WATER PIRATE drowns KINNEY in some comic fashion) LOCO – I got this, dawg. (Rolls while WATER PIRATE tries to drown BRUMHILDA) Bam! Sixteen! Barely got it.

(WATER PIRATE flips water sign around to reveal the words “Ouch!” on the back.)

DERRICK – Ok, Lupito makes it to the ship and successfully plants the Blunderbuss. Ok, so roll for how many pirates die instantly.

LOCO – Sweet, homes. (rolls) Twelve! Yes! (Twelve pirates drop) 12 DEAD PIRATES – Ha ha! Arrr… (fades away sadly) AMANDA – That still leaves eight pirates!

DERRICK – Ok, so a dozen die instantly from the explosion. Now roll to see how many eventually drown.

LOCO – Dang, dude, you are evil!

AMANDA – We can do that?

DERRICK – Well, yeah. You guys are making it fun so I have (hesitance), uh, never really had a chance to make it fun, too. (Smiles) Roll to drown ‘em!

AMANDA – (Last pirates cringe as AMANDA rolls) Five.

Aww, man.

DERRICK – That’s ok, the other three had dysentery anyway, so they die, too.

PIRATES – Boo! Aw, c’mon, blasted! May yagit scurvy!

(PIRATES begin to protest as they exit the stage) DERRICK – So that just leaves the Captain’s boat that has the two guards— JACK PIGEON – (from offstage) Ha ha! Arrr!

DERRICK – So for this mission— (School bell rings) LOCO – Aww, dude, we got class. C’mon, Amanda.

(They gather things together and exit. JACK PIGEON runs on stage) JACK PIGEON – I’ll kill you— (sees no one) awww…. (exits sadly) SCENE II (Bell rings as kids run past a disgruntled pirate. They do not notice him. AMANDA, LOCO, and DERRICK enter in mid-conversation. Meanwhile, two kids sit at their table.)

LOCO – Man, the teach is always busting my chops.

AMANDA – It’s cuz you always act up.

LOCO – Nah, she’s just got the hots for me. (Notices kids at the table) Hey! You losers get out of here!

CRINGING KID – We-we-we were here first.

LOCO – What did I say, huh?! (Makes an absurd yet threatening gesture towards them and smacks CRINGING KID’s sandwich out of his hand. They run off crying. Matter-of-factly) K’, table is free. (taps on it and sits) DERRICK – You didn’t have to do that.

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LOCO – Oh, yes I did! We have a bunch of pirates to take out!

AMANDA – Where were we again?

DERRICK – You killed the 20 pirates and you were fixing to fight the captain.

AMANDA – Alrighty, let’s do this, guys!

DERRICK – Ok, so you board the ship in order to find and kill the captain—

AMANDA, and LOCO are stunned) ANJELA – What’s the matter? Anjela got your tongue?

(Lets out an obnoxious laugh) LOCO – Shut up, Anjela! Leave us alone!

AMANDA – Yeah! No one is talking to you, Anjela!

STEPHANIE – Well, I’m talking to her! (points to ANJELA) ANJELA – And I’m talking to her! (points to STEPHANIE) Looks like no one is talking to you!!

(JACK PIGEON enters) (Again, they are dumbfounded.)

JACK PIGEON – Ha ha! Arrr!

DERRICK - …but you guys don’t see him yet.

JACK PIGEON – Aw, c’mon! (exits) DERRICK – So you have to find him, but you’ll need to get past the swarmy guards first!

LOCO – Let’s kill something!

(ANJELA and STEPHANIE enter) AMANDA – Oh, no.

ANJELA – Eww, look, Stephanie, the boys are playing their stupid little games again!

AMANDA – I’m not a boy!

STEPHANIE – Ugh, from here you are. (DERRICK,

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STEPHANIE – And, look Anjela, it’s Amanda. Remember her?

ANJELA – Amanda? Or a man, duh! (laughs) AMANDA – But, I – (Can’t bring herself to finish the statement) STEPHANIE & ANJELA – Boys! (laughs, exits) LOCO – What a bi— DERRICK – Beauty!

LOCO – What?! Homey, you crazy. (sees AMANDA) Yo, girl what’s up?

AMANDA – Nothing…it’s nothing…

LOCO – Nah, don’t give me that. I know that face.

AMANDA – They always say mean stuff to me!

DERRICK – Why haven’t you said anything back?

AMANDA – I try…I try but they know just where to stab at me.

LOCO – Ya need to smack ‘em around a bit.

AMANDA – I’m not like them, ya know?

DERRICK – You’re a girl. What’s the difference?

AMANDA – They don’t think I am! Anjela and Stephanie are the two snobbiest you-know-whats in the whole school! I used to be their friend until…until they started wearing makeup and…going to the dances and stuff.

And then they started, you know, treating me different.

Like I was a boy. She picked on me like she picked on her younger brother.

LOCO – That trash is just a bully, dawg.

DERRICK – Well, I think she is just dreamy!

AMANDA – Which one?

DERRICK – Uh, Anjela, I guess. The one wearing red.

AMANDA – Yeah, that’s Anjela. The Queen B. LOCO – More like the Queen Kraken. She’s asnobby Mean Girl! Man, you don’t wanna mess with that.

You’d wanna mess up that – with a bat! (swings) Pow! Right across that forehead. (leans in) Listen, I got this cousin who works at the city dump. He can make things disappear, you know what— AMANDA – Dang, Lupito, you got problems. Like for real.

LOCO – Thanks, man. (taps his own chest in appreciation) AMANDA – Uh…(beat) So! Are we gonna play or what? I don’t want to talk about whatshername again.

DERRICK – Anjela?

AMANDA – Yes, Derrick!

DERRICK – Oh…do you think she will play?

AMANDA – Pirate’s Booty?! Are you crazy? No, Derrick, no she would not.

DERRICK – Are you sure ab— AMANDA – Yes, Derrick! She would rather put make up on her own booty than play Pirate’s Booty with us (gestures) “boys.” Now, let’s just, let’s just kill the captain.

LOCO – Yeah, man, Captain Crunch is gonna eat it!

AMANDA – That works for me.

(Two GUARD PIRATES enter and stand attentive.)

DERRICK – So you noticed the Guards are asleep.

(GUARD PIRATE #1 starts snoring, realizes the other isn’t asleep, and nudges him.)

GUARD PIRATE #1 – Psst! Pay attention, mate.

GUARD PIRATE #2 – Oh, right. (Snores loudly) DERRICK – (Rolls) Yup, they did not hear the huge explosion that just killed all of their friends a moment ago.

GUARD PIRATE #2 – (Loud snore) LOCO – Estupitos!

AMANDA – Be glad, Loco. If they weren’t as deaf as my grandma, we would both be dead.

(KINNEY and BRUMHILDA sneak up on the guards.)

DERRICK – But you guys have to be careful, these guys have similar health points as the other pirates, but they hit harder.

(KINNEY and BRUMHILDA back off slightly with expressions of frustration on their faces.)

DERRICK – These two guards have 15 HP each.

PIRATE GUARDS – (Quietly and together) Ha haarrr…

DERRICK – Because they are stronger, I’ll have to adjust the damage a bit. Your sword does two damage, Kinney, and for you, BrumhildaLupito, I’ll give you an added three damage, just to keep things interesting.

LOCO – (Patronizing) Ha ha! I got extra damage and you’re still estupito!

AMANDA – Shut up, Lupito!

LOCO – Es loco, esLoco with loco chain damage. Alright, guey, I’m gonna strike first.

DERRICK – Do you wanna hit the closest one?

LOCO – Sure.

(KINNEY and BRUMHILDA enter.)

DERRICK – Ok, fine. So the blast makes waves that push the two, Kinney and Brumhilda conveniently towards the Captain’s ship.

(PIRATE WATER enters and pushes them sideways when DERRICK talks about it.)

PIRATE WATER – (flatly) Sploosh.Wave push or whatever.

(BRUMHILDA notices that, although he is facing one guard, he is actually closer to the other. He turns and faces the closer guard.)

DERRICK – Roll a ten or higher to pull off a sneak attack.

LOCO – (Rolls) One. One!? (Gets frustrated) DERRICK – Can’t win ‘em all. Amanda? You’re up.

AMANDA – Kinney to the rescue! I will strike the other guard in the back of the head.

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 31

DERRICK – Ok, land a ten or higher and deal five damage.

(KINNEY holds up sword above the GUARD 2’s head and freezes.)

AMANDA – Thirteen!

LOCO – Whoa!

AMANDA – Better than a one…

(KINNEY hits GUARD 2’s head.)

DERRICK – Alrighty, well the guard stumbles quite a bit.

(GUARD 2 begins to stumble around the stage as if he is about to fall over.)

AMANDA – Wait, he stumbles?

LOCO – What’s that mean? (GUARD 2 still stumbles around) DERRICK – Oh, like he’s vulnerable to attack because you caught him off guard.

AMANDA – Cool, so I can hit him again?

DERRICK – Usually, but we’ll assume he is (pause.

GUARD 2 pauses and looks at him) Uh, no wait he is probably still stumbling.

GUARD 2 – Ugh! (goes back to stumbling. KINNEY and BRUMHILDA look confused.)

DERRICK – So that skips his turn.

GUARD 2 – Ha ha! Awww (sadly. Keeps stumbling.)

DERRICK – Ok, Guard number one’s turn. He noticed the other guard is still stumbling around, so you won’t be able to catch him off guard. So, Guard number one moves in to attack. (Rolls) Looks like he lands the attack of 4 damage.

LOCO – Estupito! Can I kill him now?

DERRICK – Hold on, it is Amanda’s turn.

AMANDA – Kinney to the rescue!

LOCO – Lame.

DERICK – Yeah, kinda.

AMANDA – Ok, sorry. So he is stumbling, right? Well, can I just push him into the water?

DERRICK – Creative! Ok, I can’t make it too easy. Um, roll a fifteen or higher.

AMANDA – But you said he was stumbling. Wouldn’t that make him, like, easy to attack? Then I could easily push him.

DERRICK – Ok, I’ll allow it.

LOCO – Stupid!

AMANDA – Don’t hate just because you are useless.

DERRICK – But roll, say, twelve or higher.

32 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

AMANDA – (Rolls) Sixteen! Whoo!

LOCO – Oh, boo! (KINNEY pushes GUARD 2) DERRICK – And into the water he goes! (PIRATE WATER lazily enters, holds up a sign that reads “Water” and hits GUARD 2 with it. PIRATE WATER looks very bored.)

PIRATE WATER – Sploosh.(Exits with GUARD 2.)

LOCO – Man, if stupid Amanda’s character didn’t do— whatever. I’m just gonna roll for an attack. (Rolls) Eight.

EIGHT!?

DERRICK – Alrighty, so Lupito fails…again.

LOCO – Man, we outta play “Beat Up the Nerd Kids” game!

DERRICK – Roll again!

AMANDA – Don’t be a punk, Lupito.

LOCO – Shut up. You play your cheating way— AMANDA – (overlaps) I didn’t cheat!

LOCO – And I’ll play my way, which is to roll… (rolls).

Two?!

AMANDA – Ha! That’s what you get for being a gangster wannabe.

DERRICK – So, Brumhilda fails.

AMANDA – Ha! DERRICK – Guard number one’s turn. He rolls to attack Brumhilda, the chamber wench, who likely fell over because she fails so often.

(BRUMHILDA runs in and falls.)

DERRICK – So, I’ll roll for an attack (rolls) Oh, a two as well. Looks like your luck is rubbing off.

AMANDA – Am I next? (DERRICK nods) Ok, lemme roll for an attack on the last guard. (rolls) Twenty!

DERRICK – That’s a critical!

AMANDA – Twenties are critical?

LOCO – Where the heck are my critical whatevers?

DERRICK – You have to roll them, Lupito.

AMANDA – So how much damage is that?

DERRICK – Let’s say six…? That’s the first attack on this particular guard, so that brings his HP down to eleven.

LOCO – Ok, I’m up. Rolling a critical, here we go! (rolls) Eleven. Pues, screw it, yeah!

DERRICK – That’s damage of three.

LOCO – Eat that, guey! (All pause) AMANDA – How much does that leave?

DERRICK – That should be about six right now. Alrighty, so Guard number one gets to attack and he will go for Kinney. (points to Amanda) The guard has a key around his neck, hint hint. So he uses his magic attack.

And his fire spell… (rolls) Hits! Four damage.

AMANDA – Darn it.

DERRICK – Sorry, Amanda.

LOCO – What?! I didn’t get no apologies!

AMANDA – Stop being a crybaby, Lupito. The same thing happened with the dog!

LOCO – Shut up about the dog, dude!

DERRICK – Ohhh, so a dog made you cry?

LOCO - …No. AMANDA – (quickly) Yes! LOCO – Shut up! I yawned!

AMANDA – You “yawned” when the dog tried to attack you?

LOCO – I was bored, alright? It was a tear of boredom.

Let’s just play the game.

AMANDA – Ok, Loco.Whatever.

(GUARD 1 is standing around looking bored) AMANDA – (imitating LOCO crying) Oh…oh kay…the dog…eh, almost…bit me…and …and— LOCO – (smacks her) AMANDA – Ow! LOCO – I said knock it off!

AMANDA – You can’t hit a girl!

LOCO – You don’t act like one!

AMANDA – (hurt) Wow, you sound like Stephanie and Anjela.

LOCO – (beat) Alright, sorry.

AMANDA – Sorry.

DERRICK – (Long pause) Do you guys still want to play?

AMANDA – Yeah, sorry, I’ll roll to attack. (rolls) Aww… DERRICK – Missed?

LOCO – Ha! That’s what you get!

AMANDA – Loco!

LOCO – Sorry.

DERRICK – Alrighty, Lupito, your turn again.

(BRUMHILDA preps for fighting, doing random right moves) BRUMHILDA – Ha haarrr!

LOCO – (Rolls) Rolling to stab him in the butt. Bam! Seventeen!

(BRUMHILDA walks up to PIRATE GUARD 1 and stabs him in the butt.)

(rolls) Got it! Eighteen!

DERRICK – That’s cheap, you just did that.

(PIRATE WATER enters sipping a glass of water.)

BRUMHILDA – (to PIR WATER) Well? (Urges him to do something) PIRATE WATER – (Sighs and splashes water in GUARD 1’s face.) Sploosh. (The two exit) DERRICK – But I guess that does take care of the two guards. On to the Pirate Captain Jack Pigeon.

(ANJELA and STEPHANIE walk by giggling at the boys.)

ANJELA – Oh, look at the little Fantasy Boys!

STEPHANIE – Total losers. (They exit) DERRICK – Golly, she is pretty.

LOCO – Man, forget that airhead. She’s the worst.

AMANDA – Yeah, man, she used to call us “ghetto boys” (points to LOCO) for some odd reason.

LOCO – (oblivious) Yeah, I don’t get it.

AMANDA – So, fantasy boys is a step up.

LOCO – At least now we sound like dancers.

DERRICK – What? (beat) So you guys really don’t like her, huh?

AMANDA & LOCO – NO! DERRICK – Hmm, I have an idea. So you have the key from the guard’s neck— AMANDA – Wait, he fell into the water.

LOCO – Amanda! This is your fault!

(GUARD 1 enters the stage dripping and holding a key.)

DERRICK – Oh, well we can just say that you broke the door down— GUARD 1 – Really!? (Sighs and exits) DERRICK – Ok, so you broke the door down to find the captain.

(JACK PIGEON enters pompously. ANJELA enters dressed as a pirate and pushes JACK offstage.)

JACK PIGEON – Hey! (exits) ANJELA – Ha haa Fantasy Boys.

(KINNEY and BRUMHILDA scoff)

PIRATE GUARD – Ow, hey! (BRUMHILDA does it again) Once! He attacked once!

DERRICK – The guard now upset but very weak lunges at Kinney (rolls) but misses and stumbles.

AMANDA – Yes! This again! I push him overboard

DERRICK – The captain looks just like Anjela. Her name was Anjela, right?

LOCO & AMANDA – (mumbling) Yes… ANJELA – Yes!

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 33

DERRICK – Cool, so she walks up and says: DERRICK & ANJELA – So, I finally get to square off against the whatchamacallit nerd guys. You will die, Fantasy Boys!

LOCO – She needs to take a chill pill, dawg.

ANJELA – No thanks, I’m full. (pats her belly) Anyway, you’ll pay for killing all of my, you know, pirate friends and whatnot. Anyway…

DERRICK – Roll to attack.

LOCO – Man, I got this pirate punk, (rolls) Rolling for attack! Yes! DERRICK – Ok, Brumhilda lands an attack with her chainwhip. That should deal three damage.

LOCO – Sweet. Amanda, kick his booty, yo!

AMANDA – “His”? Alright, now that I know it is Anjela, she’s going down! I’ll roll to grab a nearby torch and set the room on fire. I can do that, right?

DERRICK – Creative! Let’s do it.

LOCO – Should we check her body for money?

ANJELA, AMANDA, & DERRICK – Anyway!

AMANDA – Get off it, man.

LOCO – Man, whatever, I outta crash my souped out Audi into his flipping boat!

ANJELA, AMANDA, & DERRICK – Anyway!

AMANDA – (Rolls) Nine. Aww. (KINNEY pulls lighter out of pocket and lights it. PIRATE ANJELA blows it out.)

DERRICK – No dice. Ok, Lupito?

LOCO – So no Audi, right?

ANJELA, AMANDA, & DERRICK – No. LOCO – Ok, geez, chill your raspas. I’ll roll to set the ship on fire. (rolls) Eighteen, oh yeah!

DERRICK – It catches, causing smoke to blur everyone’s vision, including the players. So instead or rolling ten or higher, you’ll need to roll eight or higher.

AMANDA & LOCO – Aww, man.

KINNEY & BRUMHILDA – Ha ha! Booo…

DERRICK – Rolling for Pirate Anjela’s attack. (rolls) Shoot. Rolled a sixteen. Deals four damage to Loco.

AMANDA – Dang, man.

DERRICK – Well, this is the final boss of the quest.

ANJELA – Ha haarrr!

DERRICK – So, she’ll deal more damage.

AMANDA – Ok, we need to be aware of that.

DERRICK – Brumhilda, you’re up. Ship’s still on fire.

(KINNEY and BRUMHILDA start coughing) KINNEY – There’s smoke everywhere!

BRUMHILDA – Arg, guey! Everywhere! Esmuy loco!

LOCO – Ok, my turn. (rolls) Alright, another successful

34 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

attack!

DERRICK – That’s three damage.

(BRUMHILDA strikes ANJELA) ANJELA – Ow! Three damage! Ugh, fantasy boys!

AMANDA – I think my turn got skipped. Oh, well, I’m next. She’s not stumbling or anything (hopeful) is she?

(ANJELA starts to stumble) DERRICK – No, and even if she were, (ANJELA stops moving) I wouldn’t let you push her.

AMANDA – Aww, man.

(KINNEY snaps disappointedly) AMANDA – Well, we got to kick it old school and just smack her in the face with my weapon thing. (rolls) Or not.

(ANJELA ducks a weak attack by KINNEY) DERRICK – Ok, it is Anjela’s turn.

ANJELA – ‘Bout time.

DERRICK – So since she’s the boss, she has an extra tough attack called “Cleave” that does five damage instead of three. And she has 30 HP. AMANDA – I’m down to near death! How am I supposed to— DERRICK – Oh, sorry! I forgot. Since this is your first quest, I’ll just heal you back to normal.

KINNEY & BRUMHILDA – Ha ha ARR! ANJELA – What? Ugh, Fantasy boys…

DERRICK – So, I’ll roll for her Cleave attack. (rolls) Hits! And it hits (holds up dice) even number Amanda, or odd number Lupito. (rolls) Oh, Amanda.

AMANDA – Boo! DERRICK – Yeah, sorry. Loco, ghetto her up! But not too much, she’s pretty. (ANJELA arrogantly flips her hair) LOCO – She’s imaginary, dawg!

(ANJELA frowns) DERRICK – Oh….yeah.

LOCO – Anyway, I’ll attack her. (rolls) Awwww yeah, I’m like on fire!

AMANDA – We’re on fire?! Again?!

DERRICK – The ship is still on fire.

LOCO - Anyway, I rolled a nine. Damage, right?

DERRICK – Yes, three damage. That puts her down to twenty four. Remember, the ship is still on fire so have

fun with it. Amanda?

AMANDA – Well, lemme think. Can I attack the ship?

Like, break things?

DERRICK – Yup. AMANDA – Ok, well, I’m gonna roll to attack a pillar that drops flaming timbers on her big dumb head.

ANJELA – I heard that!

LOCO – That sounds like a tough roll.

DERRICK – Yeah, say fifteen or higher?

AMANDA – A tough roll for an ugly troll. (rolls) Heck yes!

DERRICK – What did you roll? (looks) Wow. Twenty.

Ok, so this flaming timber (PIRATE enters with large pool noodles and holds or suspends them above ANJELA’s head) gets smacked by Kinney’s weapon. Since it is a critical roll, it collapses on her head and pins her down, (PIRATE and ANJELA act this out) causing her to skip a turn. She takes a whopping ten damage! Ok, so to update, Loco, your character has a solid twenty left, which leaves (thinks) the Pirate Captain with only fourteen left.

Now, since she is pinned down (ANJELA starts to get up) LOCO – Yeah, idiota got pinned!

(ANJELA drops under weight of the pool noodle.)

DERRICK – Right, so her turn is skipped. Lupito?

LOCO – Ok, I’m gonna slap her in the face. Hard. (rolls) Twelve! (BRUMHILDA does so) DERRICK – Alrighty, that knocks her down to twelve.

Next!

AMANDA – I kick her in the butt. Also, hard.

ANJELA – So immature!

AMANDA - (rolls) Sixteen! (KINNEY does so) DERRICK – Nice! So that hits her for another three, dropping her to only nine. Alright, guys, a few more hits and the quest is done.

AMANDA, LOCO, KINNEY & BRUMHILDA – Ha haarrr!

AMANDA – Whoa, where did that come from?

DERRICK – So the pirate captain gets up from the timbers and attempts to throw the burning timber to both of you! (rolls) Ouch. It successfully hits both of you for five damage each, but it breaks in half.

LOCO – Cheap shot!

AMANDA – That’s ok, man, we are still in it, to win it!

LOCO – Where did that come from?!

AMANDA – Sorry, heh heh, caught up in the moment.

DERRICK – Ok, so, a loud thud is heard.

(SFX PIRATE wearing a sign that says “SFX Guy”) SFX PIRATE – Thud. (exits)

DERRICK – And then the pirates realize that the ship is sinking!

KINNEY & BRUMHILDA – The ship is sinking!

DERRICK – But of course, the captain isn’t stupid enough to go down with her prized ship. She tries to make a quick escape, roll a one through five to cut a rope to stop her. If she escapes, you guys lose the mission.

AMANDA - (rolls) Noooooo.

LOCO - (rolls) For reals?!

DERRICK – Ehhh, roll again. It is your first time playing.

AMANDA - (rolls) Again?!

LOCO – Got it!

DERRICK – Loco, you are on a roll!

LOCO – Gangsta style, dawg.

AMANDA – (Give DERRICK a look of exasperation. And then back to LOCO.) Lupito, let it go.

LOCO – Loco. Lo. Co. And ok…

DERRICK – Finished? (beat) So Brumhilda grabs a rope and, like, rodeo snags the Captain.

(BRUMHILDA grabs a rope and tries to lasso ANJELA. He fails several times. Eventually, ANJELA just grabs it and wraps herself in it.)

DERRICK – Now, she is pretty much occupied and has taken one damage for the fall. Attack anyway.

LOCO – Alright, she’s now at eleven, so I’ll attack her with my chain whip.

DERRICK – How come you haven’t been using your magic spells?

LOCO – I got magic? Why didn’t you tell me?

DERRICK – It’s on your character sheet.

LOCO – (Reads sheet) “Fire spell”? Sweet! I’m gonna roll that. (rolls) Yeah, cooked her butt like a steak, dawg.

AMANDA – And now he’s back with the gangster stuff.

DERRICK – It’s all good, Amanda. That’s just how he is.

LOCO – Represent!

DERRICK – Alrighty, Brumhilda uses her fire spell for five damage. Captain’s turn. She attempts Cleave attack on Amanda’s character. (rolls) Yup, successful attack of five.

AMANDA – My turn to attack. Are there any cool spells I should be made aware of? (DERRICK nods) Really?! But I have the cool epic sounding name. Templar! Kinney the Templar.

DERRICK – Nope.

KINNEY – (nods disapprovingly) You are worthless, mate.

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 35

AMANDA – Fine. (rolls) Finally! Damage of three; rolled a fifteen.

DERRICK – That attack drops her down to only three health! But, Lupito is up. Lupito is at sixteen, Amanda at fifteen, and the Captain is at three.

LOCO – Flame spell again. (rolls) Bam, taste the flames!

I hit her again!

DERRICK – That will bring her down to one HP left.

AMANDA – Sweet, one life left!

DERRICK – What’s it gonna be Amanda? It is all on you.

AMANDA – I’m gonna smack Anjela right across her face. (rolls) You have got to be kidding me! (holds up a “1” dice) DERRICK – Tough break. So, ravaged by the damage she has taken, she unleashes her Ultimate Attack!

AMANDA – Wait, I thought her ultimate attack was Cleveland?

DERRICK – “Cleave” and no. I have to keep it interesting. So she is about to unleash her Ultimate Attack— ANJELA – Ha haarrr-timatearrrttack!

DERRICK – Called “Pirate’s Wrath.” If she rolls anything between five and twenty, all players take ten damage.

LOCO – What?

AMANDA – C’mon! That’ll kill me!

DERRICK – Oh, well if it sticks, I’ll leave you at one HP. LOCO – Cheap!

ANGELA –Cheap this!

DERRICK – Here we go! (rolls) Seven!

LOCO – Nooo! (ANJELA runs around the stage beating all characters incessantly. She stops, walks over to LOCO and hits him on the back of the head.)

ANJELA – That’s for calling me a names.

LOCO – Ow! AMANDA – What?

LOCO – Got a sudden headache. Weird…

DERRICK –Sorry, man. Ok, so she hits both of you two, knocking you (points to Amanda) down to one and you (points to LOCO) down to six.

LOCO – Lemme at her! (ANJELA smacks him on the head again and walks away.) Ow! There it is again! (looks around. Beat.) Let’s just end this. Rolling for my regular attack (rolls) Bam! Done deal!

(KINNEY beats ANJELA, who dies overdramatically, then exits) DERRICK – Congrats, guys! We have finished our first Dragon Booty quest. You guys loot the body and find

36 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

100 gold each, so write that on your sheets. We can buy stuff.

AMANDA – Alright! (High fives both, DERRICK is awkward) Man, did you have this much fun with your other friends?

DERRICK – Well…uh…

LOCO – What’s up, man?

DERRICK – I never actually played with anyone before.

LOCO – Say what?

DERRICK – Yeah, this was my first.

AMANDA – But what about these character sheets?

You said your friends would pl— DERRICK – I played as every character. I would come up with these long missions so I wouldn’t have to worry about talking to people…

LOCO – That’s lame, dawg.

AMANDA – Yeah, you got us now, right? (looks at LOCO) LOCO – Yeah, homes.

DERRICK – That’s why I’m here. My mom knew I had no friends and my parents wanted to give me a fresh start.

(Bell rings) LOCO – Oh, man we got to get back to class.

(ANJELA and STEPHANIE reenter normally) AMANDA – Hey, Anjela!

ANJELA – What do you want, Uh-MAN-duh?

AMANDA – I just wanted to let you know that you are both trash. And no one likes anyway, they just pretend to.

STEPHANIE – Ugh! ANJELA – You can’t talk to us like that!

AMANDA – (Rises and crosses to them) Youwanna bet!

(Lunges at them half-heartedly) STEPHANIE & ANJELA – AHHHHHHH!! (Run off stage) AMANDA – There. That solves that.

LOCO – Yeah, Amanda. That’s what I’m talking about!

(AMANDA and LOCO begin to help clean stuff up. Any remaining pirates take off some gear and exit, leaving a few items behind. All by DERRICK exit.)

DERRICK – (Standing alone) I finally have friends. Not what I expected, but I guess they never really are.

(Notices a sword on the ground and picks it up, quizzically) Huh. Here’s to new starts. (Exits) []

POETRY

Although BOB McNEIL has received some modest renown as a writer, illustrator and spoken word artist, he realizes most people do not really know him as a person. Between you and me, he prefers it this way. Otherwise, he would have to get restraining orders on all people who want to know him.

BOB MCNEIL

Veritas Vanished Aphorists say that The truth is cold— Cadaver-in-the-arctic-cold.

Granted, the truth is a lot of things, But it’s the thing That’s not being told.

I believe The truth is a stranger That’s about as foreign as an extraterrestrial.

It will never land on the lips of politicians.

That’s the truth. []

ART:“What is truth? Christ before Pilate” by Nikolai Ge

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 37

ART: Alexandra Haynak

FICTION JULI A BENALLY

Kittylyn Kittylyn gazed out her window, dark eyes fixed on the distant mountains. They looked like mesas covered in trees. She scratched at the peeling white paint on the windowsill. Old gray wood shone underneath, and pieces of paint caught under her uneven nails. Since turning fifteen last month, she had been growing them.

She would use a nail file and clippers when they were long enough. Then her nails would be evened out.

Hopefully they wouldn’t break before their time.

“K.L.,” Frederica spat from the other side of the cracked door, “Mom says clean the house.” Her steps receded down the hall. Doors closed, the massive truck roared to life and gurgled into the road. It faded away. Kittylyn could see it in her head, chugging up the highway, past the same old cars she saw every day.

The red Nissan worked in the hospital. The blue Toyota went to the fish hatchery. The white Ford was a middle school teacher. Dozens of other cars she could name and place chugged along. It was the ones from out of town that she wondered about. Where did they go when they sped by in the night? Were they on grand adventures? Were they escaping something?

Kittylyn headed downstairs to the kitchen. The relatives might have left a scrap of something behind.

She kept away from the wobbly railing. If someone was meant to die on the stairs, it certainly wouldn’t be her. A single chicken from Kentucky somehow remained in the greasy bucket that Aunt Belinda had brought home last night. Tearing into the cold meat, she threw the bones in the trash. Now it was time to clean. Every dish in the house was dirty. Red mud caked the floor. The couch pillows lay in corners where they weren’t supposed to be. Sweeping, mopping, straightening up, it was all in a day’s work. She took care of it in less than thirty minutes.

Padding to the couch, she switched on the tele-

vision to watch something good for a change. Football, war movies and westerns drove her half-mad. As for the “hot new original series,” those needed to be shot.

She glanced out the window. The snow was late this year, leaving the leafless cottonwoods stark naked.

Long yellow grass swayed in the cold wind. She could see the white truck in her mind’s eye. It hadn’t even reached the halfway point up the hill. She stuck in a movie: boring. She went outside. Sitting in the tire swing hanging on the old cottonwood, she nudged herself back and forth.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to go on that,” said a boy’s voice.

Kittylyn looked up. Nico was leaning over the fence from his yard. He hadn’t combed his messy hair in a week. It could do with a chop; longer hair called in more lice. Some of the reservation boys braided their manes back. Others threw their lice into other people’s hair for fun. The parasites usually ended up on Nico’s head.

“Nobody’s here today,” she said. “They went to Pizza Hut.” “And left you here?”

“That shouldn’t surprise you.”

Nico hopped over the fence. Coming over, he leaned against the tree. “If I was you, I’d break their windows.”

Kittylyn secured her black hair in a bun. “No, Hunter will come. And then he’ll take me away.”

Nico grew skeptical. “Your bear?”

“Yeah. You don’t believe me, but I know it’s true.”

“You’re really weird.”

“That’s true, too.” Kittylyn turned the tire side to side. “If you do this, it feels like a carnival ride.”

Nico laughed. “That’s not a carnival ride. That’s

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 39

sad.”

“It isn’t sad at all. If you look straight up and spin around, all the trees spin with you. And if you keep doing it, you’ll lose your balance and get sick. You can do it without a tire swing, but the tire is much more effective. Try it.”

Nico stuck his hands in his pocket. “I’m too old for that.”

“You’re only twelve.”

“You’re too old for that. I saw you trick or treating. You’re crazy.”

Kittylyn started to swing. “You’re never too old for candy. Why didn’t you come with me?”

“So I wouldn’t look like a fool.”

“You’ll feel pretty foolish when I have candy and you don’t. It looks like I’ll have to leave some with you before Hunter comes.”

Nico scoffed. “Sure.”

Kittylyn dug her heels into the ground and forced the swing to stop. “I filled up a whole pillowcase.

I have enough until next Halloween.” She laughed. “I might be able to give it away.”

“That’s gross.”

“That’s saving money.” She swayed side to side.

“See, you get all the candy you can. You don’t eat it all.

Then when next year comes, you give away the excess and get fresh candy. Everybody’s happy.”

Nico smirked. “What if everybody did that?”

“Then the candy companies would suffer. They wouldn’t run out of business, because people do eat candy, but they would sell a lot less. So they’re lucky that nobody does what I do.”

Nico grunted. “I got important things to do.

See you later.” He headed back to the fence.

Kittylyn swung her back to him and then leaned back until she looked at him upside down. “Not too old for video games?”

Nico climbed the fence. “This is important.”

“That’s the real reason you weren’t trick or treating. You weren’t being grown up. You were being lazy.”

Nico scoffed and headed back into his house.

Kittylyn swung in the tire until it was almost dark. The big truck guzzled into the drive.

“Mommy!” Babette’s voice was a high-pitched squeal that never stopped whining. “K.L.’s in my swing!” Shrieking, Babette leaped from the truck, darted across the yard and raised her hand to strike Kittylyn.

The fifteen-year-old girl turned the tire and Babette smacked the hard rubber instead. Screeching in frustration, she attempted to strike Kittylyn again, but couldn’t.

“Mommy!”

40 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

Belinda blew across the yard like a wild bull and yanked Kittylyn out of the swing. “What are you doing touching her tire? You’re too old to be swinging!”

Babette hit Kittylyn. “You stay away from my swing!”

“Apologize to her,” Belinda bellowed.

“Did you bring me any pizza?” said Kittylyn.

Belinda pulled her pants up. “Of course not, everyone was hungry.”

“That’s too bad. Because if there was pizza, this would be a happier house.”

Belinda’s eye twitched. “What did you do?” She shouted at her boyfriend. “Alston, K.L. did something to the house!” She jostled Kittylyn inside and stood her in the middle of the living room. “Check the house to see what she did!”

Alston, Frederica and Babette scoured the house in their muddy shoes. They tossed their jackets all over to look more effectively. Pillows went flying to check for diabolical traps.

Alston kicked his shoes into the middle of the floor. “This place doesn’t look very clean.”

Belinda smacked Kittylyn in the face. “I told you to clean, and you didn’t. You’re just like your mother. Go upstairs. I don’t wanna see you for the rest of the night.”

“Fine, send me.” Kittylyn forced back the tears.

“I don’t care what you do. Hunter’s coming. I’m only here temporarily. And when Hunter finds out how you’ve been treating me, he’ll eat you all.”

“You and your stupid bear.” Belinda rolled her eyes. “Go!” She thrust a bony finger at the stairs. Kittylyn marched back to her room. At least she didn’t have to apologize to that stupid Babette.

“What’s wrong with that girl?” Belinda’s husky voice penetrated the thin choppy walls. “She doesn’t clean. She doesn’t take care of Babette. She lives in her own fantasy world with some made-up bear.”

“Why did we have to end up with her?” said Frederica.

“I don’t know.”

“Why can’t she stay in an orphan home or something? I don’t like her here. Do you know what she said to me yesterday? I was talking about Hugo’s new Lexus and she said cars were a…what word did she use?”

“I don’t know,” said Alston. “Petty, or something like that.”

“Yeah, petty. She said they were a petty thing to be impressed with since they’re all gonna end up in a junk heap one day anyway.”

Kittylyn leaned over the railing. “And getting

that old car smell. They’re nothing to be impressed with.

What you have to wonder is where they are going. Where have they been?”

Belinda’s face went livid. “I said to go to your room! Is there a problem with your ears?”

“They’re perfect,” said Kittylyn. “Too perfect.”

She returned to her room. # Tiny taps sounded on the window the next morning. Kittylyn opened one eye and spotted a small bird on the windowsill. It was light gray. Two red stripes ran down its face. A few small snowflakes had landed on its black tail and wings. It chirped, jerking its head side to side.

Kittylyn pushed herself up and opened the window. “Hello. Is there any news from Hunter?”

The bird twittered and hopped.

Kittylyn’s mouth fell open. “Really? I thought he might be hibernating already. I didn’t expect him un-

with the hands he’s got. His claws are made for tearing and grabbing and digging and climbing. It may have taken him six months to write the letter. He’d have to learn how to hold a pen in his mouth and try not to break it. Bear jaws are very powerful. They can crush human skulls.” Kittylyn put a gloved finger to her chin.

“I might take six months to read the letter, if it’s been written by mouth.”

Nico stared at her. “Are you okay? You seem weirder than usual.”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“When people say they’re ‘fine,’ they’re usually not.”

Kittylyn turned to him, hands outstretched.

“I’m breathing, aren’t I? I’m getting a letter from Hunter.” She started walking again. “I keep wondering what sort of bird it was that had given me the message.

I’ve seen them around. Do you think it had a hard time coming here? There are owls and hawks and all kinds of

He stabbed my mom to death with a flathead screwdriver.

til spring.”

The bird chirped.

“I’ll go there right away.” Not bothering to close the window, she dressed and hurried back. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to crawl out the window. I’ve been banished to my room again.” She started climbing out, and the bird flew away.

Keeping low when she passed the windows, she slipped out by the driveway and headed up the road towards the mountain. A light snowfall coated the sidewalks. Tire tracks had already cut black stripes through the white on the road.

“Kitty,” Nico called behind her, “I saw you crawl out your window. Where are you going now?”

“Ah, Nico,” said Kittylyn, “taking a break from the video games, or did the system finally break?”

“The boss had five forms, and on the last form, I got killed.”

“You rage-quit.”

“Of course I did. You would, too. Where are you going?”

Kittylyn nodded at the mountain. “Over there.

A little bird told me that I have a message from Hunter.

It’s been a long time since I heard from him, you know.

About six months. But a bear can’t really write letters

things floating around out there. I bet if the bird were bigger, it would have brought me my mail, just like the owls in Harry Potter, or the carrier pigeons. Of course, the letter would be too tiny for me to read and Hunter would have had the roughest time writing something that small by mouth.”

Nico’s brow cocked. He figured he might as well humor her. “So…what’s the deal with you and Hunter?”

“Hunter is my bear, and I’m his human. It’s not that complicated. We were always good friends. After my mom died and my dad went to prison, Hunter said he would fix it with his superiors so that I could come and live with him in the forest.” Kittylyn hopped over a crack in the sidewalk. The light snow couldn’t cover it up. “Bears have great big councils in the mountains.

They’re in charge, you know.”

Nico brushed the last remark away. “I didn’t know your dad was in prison.”

“Yup.” Kittylyn nodded. “He stabbed my mom to death with a flathead screwdriver. I was there. He was so furious because somebody told him that my mom was cheating on him. It wasn’t true. The woman who told wanted to break my parents up, because she thought my dad was cute. She had no clue that my dad

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 41

would kill my mom and then go to prison. Now she doesn’t have a man at all.”

Nico’s face screwed up. “You were there?”

“He wanted to stab me, too, because he said I probably wasn’t his daughter. Hunter saved me, though.

He wasn’t a very big bear at the time, so my dad got away from him. After that, I came here.”

Pity gleamed in Nico’s eyes. “That’s why you’re…” He indicated her up and down.

Kittylyn scratched her head under the fuzzy hat.

“Do you ever wonder where the bears go in the wintertime?”

“No.” “When I go to live with Hunter, I’ll write to you. The same gray bird with the red stripes on its face will deliver the message to you. Hopefully you won’t be playing the game when it comes. It has a very soft chirp.

You can’t hear it if you’re howling and rage-quitting all the time.” She twirled in a circle. “Do you plan on being

thought. “…like growing up so fast that nobody believes that you were ever a kid, or ever had a mother. I used to think those things were tiny ballerinas.”

“Are you sure you still don’t?” These were Nico’s parting words as he ran back to his house.

Kittylyn continued up the mountain alone. Of course there are no dandelions at this time of the year. But Hunter should be sleeping, too, and he isn’t. There might be magic dandelions up there. Who knows?

Leaving the relative safety of the neighborhood, she plunged into the forest. Dozens of animal and human trails shot off in countless directions.

At the top of the mountain, the gray bird with black wings chirped from a pine tree. Kittylyn raced to the base and dug around on the ground. Pulling out a slab of pine bark, she turned it over in her hands.

Scrapes covered the smooth inner surface. She smiled.

“You’re clever, Hunter.” She headed back down, glowing with excitement.

Don’t be utterly ridiculous. He’s a bear. He’d be insulted to know that you should think he was a wolf. a Youtuber? I heard the very good ones are rich. Most of them can’t even read. Isn’t that wonderful, doing what you want and getting rich off of it?” She almost hit a fence, but kept spinning. “Nico, can a girl eat candy for a living? I guess that wouldn’t be too healthy. But being that we’ll all die of something someday, why not die of happiness?”

Nico refused to be pulled into her mania. “I’m gonna see if I can beat the game. My buddies are coming over in an hour.”

“We’ll be down from the mountain in an hour.”

Nico grimaced at the monolith, about a quarter mile away. “I don’t think so.”

“Lazy, Nico. That’s the problem with this place.

Lazy.” She stopped spinning. “I guess you can’t make a living off of everything you like to do. Laziness never got anyone anywhere. Unless…” She tapped her chin.

“Do you think they have people who test how soft beds are and sleep in them all day?”

“Sure.” Nico backed up.

“Where are you going? There might be a field of dandelions up there.”

“So what?”

“Endless wishes. Just make sure you don’t make any stupid ones…” Her eyes roved all over the place in

42 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

# “Did you get your letter?” said Nico, leaning on the fence.

Kittylyn fitted colored floss into a needle before she looked up. “I certainly did. Hunter wrote it on a piece of bark.” She pulled it from her pocket and brought it to Nico. “See? It’s all fixed. He’s coming tonight. I’ve got all my precious things in the world in that bag.” She pointed at the duffel bag sitting on the tire swing. It hadn’t snowed anymore, but the thin layer that had fallen in the night remained crusted to the earth.

Nico shook his head. “So…why is Hunter a bear? Why isn’t he a wolf or something?”

“Don’t be utterly ridiculous. He’s a bear. He’d be insulted to know that you should think he was a wolf.

Wolves are a lot like dogs, and those are the nastiest creatures in the world. They smell, they bite, they drool.”

Nico smirked. “And bears don’t?”

“No.” He scratched under his hat. “Whatever.”

Kittylyn leaned on the fence several feet from Nico. “If bears were like wolves, there’d be more complaints about them, see? Everyone complains about wolves. They eat everything. They stink the place up.

ART: Ractapopulous

They munch on cattle. The only reason they’re protected is because they’re canines. These days, canines have more rights than people do. The only ones who don’t complain about them are the people who don’t have to deal with them. They think wolves are like their pet dogs that they’re probably sleeping with. You only get radical like that when you sleep with them. Take Alston, for example. He sleeps with Belinda. He’s radical about her.”

“Sure.” Nico snorted. “I gotta go.”

“Gaming again?”

“What do you think?”

Kittylyn put her sampler in her pocket. “I think you’re brain dead. Where do brains go when they die?”

“How should I know?”

“I guess it depends on how they died. See, yours is in a living death. Kind of reminds you of cubicles, doesn’t it? And being a waitress. Probably anything that has to do with customer service. They said I couldn’t get a job around here unless it was customer service.

I decided to live with Hunter.”

“Sure, Kitty.” Nico ran inside.

Kittylyn continued stitching the sampler. The cold nipped at her fingers, but it was better than stitching inside. I think I’ll give this to Nico when I’m finished. I don’t know how much he’ll appreciate it, though. His wife might,

if he ever gets married. Maybe the video game girls will enjoy it.

Seems like he’ll be marrying one of them in VR sometime soon.

“K.L.,” Belinda shouted, “what are you doing?

Get in here and wash these dishes. I can’t believe this!

I’m working all day and you can’t even keep the house clean for me!”

“You have three children,” said Kittylyn. “One of them’s Alston.” She chuckled to herself. “Or two spawns and a consort.”

Belinda hadn’t heard any of it, or she would have slapped her. “You earn your keep!” Belinda dragged her inside.

Kittylyn slipped the sampler into her pocket. “I don’t have to earn my keep anymore.” She took off her jacket. “Hunter’s coming tonight.”

“You and that stupid bear. I should commit you.”

Hanging her jacket on a chair, Kittylyn went to the sink. “I might as well do this now. After I’m gone, there will be no one left to do the dishes.”

Belinda rolled her eyes and stalked out. # “They’re coming to get her tomorrow,” said Belinda from the living room. “I’ve had enough of that girl. She’s crazy and she won’t keep the house clean. I didn’t know what else to do.”

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 43

“Finally!” Frederica cried. “What time? Six, seven?”

“Ten.” “That is so long! I need her moved out tonight.

We don’t have to visit her, do we?”

“No, thank goodness. She’ll be in the valley.

She can take her imaginary bear with her.”

Frederica laughed. “She’ll probably think the van is Hunter. Oh, I know, I’ll tell her the guys in the white coats are her bears. She’ll probably believe me.”

They roared with laughter.

“Guess whose car I got to ride in today?” said Belinda.

Kittylyn finished drying the sampler. She then turned it into a magnet.

“Not the properest thing to give to a boy,” she said. “Oh well, it’s better than a video game. His VR wife could use it. She can stick VR pictures of Nico on their VR fridge.”

Dogs wailed down the street. Their cries drew closer as more dogs joined in. The din drowned out Belinda’s talk about fancy cars and expensive clothes. It didn’t matter, though. The household could recite her conversation on that subject word for word.

Kittylyn never liked the warbling wails of crying dogs. It reminded her of death. Dogs howling at the broken-down graves of their masters crossed her mind.

There was no grass, and the sky was yellow.

Tap-tap-tap!

Kittylyn’s heart leaped, and she shoved the window open. The little gray bird chirped at her and flew away. Kittylyn gasped and leaned outside.

“Hunter?”

“Get your things, Kitty,” said a low growly voice. “Wait for me at the end of the road, by the mountain.”

“Okay.” Kittylyn donned her warm clothes and climbed out the window. Now that she knew why the dogs were howling, she didn’t care anymore. Maybe when she walked up the street, people might think she was a specter. They would talk about it for years! She stuck the magnet on the fence for Nico to find the next day, scattered candy on the ground, and snatched up her duffel bag.

The doorbell rang.

As Kittylyn hopped the fence and started up the road, Belinda shrieked. The whole house erupted in frantic screams. People looked out their windows, but didn’t dare venture out. Kittylyn covered her ears and sped up. Further up the street, the wails drowned out the massacre in Belinda’s house. Panting, Kittylyn made it to the end of the road, and waited.

44 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

A massive form slipped from the shadows to her right. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you say good-bye to everyone you wanted to say good-bye to?”

“Yeah.”

She climbed onto the warm back, clutched the thick fur in her gloves. The bear broke into a run. A carnival ride was nothing to this, unless it meant being just as powerful. The great muscles rippled beneath the fur. Trees whizzed by in a blur of burnished silver and deep shadow, twinkling with loosened snowflakes. The ground seemed nothing but air, Hunter a great tornado.

They reached the top of the mountain in a few seconds. A moon-washed forest spread before them.

Snow speckled the deep blue trees. Hunter’s breath billowed from his mouth and nose.

Kittylyn pulled the red and white scarf from her mouth. “Do you know what’s funny?”

“What?”

“They’ll probably write a sad story about me.

One of those stories with a bittersweet ending like, ‘she finally got out of her misery and went home. Nobody could understand her but the little boy she left behind.’

Or something like that.” Kittylyn chuckled. “They’ll make a legend about me.”

“Or they’ll have a massive manhunt and think you slaughtered your family.”

“That could happen, too. Then again, it might still be a legend. Since I’m Native, they’ll turn you into a wolf.”

A low growl escaped Hunter’s throat. “Ugh, I hope not. Nasty little creatures.”

Kittylyn giggled. “Maybe we can visit the movie maker guys and straighten them out.”

“Or we could leave them to their stupidity and just enjoy life. You see those mountains with the flat tops?”

Kittylyn pulled the scarf back up. “Yeah.”

“Home is that way. Hold on tight.”

Hunter raced into the trees. Branches and brush whipped by. Icy night wind combed through fur and hair. An owl hooted over the trickle of a stream, as if welcoming them in. []

JULIA BENALLY has most recently been published in The Weasel Press's anthology: The Haunted Traveler, The Scarlet Leaf Review, and The Wicked Library Podcast. She has upcoming works in Legends: Passion Pages, which is on pre-order, and in HellBound-books' anthology: Graveyard Girls. When Julia is not writing, she loves killing zombies, taking walks and practicing the ukulele.

POETRY

Pluviophile

ALAN

CHERIAN

Carousal of nature Being a lullaby for the aborigines She comes as an appease for them For the well-heeled, she is all about an enjoyment For the destitute, she is all about the chiming sound That cuddles the utensils For reapers, she is a benediction And for the blooming soul She is all about the commemoration.

I could see the jubilant hearts Abiding for an appease As a renovation It ablutes my grimes Being an unexpected guest She comes to my life Hiding and seeking at fortuitous circumstances As a melody for my life.

I want that comrade To keep the world awake To keep the minds enliven And to refurbish happiness Around the world.

Expecting another return of her Assuming that she may come soon To this molten earth As a cool breeze Having heeded to those sunset I could hope for a sunrise.

Life is a solitary confinement And is all about Dancing in the rain of emotions. []

ALAN CHERIAN PUTHENPURAYIL is an Indian poet who is an Honorary Member of World Union of Poetry, a member of Hafrikan Prince Arts World and the representative member of World Nation Writers Union from India.

He is currently pursuing his post-graduation studies in English Literature from Catholicate College, Kottayam, Kerala.

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 45

POETRY LYNN WHITE

Lullaby Play me a lullaby, you said.

So I picked up my fiddle and checked the tuning.

You held the music for me as I stood on the grass.

And then I felt sleepy..

Well it was a lullaby, what should I have expected?

So I lay on the grass and slept.

And slept.

When I woke, you were gone and only the music remained. []

How Will I Know You How will I know you, the man behind the mask.

I can recognise you with the mask in place.

And sometimes it may slip and reveal .... another layer, another mask, perhaps masquerading as an unguarded comment wearing stage clothes, even if naked.

You are in there somewhere.

But even though I peel off layer after layer, uncover mystery after mystery I still never find you. []

46 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

Entertainment As usual, it was one tank that drew the crowd down in the museum’s aquarium.

It was not the tank with pike gawping threateningly, their teeth barred in anticipation and hope of attracting an audience.

No, though there was a monstrous pike in it, swimming with it’s mouth wide open.

But it’s mouth was open wide in wonder, in wonder at it’s strange environment.

Well, it’s not often that a pike gets to swim in a drawing room furnished from times past.

It’s eyes bulged with the strangeness of it all.

But it was a crowd puller, though still not enough to satisfy such an audience, the pike reflected, as it considered the strangeness of it’s very un-fishlike companion, the young girl costume dressed to match the drawing room, standing there dreamlike or maybe drugged, steadying herself with the chair.

Perhaps earlier she was seated, when the water was lower. but now she has to stand.

The water is already up to her waist and rising slowly.

The audience gets larger, their eyes bulging fishlike LYNN WHITE lives in north as they gawp at the spectacle.

They call it entertainment.

So it goes. []

Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality.

POETRY

clawing at the grounded moon #73

D A R R E N C. D E M A R E E

there is a rain there is a pool the weight of the moon is crumpling our country our tumble began before the moon the moon is not helping the thin stroke of protest is a thing i used to stoke with my thick arms there is a politics now that says we should drill into the moon dissect the moon give each citizen a hunk of it i used to argue with my neighbors that they shouldn’t buy styrofoam now we scream at each other about whether or not a company like amazon should be in charge of keeping the moon between their legs []

clawing at the grounded moon #75 clawing at the grounded moon #74 i am rereading everything with the context of the moon as the lost eye of god woah those witches had it right []

ART: “The Lovers' Boat”

by Albert Pinkham Ryder

crouched miles milesmiles from the impact site i spent all of last night half-speaking about metaphor knowing knowingknowing that metaphor is beneath the moon now could the cupping of one of my hands really be a mouthpiece could surviving be enough practical water for us to transcend our doom []

DARREN C. DEMAREE’s poems have appeared, or are scheduled to appear in Hotel Amerika, Diode, North American Review, New Letters, Diagram, the Colorado Review & others. He is the author of nine poetry collections, most recently "Bombing the Thinker" (Backlash Press). He is the Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology and Ovenbird Poetry. He is currently living and writing in Columbus, Ohio with my wife and children.

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 47

POETRY

days of libraries

AVA BIRD

AVA BIRD is a pranic poet practicing presence and poetry from the places of heart and soul and beyond. Also, an author, a mixologist, a mythbreaker, a sharer, and a chef of many proportions. She has organized various kinds of events including the great art movement '100Thousand Poets for Change’, a universal gathering of worldwide poets and artists promoting equality, peace, justice, sustainability for the planets, global love and positive changes for all & more.

Visit 100tpc.org

at the library

typing keys wildly cloudy out every now and then street people read looking up sleep monkey mind email again charge phones back to the pen i sit back the writing listen to chants time to get it down with headphones turn it out [] loud surrounded by books of classic japanese poetry

ART: Jay Chakravarti

objects in mirror are closer than they appear here i sit next to this heroin addict driving on a highway in a compact car stuck for a trip down the coast skinny, worn, dehydrated, scars, he is still very polite and friendly i say 'its good to be clean' he says 'yeah, you're right' i cant wait to sage the shit out of this car when he leaves! burn incense to smoke the demons still hanging around where he sat in the passenger seat i think to myself: we are all one, have some compassion bitch i say 'maybe you should just walk away, let go.' 'yeah, i want to' he says 'but its hard when you love someone' the heroin addict now keeps asking for things: 'can we stop, do you smoke, i have to go to the bathroom i need some water do you have a light?' after a few hours, i think 'fuck this heroin addict!' yet we both try to play it normal 'we just got new carpet, i am looking for a job now, my girlfriend wants to have a baby, someday' yeah, me too, i think as i look in the mirror where objects are closer than they appear i see the addict in me, the hungry ghost in me, the possibilities in me, the potential, the dark sides, on the flip side i say 'yeah, we are so blessed to have these moments, to be here now, to be alive on this earth' thank you heroin addict for keeping me clean. []

48 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

ROHIT SAWANT’s fiction can be found in Weirdbook Magazine #40 and has been featured in the anthologies On Fire, Down with the Fallen, Sherlock Holmes: Adventures in the Realms of H.G. Wells and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India. Enjoys sketching, films, and his favourite Batman is Kevin Conroy. You can find him at rohitsawantfiction.wordpress.com

ART: “Love and Pain” (Also known as ’Vampire’)

by Edvard Munch

FICTION

Doe John

R O H I T S A W A NT

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 49

Over the last two decades, I had managed to block the whole horrid affair which began when I got called to the scene of an accident. Not that it didn’t distantly ping in my mind from time to time, like a rabid thing around the corner, unseen but heard, but I always managed to scamper away from it and would’ve scampered into my grave without any vivid recollection. But that’s not to be. Not now after seeing that figure trailing behind.

And, Lord help me, I have an idea who that man who it was.

Twenty years. It seems like just hours ago that I drove along Preston Street which connected Willard Grove to the Highway. The fact that it was a single vehicular accident was all I knew at the time.

A patrol car and the medical examiner's van blocked my view of the crash as I pulled over on the blacktop’s shoulder. Walking past them, I felt a vague sense of resentment as I took in the now-oblique tree.

The slouching old oak had been part of my childhood.

to make a dive through the window.

“Do we have an ID?” I asked.

“Nope. Nothin’ on him 'cept cash in his wallet.

Not even a driver’s license.”

“Okay. Let’s run the plate when we get back. Could be our victim was on an extended joyride.”

“Yeah, what I thought, too.”

Rounding the nose of the car, I walked over to the driver’s side where Dennis Sutton was hunched over.

He stood a little way off so as not to step in the blood trickling down the rocker panel in thin streams.

“Dennis.”

“Bill,” he said, glancing across his shoulder as he put away the thermometer he’d been squinting at.

“Cause of death would be--” “Speed?” my partner put in from behind.

He ignored Morris, he usually did, and went on to say the fatal injury was caused by the angled branch which punctured internal organs, also the ribs were bro-

…part of the heart muscle, a dark maroon lump, was torn away by the impalement, “Where the branch staked him,” I slowed down as I approached the police tape.

“Jesus.”

Morris was speaking to a crime scene technician, but broke away when he saw me.

“My reaction, too.”

Around the time I took early retirement, I attended a scene where a woman had died of strangulation in the mall after her hair got caught in the escalator along with her scarf. The sight of her puffed and purple face stayed with me for days like an afterimage that wouldn’t go away. That was the only other time an accident had that effect on me.

The first thing that hooked my attention wasn’t the accordioned Porsche, but the driver; he was half out the shattered windshield, impaled on a branch.

“Had to be doing no less than sixty, that too minus the seat belt,” Morris said.

I nodded absently, eyeing the stump which poked from between the driver’s shoulder blades. The blood was still dripping down the jagged end. The lower part of his torso was pinned on the wrenched-up steering wheel and the seat had been thrust forward with the force of impact. Doubled over, he looked like was about

50 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

ken and the knees fractured, probably within a fraction of a second on impact. The victim was literally knocked out of his shoes.

“No shit,” Morris said.

“What about the time of death?” I asked.

“Ten twenty-seven,” he said after a beat.

“Pretty exact.”

When he gestured at the driver’s limp arm, I couldn’t help but remark that a dead watch isn’t exactly a reliable indicator.

He pursed his lips before replying.

“Not really able to get a clear estimate off the body temp. The readings I’m getting are...irregular, same with lividity. So it’s kinda making it difficult to narrow down an approximate range. Also, the fluctuation in air temperature isn’t helping. I’ll be able tell better after I get the body back to the lab.”

He concluded in a tone that suggested I nod my head and let him stalk off. I nodded. He stalked off.He stopped to tell a technician to saw off the branch at the entry wound and get the body in the van.

“What’s up with doc tonight?” Morris said.

“Mmm? Mmm.” I turned back to the car then looked down to see

the glossy pool of blood, almost black under the street lights, had reached my feet and I stepped back. With the scatter of glass shards, it looked like the kind of mess you’d see if a shelf in a wine cellar crashed to the floor, spreading the contents of the age old bottles all over. I should’ve figured something was amiss. The average adult has about 10 pints of blood; the spill at the scene was far more. # That night when I got home I found Ella in bed, reading. Her eyes left the book as I entered the bedroom, and she gave me a tight smile.

“Jordan's still awake.” I started unbuttoning my cuffs.

“Yes. He has a test tomorrow.”

“Yeah, he mentioned.”

After a pause, I asked her how her day was.

“Oh, you know...” she said, shrugging. She had long since given up asking me how my day was. But I didn't blame her. She left me end of that year, took Jordan with her.

By the time I had changed, Ella was already asleep.

I lay awake on my side of the bed, a hand tucked under my head. My mind still on the night's grisly events. Later at the station, I’d bagged the victim’s personal effects (which consisted of spare change, a wallet containing cash and a faded black and white photograph of a woman wearing a cloche hat, a light sweater and dark knee length skirt; it reminded me of a picture I have of my mother as a young thing) and signed them over. Before leaving, I put in a phone call to the DMV regarding the Porsche’s plate. They said they’d get back in a day or two. This was back when things weren't at your fingertips at the press of a mouse button and ‘combing through the database’ meant a bunch of guys flicking through files.

I shifted in bed and stared at Ella's back. A transient thought about tracing my fingers across it passed through my mind when the phone shrilled. Ella slept like a stone and her mornings usually started late, a fact I'd be grateful for hours from now when I'd return with muck splattered shoes. I yanked the receiver.

“Bill. It--it's me. Dennis.”

“Dennis?” I glanced at the clock. Half past midnight.

“You have to come over to the morgue.”

“Did you find something?”

“Yes. I wish to God I hadn't but yes.” # Dennis was walking back and forth, twisting his hands

when I stepped into the cold room.

“Bill, thanks for coming. You used the back door like I said?”

“Yes.” I’d broken a fair amount of sweat from my walk over and felt annoyed as a shiver whipped me in the chill. “Dennis, what’s with all this cloak-and-dagger crap? Will you just get on already?”

He directed me to one of the stainless steel tables with a basin at the head.

“The accident vic from earlier tonight?” I pointed my chin at the covered body. He grunted confirmation.

Standing on the opposite side of the table, I had a feeling Dennis would’ve seemed no less sickly in the warm glow of a fire than he did in the room’s pale green hue.

He pulled back the sheet from the corpse.

I gasped. Glancing up, I saw a dull satisfaction in his eyes then returned my gaze to the table.

Except for the places where bruises bloomed, the skin wrapped around the bones was parchment white, thin and creased like crepe. The torso was cut open in a Y incision, the flaps peeled back and pinned. The only thing suggesting it was the body of the crash victim was the jagged hole in the chest. This wasn't the lean figure I'd seen skewered on the branch. The thing before me was like a withered white apple.

“When I took the body temp back at the scene,” Dennis began, “it read about 41°F. That's almost as cold as this room.”

Our eyes met again. He continued, “Initially, I thought maybe the heat loss was the result of environmental exposure and conduction, what with the branch piercing him.” A measure of steadiness crept into his voice as he elucidated. “But even in that case, the engine was still warm when I reached, and taking into account the hour on the broken watch, it's impossible for the temperature to have plummeted so suddenly in that short time period. Still, none of that is as mind-boggling as the abnormally advanced rhytidermia, the, uh, super wrinkled skin. I jumped when I unzipped the bag, wondering idiotically if it was the wrong DB. Equally shocking is what I found when I examined the corpse...”

“Which is?”

“Look at the internal organs. Lungs, what's left of ‘em anyway, are all shriveled. And here,” he beckoned me to lean in, slipping a glove on his left hand, his right already bore one. He pointed at the jagged circumference where part of the heart muscle, a dark maroon lump, was torn away by the impalement, “Where the branch staked him,” my eyes shot up at Dennis who had his head down, growing almost fervid as he spoke, “the

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 51

area around the wound is charred. But there are no burn marks around the surface entry.”

I took a step back, sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose and said, “I never thought I’d say these words in my career, but are you telling me that our victim was a vampire?”

His face ran together with a look of relief, fear and indignation.

“Don't you think I know how it sounds? Listen, Bill, we’ve been friends for, what, almost seven years now? I'm only asking that you give me the benefit of the doubt here. Do you think I'd come to you with any of this without thinking it over? All I’m asking is that you hear me out.”

I threw up my hands, and stepping back, leaned against the tiled wall, and motioned for him to proceed with his show and tell.

He scooted off and fetched a transparent plastic bag bloated with dark red fluid. I knew what it was.

sive.”

I began to get uneasy in the ensuing silence. Pieces of a puzzle, no matter how ugly, grotesque or insensible, I could always view them within a frame of logic and apply myself to spot patterns, but this thing we were dealing with left me feeling blind as a--left me feeling blind.

“And take a look at this,” Dennis said, nearing the head of the table. The way he said it gave me a feeling whatever this was he was saving it for the finale.

“I cu-” He blinked. ”I almost cut myself examining the damned things.”

Gingerly, he placed two fingers above the corpse’s upper lip and grabbing its jaw, pulled the mouth open.

For the first time since the whole thing started, I felt a twist of terror when I witnessed the jaw yaw smoothly open, wider than possible for any human mouth. Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard myself trying to explain it away as a dislocated jaw from the crash. Fol-

The crepe skin sizzled and squiggles of smoke rose up. He flicked it off, his face split in a childlike grin.

He’d held up a bag several times before in the same way: stomach contents.

He told me it was a mixed batch of human blood types. I zoned out as he delved into technicalities about hemoglobin and blood protein, thinking about where the blood might’ve come from. Needless to say, I wasn’t sold on the vampire angle. But the thought sprang into my mind that we could have some nutcase on our hands who fancied himself a vampire and sliced people up or pilfered blood banks.

“I did a cardiac autopsy, checked the cross-section of the arteries under the microscope, and found our John Doe’s blood vessels are about two and a half times the normal size. And--” he held up his index before rushing off again. He returned with a handheld UV light.

“Just watch,” he said.

Dennis turned the UV light on and trained the blue -white beam on the corpse’s arm. The crepe skin sizzled and squiggles of smoke rose up. He flicked it off, his face split in a childlike grin.

I swallowed. “But couldn’t it be possible that this is some, I don’t know, vestigial reaction or something of that blood disor-” “Porphyria, yes I already ran a test for that, I sampled blood directly from the heart, and it was inconclu-

52 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

lowing his direction, I bent over and peered into the gaping mouth. Six jagged teeth, jutting out like outcroppings in a river bed, poked through close behind both sets of front teeth. The sight of those hidden teeth--no; you and I have teeth. Let's call a spade a spade. The sight of those fangs made my skin feel toasty in spite of the surrounding coldness.

I paced, a hand clasped to my mouth.

“Okay, I don’t know if I can buy the whole vampire BS,” I said, knowing that, at least for the moment, I did believe it.

“You believe it,” Dennis said in a dazed voice.

“Don’t backtrack now, man. Please.”

I shook my head. “All we know for sure is that we have an accident victim with apparently unusual physiology, for which I’m sure some guy with a string of acronyms after his name could dish some kinda explanation.”

“C’mon, Bill. What more proof--” “That is not proof.” I almost shouted, pointing at the table. “What you showcased was debatable evidence that satisfies some obscure folklore checklist.”

“Bill, calm down. And I get it, man. I had a version of this debate with myself before I called you up.”

ART: “Vampyr II”

by Edvard Munch

I was about to go on but another thought entered my head, making me groan. “The press is gonna love this. Autopsy reveals vampiric traits in accident victim.

Hell, that’ll probably be the headline. Also if we fail to ID John Doe through missing persons or the criminal database, we’re going to have to issue a press release, circulate photographs. God, this thing is going to be a fucking nightmare.” Bad as it was, I found these outside associations almost revivifying. Then the matter wouldn’t be confined to this tomb cold room between me and Dennis.

“I’m gonna have Dr. Coleman take a look at our John Doe here.” Dr. Coleman was the coroner in the neighboring county who had assisted us twice before on occasions when Dennis was unavailable. “It’ll be a good idea to have a second set of ey-” “Just stop!” Dennis said. “Can’t you see? We can’t do any of that.”

“Why not?”

Until then his attitude had been that of fear with an undercurrent of nervous excitement. But now there was a naked horror on his face.

“Maybe I’ve read too much into it. Maybe Coleman

could offer some rational explanation. But just suppose the alternative is true and word gets out with the press release and everything. Would you want anything associated with that thing walking into Willard Grove in the cover of night?”

In the cover of night. I couldn’t say why but the words, ordinary enough, gave me a chill. My mind flew back to the woman in the cloche hat.

“What are you suggesting?” I asked.

The silent relief washing over him was palpable. A ghost of a smile played on his lips.

“We bury the body.” # And we did. Of course, we argued for a bit about the ridiculousness of it, and not to mention we'd be committing a felony, but I didn't protest too fiercely.

He said the idea had taken form in his head when he’d called, and that’s why he pressed me to leave the car behind and use the back entrance, to avoid being noticed. Back then the world wasn't littered with CCTVs and the only security cameras were around the front of the building and in the main lobby.

The suppressed excitement Dennis exuded as we

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 53

spaded the earth got on my nerves. It wouldn’t have surprised me to learn he was imagining himself as Van Helsing or some shit. If he’d proposed decapitating the body I would’ve ended up burying him, too.

I won't tell you how we managed it all. Let's just say it was a mix of good judgment and serendipity. It's not altogether surprising but I found it a little unsettling how deftly I operated on the other side of the law. Anyway, it was a nerve-wracking business, but we made a good job of it.

The body has remained undiscovered till the present day.

That's not to say the incident didn't kick up dust.

Chief was red faced with fury. Magic trick in the morgue would do that to a man in his position. I didn't even need to lead the investigation into the missing body astray. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel smug just a trickle at the way my escapade had left my colleagues bumbling in the dark.

Dennis and I never brought the matter up between us again. Although the following few days were weird, we eventually settled back into a casual rhythm. And after Ella left me, I spent more time with him. We'd visit each other on weekends. Chat, play cards, watch the game on TV, kill six-packs. The first time he came over to my place I was listening to Bach, a love for which I'd inherited from my mother, and I scoffed when he said he'd never have pegged me as a fan of classical music. It was silly of me to hold that against him, but I did for a while and I'd put on Beethoven, Tchaikovsky and the rest of the old boys while playing cards just to annoy him.

He retired shortly after I did. We had eighteen good years of friendship. Or about seventeen. A year ago, Dennis was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He hadn't wanted to go through chemo but got bullied into it by his family.

The gunmetal sky overhead grew dimmer and darker as I walked home from the bar I had stopped by after his funeral.

I heard a soft patter behind me and turned. My heart lurched at what I saw. When my son Jordan was studying to become an animator, he did these gesture drawings. One evening he did a quick sketch of me when he was visiting. God, I was impressed. I don't

54 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

think I'd realized how talented he was just until then. It was a simple thing that sketch. He'd hardly pulled a dozen lines on the paper but you got a feel, posture and all, that it indeed was me he had drawn. The same way when I glimpsed the tall, thin figure in the distance, slightly hunched over, elbows oddly pointed outward, I knew it was Dennis Sutton.

Sweat broke out on my naked scalp. It was conceivable that I might've erroneously read into the body language of the person behind me, but I couldn't ignore the evidence of my eyes: the fleck of a purple tie and a shiny steel gray suit, the kind Dennis was buried in.

Walking briskly, I reached the house and as I was opening the door I saw a large dog, black as a midnight shadow, from the corner of my eye down the street.

Darting inside, I locked and bolted the door behind me.

I shutThought I heard something. Just a flutter at the window next to the desk I’m at. Probably a wren roosting under the eaves.

I shut the door and a random thing popped into my head. Something Dennis’d said before he leaned over to show me the fangs on the corpse. I was amazed for a second that I should recall it, that time hadn't sifted it through as it does most things.

I almost cut myself examining the damned things.

Did he almost cut himself or did he cut himself. A question of fact I'll never know the answer to. Or maybe I do; the glove already pulled over one hand, the bandage around his thumb the next day. I thought he'd cut it during our late night excursion. Could it be possible that some sort of vampire venom had seeped into his system, the way you'd get poisoned if you accidentally scratched yourself against the fangs of a dead snake?

Only unlike the latter case where you’d get sick almost immediately, the venom just remained dormant, clocked to life after life had clocked out?

I can almost hear Dennis laughing in my head.

Now who is entertaining fanciful notions? he says. He-He says he has a helluva story to tell me. There’s so much he didn’t know then. But he does now, and it’s glorious. And if I let him in he’ll tell me allll about it. He says I can even have Bach playing. Hahaha. Just like old times. We’ll chat, play a round of cards.

And have a drink. []

POETRY GLEN

ARMSTRONG

Wes Anderson I think sometimes.

That God exists when moths.

Singe their wings and young people.

Manage to grow their hair.

Down to their waists.

I sense the divine in hurricanes.

And maybe half.

Of Wes Anderson’s films.

Some company puts out a limited.

Edition throw rug.

Featuring Godzilla.

Battling Monster Zero and Mothra.

Maybe it costs too much.

Or it arrives and ties the room.

Together to such an extent.

That I never want to leave the house.

Thus man’s overall folly overlaps.

With my own.

I am part of something.

Bigger and stranger than myself. []

What will Happen I know what will happen.

It doesn’t take psychic powers.

The flower will wilt.

The stilt walker will tumble.

From those audacious legs.

The night will begin.

With delicious chicken wings.

And end with a plate of bones.

There’s a pattern.

Reality’s lattice reveals.

The same old deals.

That it has always offered.

The key will escape its coffer.

And the gold will continue to shimmer.

In the mind of the convalescing.

Stilt walker.

Who at least has his stories.

Now that his health has run off.

With a sexy question mark.

The other patients see him as a sage. []

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 55

Every book about Werewolves Reading is to leadership.

As fly is to ointment.

Though it once was as merit badge.

To eagle scout.

I read aloud to the furniture.

Nothing stirs.

I once knew a girl.

Who read every book about werewolves.

Upon which she could get her hands.

Though she was never to traffic.

Signals as werewolves to the color red.

She blinked.

More frequently than the other children.

Years went by and her sister.

Got hit by a car.

I understand.

That she didn’t want her ex.

Boyfriend at the funeral.

If you are reading this.

You are welcome to attend. []

GLEN ARMSTRONG holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan.

He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three recent chapbooks: Set List, In Stone and The Most Awkward Silence of All. His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit and Cloudbank.

56 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

ART: The Geographer by Johannes Vermeer

POETRY

Now everything’s been ripped away from her...

REX BUTTERS

for more than a day maybe a lifetime she sat on her kitchen floor in the blood of her father she blood caked head to toe keeping her vigil keeping her father warm with a blanket ex-drug dealer dead execution style bullet to the head “I’ve held that baby in my arms as she suffered seizures and convulsions of withdrawal.” they said after they found her she born addicted to cocaine

Widely published in Poetry and Journalism, REX BUTTERS lives in Southern California.

no one had answered the phone she sat two years old on her kitchen floor in the blood of her father []

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 57

senior moment end cap store display

an old man like you go down he died in my store”

bottom shelf I’m butt up/head down cold linoleum floor hands & knees she reenacts face product line up the jars “he went down on his knees she concerned calls out and pressed his head 30 ft. away against a shelf like this “Rex! he had oxygen in his backpack Are you alright?!” breathing for him I called the manager grocery department manager four times looks panicked he never came I smile wave and wonder someone needed to call 911 at her serious inquiry a bagger tried to help it’s a store but she was deaf shelves go to the floor he kept kneeling and leaning later finally someone helped me I walk a shopping cart full ease him back of collapsed cardboard boxes lay him out on the floor to baler for further flattening by the time paramedics arrived through her department his blood pressure was too low she confessional story corners me he was already dead the manager should have “another store I worked I saw

come out and said something to us girls it was such a shock I’ll never forget it” she gazes sad faced unfocused for a moment then snaps out of memory back in the present she says “not that you’re that old” []

ART: A Thousand Times’ and The Satin Tuning Fork

by Yves Tanguy

58 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

POETRY

For Jamal Khashoggi Democracy died when he did,

JARED

MORNINGST AR

and neither died decently.

He was screamed at, beaten until bloody, but not broken.

They dismembered him, cut his fingers from his hands so he could no longer grip his pen and damn them with truth.

It was only after his death, after he was cold, after they hacked him to pieces with a bonesaw that they could remove his heart, for he refused to sell it to them.

Democracy, sadly, had a price.

Its heart, its soul, and its arms were sold to those who slaughter the innocent for profit, along with their rights, as they know our leaders, many of whom spit on their nation’s culture and faith, are happy to turn a blind eye to their actions for oil and a real estate deal or two and willing to have Khashoggi’s blood on their hands because they feared the power of his pen, just as his killers did.

A pen that gave voice to those with none.

For good measure, they beheaded him, doubling down on the message that he, Democracy, and the people would be forever silenced. []

JARED MORNINGSTAR is a high school English teacher, an adjunct English professor, and a citizen of the world who is concerned about America's current moral and political direction. He loves reading, writing, Route 66, and his wife and children.

ART: “The Deep” by Jackson Pollock

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 59

SHORT FICTION CON CHAPMAN

CON CHAPMAN is a Boston-area author of two novels.

Con’s work has appeared in The Atlantic, The Christian Science Monitor, The Boston Globe, and various literary magazines. Con is presently writing a biography of Johnny Hodges, Duke Ellington's long-time alto sax, for Oxford University Press.

y n i h S s g n i Th

The man and the boy pulled up to the curb next to the sign that said “For Sale/Open House Today” at the end of a long lawn that rolled down to the street. The house was large, but older than those on either side of it. It was probably owned by “empty-nesters,” the man thought; people whose children were now grown, who wanted to scale back.

“C’mon—let’s go take a look,” he said to the boy, who got out of the car by himself, a bit awkwardly, and waited for his father to take his hand.

He was a big boy, apparently in his early teens, but he retained the mannerisms and wide-eyed look of child much younger. His mouth was open and his tongue hung down like that of a happy puppy as they made their way up the long walk to the front porch.

The realtor greeted them at the door with a cheerful smile that faltered a bit as she saw the boy lumber clumsily up the front steps; she hoped he wouldn’t break anything, that the father would keep him under control. She wondered where the mother was.

“Are you . . . new to town?” she asked after the father had signed the guest list.

“We live in Boston now,” the man said. “He’s, uh, special needs, and we’re having a hard time with the schools there.”

“The schools here are excellent!” the realtor chirped. She had a vested interest in saying so since it meant higher commissions for her, but she had no basis other than reputation for making the claim. “How many 60 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

bedrooms are you looking for?”

“Three,” the man said. “One for me, one for Danny, and one for his au pair.”

“The set-up here is a perfect then,” she said.

“There are two bedrooms that the current owners’ children used, and a master.”

“That’s good,” the man said as he looked up the stairs.

The realtor did her best not to pry; she knew it could turn a prospect off, and she’d been trained to maintain a bland friendliness and not ask personal questions. She looked at the man’s left hand and saw no wedding ring. He was older but handsome, with the chiseled look of an actor. His son had distorted features typical of a genetic defect whose name the broker couldn’t recall. Perhaps the boy had been the child of a later marriage; she knew that women were supposed to be tested after they reached a certain age. She felt pressure building up inside her, like a steam kettle.

“And your wife?” she heard herself ask, and immediately regretted it, saying “Why did I do that?” to herself.

But the man didn’t seem at all troubled by the question. “She passed away a few years ago.”

“I’m so sorry,” the realtor gushed, and she was, in a way; she was glad she knew more about the man, though. She had several divorced girlfriends who might be interested in him.

“Do you mind if I leave Danny downstairs with

you while I look around?” the man asked.

“Oh, not at all!” she said. In fact, she was greatly relieved that the boy wouldn’t be banging around in the heavily-decorated master bedroom, although she didn’t say that.

“Thanks. I won’t be long, but he can be a bit-clumsy.”

“I understand. Why don’t you sit down right here?” she said to the boy as she patted the cushion of a chair just inside the front door.

The boy didn’t seem to want to, but his father said “Danny—do what the lady told you” in a stern voice and so the boy sat down and folded his hands in his lap. “I won’t be long—I can usually get a sense of whether I’m interested in a place pretty quickly.”

“Take your time,” the realtor said airily, happy to have the boy where she could watch him.

The man walked upstairs and turned left down the hallway, then looked into the two smaller bedrooms.

“So each has its own bathroom?” he called down to the

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realtor.

“Yes—recently re-done.”

“That’s good,” the man said. “The au pair needs her own.” The man walked down the hall to the right and into the master bedroom.

The realtor smiled at the boy. He seemed to be able to follow orders—maybe he would be able to hold a job when he grew up. “Are you excited to be moving to a new town?” she asked him.

“Yes.” “There’s lots of grass out here.”

“Could I have a puppy?”

“That’s up to your father,” she said with a cautious smile. “There are lots of friendly dogs in the neighborhood you can play with if he says no.”

The boy was silent, staring straight ahead, then looking around at the furnishings—a grandfather clock that made a loud ticking noise in particular. The woman didn’t know what to say to a retarded child. “What grade

ness-like look on his face, but not one that signaled a lack of interest in the house.

“Do you know if they still have the original septic?” he asked.

“It is, but they just got the results of their test and it’s fine.”

“Okay. Do you know how soon they could be out?”

“They’re flexible,” she said. “They were shooting for August.”

“That would be okay. I need to get Danny settled in the school system.”

“I can talk to them. I’m sure for the right buyer . . .” Her voice trailed off, leaving her implication hanging for the man to pick up.

“I think it’s fairly priced,” he said. “I’m going to think it over, we’ve got one more place to look at.”

“Take a brochure, my card’s inside. I’m in the office tomorrow or you can call my cell.”

The woman didn’t know what to say to a retarded child.

are you in?” she asked.

“I go to school.”

“Oh. What do you like to do?”

“I go down the slide headfirst.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“I get in trouble,” the boy said, smiling broadly.

“Well, I’m sure you’re a good boy,” the woman said.

The boy continued to smile, but retreated into his thoughts, perhaps contemplating his act of mischief and the uproar it must have caused. He probably misunderstood it all, the woman thought; he’d been the center of attention for once, and so felt more important.

“What else do you like—that doesn’t get you in trouble?” she asked, with an indulgent smile.

“Shiny things.”

“I’ll bet,” the woman said. “Shiny things are pretty to look at, aren’t they?”

“Yes. Pretty.”

The man was coming downstairs now, a busi-

62 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

“Okay. Thanks very much, and thanks for watching Danny.”

“My pleasure—he was a perfect gentleman!”

The man and the boy walked out the door, holding hands as before. Midway down the path they stopped as the boy saw a squirrel run up a tree, and ran over to watch it climb.

“C’mon, Dan, we’ve got to go.”

The boy stared up into the branches but, when his father called a second time, he re-joined him on the walkway and went to the car.

“Shiny things?” the boy asked after his father buckled him into his seat.

“Just a second,” the man said as he closed the door, then walked around the car and got in the driver’s side. He buckled himself in, then reached in his pockets and pulled out a pearl necklace and a diamond bracelet.

“Here are some shiny things,” he said as he handed them to the boy. “I think we’ll get a lot of money for them.” []

ART: Preparatory drawing for "Discovery of the Land" mural, Hispanic Division, Library of Congress by Candido Portinari

POETRY

Me, Too

C A R L A M. C H E R R Y

A movement Tarana Burke began because a 13-year-old black girl saw kinship, compassion, in Tarana’s twenty-something face, hoping she would help her, somehow, with her stepfather’s sexual abuse, not knowing Tarana hadn’t faced her own trauma.

Baby, I can’t help you.

And later, Tarana said to herself, Why couldn’t I just have said Me Too? And I Too, like many of my sisters, was unsurprised Tarana was omitted from the cover for Time’s Person of the Year.

After 400 years invisibility can feel like that dripping faucet the landlord won’t fix.

If you’re not careful, you learn to sleep to the rhythm of wet taps on porcelain.

Last season I saw some black girls were dyeing their kinky coily hair silver, worn in twist-outs, their strands splayed from the roots like starbursts.

I laughed at them, wishing we could exchange-my graying tresses for their youthful, formerly black ones-and in my derision I never considered these girls were in rebellion, that through their hair they exclaimed: See me!

Hear me!

I too, am wise,

That I Too, like Tarana, could listen to, learn from my beautiful, black little sisters []

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A Jar of Jerk Just out of the shower, Didn't even stop Walked over to “Babe.”

Led me away.

I watched him as he brought unpacked each item, a swinging organ

he saw me putting away the groceries. to put his towel on. my bent over back.

“Let me.” the bags into the kitchen, muscles flexing and contracting, stroking bones; I love to play.

There is nothing quite like

baby oil on brown skin.

He picked up “You only got mild?”

the jar of jerk paste.

I said, “I wasn't sure if I could handle the spicy kind.

I'm lucky if I can handle you.”

He laughed.

“One Jamaican thing at a time,” I smiled.

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

I kissed the dimples at the small of his back, Wishing it were Saturday morning, just so he could stay. []

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Magic Man My heart was no empty vessel when we met.

But it’s like he waved a magic wand, filled it past its brim with a love radiating light like a pulsar, mining my fears, hopes, dreams mashing the mundane, the momentous into mountains for me to climb, to find my spare tire, learn to change it, and my oil-for those times he can’t be there.

To lean into, delight in the curve of winding roads.

Babe. They’re a driver’s dream. Trust your car, yourself.

To become my own boss: You can start your own school.

Open a business. What kind would you want to do?

To triumph in the art of inditement/ elaboration, wield my pen with the same mastery as my tongue nuzzling his Adam’s apple.

For many, it marks man’s disobedience to God, but I nuzzle his most nights, to feel it brush against my cheek when he swallows, to hear his leonine growl when I clamp my lips on the right side of his neck, then the left, in salty satisfaction. []

This New Day I’m fat, I sigh, on those blue days, while he is watching me swab my skin with lotion.

He shakes his head.

“Man, your silhouette is crazy”.

He reaches for my arm, pulls me to the edge of the bed, kisses the juicy swell below my hips.

And as he stirred from slumber this new morning, he said he hears the sawing of redwoods each time we sleep.

Sorry.

“For what?”

Turned over to face me.

Pinched his thumb and forefinger together.

Made a running caress along the billowy path from my neck to navel.

“That is sexy as hell,” he whispered.

Fixed hickory eyes on mine.

“You see-a woman with a light, graceful snore, bends easily on the things she believes.

But a woman who snores steadily, like, a growl, has a backbone.”

Bathed in the orange glow of sunrise, I raised up on an elbow.

Climbed on him.

Stroked the sickle buried in his right eyebrow--the mark of Ogun.

Embroiled my fingers in the black wooly tangle at the nape of his neck.

Kissed him feather-lightly.

Every woman should love, be loved by at least one poet, who morphs foibles/flaws into metaphor []

IMAGE: Alex Andrews

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Flip Descendant of waste not, want not, when my heart stops beating, my cells gasp for air, my veins evict my blood,

CARLA M. CHERRY is an English teacher and poet from New York City, has been published in Anderbo, For Harriet, Obscura, Dissident Voice, Random Sample Review and others. She has published three books of poetry with Wasteland Press:

Gnat Feathers and Butterfly Wings (2008), Thirty Dollars and a Bowl of Soup (2017), and Honeysuckle Me (2017).

hope they’ll put me in a biodegradable burial pod.

As nitrogen/phosphorus/magnesium leak, methane bloats my belly, Death’s sweet stink beckons blowflies to eat and molt, eat and molt, dissolve my flesh to sugar, I pray I may feed a sturdy fir, a pine.

Whomever is left to cherish memories of me, parse through my photographs and books-Please.

Be more attentive than me.

Had a plastic bin on the floor of my closet, holding a Ziploc bag inside with Nana’s, Aunt Joan’s jewelry.

While I was cleaning, I put it in front of my bed.

Tripped. Chunky gold earrings, bangles, bracelets, silver necklaces erupted.

My love picked them up.

Placed them carefully back inside.

You’ve got some nice pieces in here.

Costume jewelry mostly, I replied, with a wave of hand.

He held up a necklace.

Rolled its beads around his fingers.

These pearls are real. worn it with low-lying V-neck dresses off-the-shoulder blouses at weddings, parties Nana passed in ‘86, laughed often, Aunt Joan in ‘95. pressing my fingers dramatically by my bosom Had I known I’d have long ago strung those pearls into a necklace that would fall in a perfect drape above the pulse of my throat

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wresting chance after chance to give Daddy’s mother and his sister credit for this adornment, brag about their homemade sweet tea, good choices in men []

ART: Barbara A. Lane

FICTION S C A R L E T T R. A L G E E

Patient 49 It’s the second day.

His name is Henry. He has to tell himself that, when a snatch of thought swims up through the fuzz. His thin cotton uniform is stained and blue and says only 49, but his name is Henry.

He had another electroshock treatment this morning. Doctor Haskins says the treatments will make him better, will help the— spasms?—seizures stop, though all he remembers of the experience is the dampness of the pads clamped to his temples, the sudden jolt that fills the back of his mouth with the taste of

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 67

iron and feels like being struck between the eyes with a fluff-covered mallet. They leave a lot of blank spaces, the treatments, and the spaces only fill back up slowly.

He sits on his bed, which is bolted to the wall.

The sheets are white and coarse. The room is all concrete, clean-scrubbed, walls and floor and ceiling, and from here he can see all of it. Desk: a concrete slab built into the opposite wall, and a chair. He hasn’t tried the chair; nailheads stick out of the seat, and the frame looks splintery. Sink and naked pipes, but no mirror, because mirrors can mean glass shards and cutting. Shower and toilet in short open-faced stalls. Drain in the middle of the shower floor, surrounded by something that looks like rust but which he suspects is not, but his cottonwool brain is too afraid to conjure the word for what it might be.

Iron bars in a cut-out square in one short wall, and no glass, because it rained last night and he sat up shaking in his blanket against the thunder, watching the

It’s the first day.

He can’t remember the name of the woman who had brought him here this morning, though her eyes had been blue and soft and kind. Sister? Wife?

Does he have a sister or a wife? Things will be better soon, Henry, she had said before she’d walked out of his room, but everything else beyond that scrap of sound eludes him. Jean? Joan? June? Jean, he decides, maybe, but he can’t be sure.

Right now he doesn’t remember his own name, either. He doesn’t remember why he’s here. The where is equally a mystery, though psychiatric hospital flits through his mind and whisks away like a goldfish. Someone had taken him away for the first treatment and someone else had brought him back, but their faces are blurs he can’t conjure. He lies on the bed and stares at the ceiling and sees nothing. His mind is fuzz and wool and soft-edged warmth, an abyss, a void, a sponge that can’t hold water.

“You the one they brung in this morning?”

The where is equally a mystery, though psychiatric hospital flits through his mind and whisks away like a goldfish. water run down the wall and pool on the floor. Door in the other wall, steel door through which Doctor Haskins comes every day, steel door slightly ajar because he can go out if he wants, but the idea terrifies him. Outside is people and noise, and the darkness in his head, and not knowing. There are no clock and no calendar. The sky, through the barred square window, is dead white.

The room is eleven steps wide and sixteen steps long. He knows this. He walked it this morning when he was brought back from treatment. He counted. It made him feel better, counting. It was something he could hold onto.

There’s something in the pocket of his shirt. Big black 49 on the back of the shirt, small black 49 on the front pocket. There’s something in the pocket and he takes it out: a brown stone, oval, flattish, bigger at one end than the other and very smooth.

Someone gave him this. It could not have come out of the concrete.

Henry holds it in his hands and tries to remember. His head aches; his hands ache, though the stone is warm and silken. Someone had— Yesterday. ***

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The voice is soft and sudden, and it makes some deep instinct bring him to his feet, his heart thudding, his nails biting his palms. Standing brings nausea and he stumbles, coughs, pitches forward into huge cold hands. There is a long blank moment and when it breaks, he realizes someone has held him over the toilet so he could vomit. His stomach clenches on emptiness as he’s pulled back and set down on the floor.

“You catch your breath, now.” The toilet flushes. His chin is lifted and his mouth wiped with something wet and soft, and abruptly the patterns click back into place. He is sitting on the floor and a huge dark man is stooped over him: bald, scarred, his uniform numbered 37 straining across broad shoulders. The man smiles and is missing teeth. “Better. What’s your name, son?”

It’s...49. He knew that before he came here, didn’t he? But he starts to say the number and feels a broad finger beneath his lips. “No,” says the black man numbered 37. “Real name. Before. You think, now.”

Think. That’s what the treatments are for, the thinking. He’s bad at thinking. Everything goes dark.

Fractures. He tries, feeling his eyes start to twitch, and closes them. Before. There was a before. “...Henry.”

“Henry. Good.” The black man squats so

they’re more even in height. “John Henry.”

“No.” Shaking his head hurts. “Just—” “Henry. I know. Good name. Still. John Henry.

Steel driver.” Another gapped smile, and the black man pulls him upright. “I’m Russell. Big Russ, room down the hall. This 37 don’t mean nothin’.” Once Russ is standing, his large hands tremble. “They say I got the nerves real bad, but I still got a name.”

Russ slaps his numbered pocket, looks thoughtful for a second and reaches into it. He pulls out a brown oval rock, puts it in Henry’s hand. “My granny called this her worry rock. Ol’ river rock. You rub it, real nice an’ smooth, talk to it, put your troubles in it, Granny always said. Helps a lot in a place like this. Me, I just look out for the new arrivals.”

There are footsteps in the hallway. Russell guides Henry back to his bed and pushes him down gently. “Best I’m goin’ on. They don’t like catchin’ you out o’ your room here, but you in a good place. You give your troubles to that ol’ rock an’ get some rest, John Henry.” *** It’s the third day.

He’s found a faint green streak in his stone, and this delights him. Out of the mind-fog that follows treatment, he has named the stone Jade, though he doesn’t know why; the word connects to nothing in the furry blank of his mind.

But in Henry’s eleven-step-by-sixteen-step world, this pleases him too. *** It’s the sixth day.

During the day Henry keeps Jade in his pocket, though he’s learned to hide her under his pillow—he doesn’t know why her, but his mind insists—when Doctor Haskins comes in, or when he’s taken out of his room for meals. He hasn’t told the doctor about Jade. If anyone knew, he thinks, they would take her away, and the thought brings a strange shaking terror.

At night he strokes her, whispers to her, when the blanks of his mind begin to fill in and he has things to tell again. Memories. That’s the word. Memories.

I had a job, before. Shoe salesman. I have a sister who looks like me.

His sister. Henry knows she looks like him, but he can’t envision his own face. He runs his fingers over his skin—bushy eyebrows but thinning hair, long nose, slender lips, but no cohesion, no clear image—and tries to remember her name again and fails, and not knowing makes his hands shake.

At night when it rains—and it always seems to be night to him, when it rains, but maybe that’s just in-

side his head—he puts Jade on the edge of the window with iron bars and no glass. He isn’t a tall man and it’s a stretch, but he lets Jade be washed by the rain, lets his secrets be washed out with her.

And this, too, pleases him. *** Somewhere, between shocks, he loses track of the days. *** When Henry opens his eyes, he’s on the concrete floor beside his bed. A woman in a white cap stares down at him as she empties a syringe into his arm.

He screams, weakly, and tries to turn away, but his back aches and his hands are clawed, and his clothes are wet. “...not working like I’d hoped.” The words, tinny and muffled, come from a man standing behind the woman, a thin balding man in a white coat. Doctor.

Doctor...the name won’t come. “I think he’s going to need surgery.” *** Later, after Henry’s been redressed, after he’s slept off the sedative and been given water, the doctor comes back. Doctor Haskins: the name is embroidered on his white coat. Haskins smiles and pulls up the rickety-looking chair, and Henry reaches under his pillow to brush Jade with his fingertips. She’s cold and soothing.

He doesn’t trust this man with the coat and the lined worn face. He doesn’t trust the chair.

“You’ve had two weeks of electroshock treatments, Mr. Dillard,” Doctor Haskins says. “Your seizure episodes have decreased in frequency a little, but not in severity. Not as much as I’d hoped, anyway. Your memory’s affected, you’re not retaining things, you don’t vocalize properly. The nurses say you never talk.” He shifts his weight and the chair creaks. “For the sake of giving you a chance at normal life, I think surgery will have to be our next option.”

Seizure. Frequency. Severity. Those words fall through the sieve. Surgery: that sticks. Surgery on his brain. Henry has to work saliva into his mouth, and concentrate hard. “Will it hurt?”

“No.” Haskins puts a hand—warm, leathery— on his shoulder. “It won’t hurt. You won’t even remember it.” His voice is gentle, and Henry feels reassured.

“The procedure’s called a transorbital lobotomy. We’ll do it in the morning.” *** It’s the fifteenth day. Henry knows because he’s asked.

He’s taken from his room early and put into a wheelchair, pushed down a dull gray corridor he doesn’t recognize into a room he’s never seen. He’s guided onto

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 69

a draped metal table and pushed down flat, and hard leather straps are fastened around his wrists and chest.

Doctor Haskins is standing at the head of the table, and Henry rolls his eyes up to the doctor questioningly, mutely.

“You’ll be fine, Mr. Dillard.” Haskins is wearing gloves, and holding a thin metal instrument in one hand.

“We just need to keep you still. That’s all.”

He bends, and his shadow falls over Henry’s face, and everything fragments. *** “How are you feeling, Mr. Dillard?”

He opens his eyes and blinks heavily. Nothing will focus: the voice tickles some faint bell of memory, but the face is a smear. His vision twitches back and forth; his tongue feels thick and furred. “...Hurts.”

“Don’t worry. You may have a headache for a few days, but your surgery went splendidly.” Something creaks. “Can you try to stay awake? I just want to ask a

in, filling the holes. Sometimes the new thoughts feel real, solid, like things that have happened; sometimes they’re vaporous, twisting in his grasp, but still better than the nothingness of six weeks ago.

His name is Henry. He knows that now, and stands straight for it. Someone had called him John Henry once as a joke, but that was a long time ago and he doesn’t remember the man’s face or his name, only a steadying hand on his shoulder and a tooth-shaped gap in a smile.

And Jade. He still has Jade. He remembers her.

He sits on the bed with Jade closed in one hand, waiting. Waiting and listening. She’s listened to so much.

“You’re improving,” the man in the white coat had said—this morning? Yesterday? “Your seizures have stopped, at least for now. Maybe they won’t start again.

As for everything else, I think with time, it’ll all come back. Another week or two, Mr. Dillard, and I think you

I remember the day Henry had his first seizure.

I was twelve. He was ten. few questions.”

His eyelids feel massive and swollen. A word.

He needs a word. “Y...yes. Try.” “How old are you?” “...Thirty.”

“And what year is it?”

“Nnn.” So easy to just keep his eyes shut, to slide into oblivion. “N-nineteen. Fifty. F-five..?”

“Very good. Mr. Dillard?”

No. Quiet. Sleep. Something leaks from his right eye and is wiped away with a piece of gauze.

“Mr. Dillard?”

He drags his eyes open. The right one leaks again and is wiped again. The gauze is a white blur streaked with red. “...Who?” *** Days pass, all blank, unnumbered. *** The blanks are filling in.

Since the surgery, the treatments have stopped, the ones that left his brain soft and liquid and empty.

There have been other things since, bitter pills without the needles, without the shock that feels like nothing.

The man in the white coat talking to him, pouring things

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might go home.”

He doesn’t know why the man keeps calling him Mr. Dillard. His name is Henry.

But Henry had heard that, and told Jade as soon as he could, cradling her, hands shaking a little as he stumbled over the words. Out. Away. Improving.

Home.

He doesn’t remember home: doesn’t remember place, or people. He’s been too far away, too sick, too long. His stomach twists at the thought of a family, of a job, of more faces that blur and names that slip through his fingers, yet the word nestles in his mind in a little niche of comfort.

He sits on the neat white bed and strokes Jade’s smoothness, whispers to her the last of his fears. Then he gets up and makes the stretch to push her onto the windowsill, not too close to the edge, because someone else might need a friend. A listener. It’s looking out for the new arrivals. Henry wishes he could remember who’d told him that.

Then he takes up his seat on the bed’s edge, arms folded, head down, and waits.

Home. He hopes he’ll like it. *** It’s the forty-ninth day.

“I can’t.” Jean Dillard doesn’t watch as Henry is shuffled back into his room; she can’t stand his glassy stare, or how he fumbles to say even a single word. Instead, she stuffs her fists into the pockets of her long coat and turns on Doctor Haskins. “I can’t take him home like this. I can’t give him the care he needs. You said the surgery would make things better!”

“And it will,” Haskins says soothingly. “The healing process just takes time, Miss Dillard. Give him six or eight months and you’ll see a great improvement.

Without the seizures, without the neurological burden, with a special therapist for his verbal deficit...your brother can dress himself, he can feed himself—” “That is not my brother!” Jean wheels away to face the wall, clenching her jaw. Her blue eyes are flinty, and when she speaks, her voice is choked.

“I remember the day Henry had his first seizure. I was twelve. He was ten. Our father worked at a textile mill and he’d made us kites out of yellow silk scraps. We were flying our kites up on the hill behind our house, and Henry’s got away. He was running after his kite and just—” She pauses, mouth working. “He cried, later, when he remembered he’d lost that kite.

And as much as I’ve hated seeing him suffer all these years, at least I always knew he was still in there somewhere. But now you’ve just cut the kite string. That’s all.

You haven’t helped him catch the kite, Doctor. You’ve just cut the string.”

He puts a hand on her arm. “Miss Dillard—” Jean shakes him off. “No. I can’t. I can’t. Maybe in a month or two, when I can see real improvement, but not now.”

She smiles bitterly, her mouth a thin tight line.

“Tell him I’m sorry.” *** When Doctor Haskins comes back into Henry’s room, the pretty lady isn’t with him. Henry frowns, clutching Jade in both hands, and says guardedly, “Home?”

The doctor winces. “No, Mr. Dillard. Not today, I’m afraid. Change of plans. But soon, I promise you.”

“Oh.” Henry nods limply and looks down, keeping his eyes on Jade. “All right.”

He doesn’t hear anything else Doctor Haskins says, or hear him leave the room; he’s already forgotten the man. Henry’s thinking of the lady, and the blue softness of her eyes. He’d had a sister once, he thinks, that had looked like her.

He wishes he could remember her name. []

SCARLETT R. ALGEE’s work has appeared in Bards and Sages Quarterly, Body Parts Magazine and the recent Woodbridge Press anthology Explorations: Wars and Explorations: Colony. Her short story “Dark Music,” written for the podcast The Lift, was a 2016 Parsec Awards finalist. She lives in the wilds of Tennessee, USA with a beagle and an uncertain number of cats, and skulks on Twitter at @scarlettralgee.

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 71

SERIAL NOVELLA TOTI O‘BRIEN

General GATE PART 1 of 2

72 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

The

TOTI O’BRIEN is the Italian Accordionist with the Irish Last Name. She was born in Rome then moved to Los Angeles, where she makes a living as a self-employed artist, performing musician and professional dancer. Her work has most recently appeared in Gyroscope, The Birds We Piled Loosely, Pacific Review, and Italian Americana.

lovemaking found me unprepared. Not saying it wasn’t predictable. True—at the airport his welcome was cool, impersonal. Afterwards (loitering with friends in a bar, before rescuing the bikes) he still acted aloof, but our link was evident.

As the group dispersed we walked side by side along the canal—kind of leisurely, yet aiming somewhere. Evening was about to fall. I sensed, whished, hoped it would bring conclusion. A landing. A truce.

The lovemaking—I guess it was a sort of relief until the studs happened. I almost gasped. A long row was there, a wall, a barrage. Instinct said I shouldn’t open my eyes. Did my hand quiver? Tremor could have had reasons other than surprise. I should swallow my astonishment, and fast. His anatomy must be familiar, right? As I lingered in a casual caress I deciphered the rise, underneath—the scar, spiked with metal teeth like a crenellated tower. Why am I mentioning it?

I don’t usually expose intimate matters.

‘Usual’ doesn’t apply. And this isn’t my intimacy. I am not Alicia. * Did I look like her? I hadn’t seen her picture.

I looked like myself. No mirror was around, no...

Some folks live without it. They peruse the elevator to work, and they are fine. But I’m positive— my body, my hair were unchanged. My face felt the same to the touch, and I had caught glimpses of it in shop windows, as we walked.

The clothes weren’t mine. Not the winter coat, not the boots. They felt comfy as if I had long worn them, yet I had gotten them only hours before. They felt mine, but they weren’t.

It wasn’t a case of amnesia. I knew exactly who I was, just as I was aware of my appearance.

Let me hammer it down. I hadn’t changed. The world had, at least its slice comprehending me. I understood... if the process couldn’t be reversed… if there was no way back...

I was worried about my forced impersonation, of course... Can one slip into another skin without prompting? How come no one had noticed? Well, I hadn’t done much. Not said much, especially. I had made myself inconspicuous.

Was it like her? Was she this unobtrusive? Alicia?

Where was she? * And I had just fucked her guy.

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 73

Rephrase. I was on a single bed—thin mattress, thin blanket, not real cozy but sufficiently clean—coping with an absurd situation as best as I…Wait. Why was he pierced… Wait.

Oh, was I sick of questions? I had listened to the same one a million of times. Couldn’t tell for how long, really. After giving up my cellphone and watch—ring, belt, necklace, jacket and shoes—I had stepped forth with my body and soul, so to speak. Isn’t it what defines a human being? Body and soul make a human being, correct. Undefined.

In my top, skirt—and underwear—I duly presented my passport to the officer. He snatched it, and he didn’t return it. * Xavier lifted the notebook from his desk (a board on a pair of trestles) and he handed it to me. Nothing else was on the table, so bare it looked like an altar. The pad had an odd size, as if custom made. Spiral bound, quite

* They have computers. Their face glued to the screen, they can skip eye contact. They can hide from you entirely. You only see the back of their monitors, allobstructing but their disembodied hands—brisk motions you anxiously try to decipher. Words are few or missing altogether. In absence of verbal exchange, you look for mood indicators. You spy the hormonal changes peering through them, like a pet does with its master. Those shifts can’t be fully concealed…they escape rational control.

What hits your receptors? Anger? Doubt? Meanness?

Pity? Are you an enemy? A victim? The distinction is formal. When power is unevenly assigned, the two definitions collide.

Strange, how they always mutter the question, sucking air instead of exhaling. They cast a short phrase like a lasso, meant to ensnare you then reel you in. First you don’t understand. Well, of course. You are supposed to

What hits your receptors? Anger? Doubt? Meanness? Pity?

Are you an enemy? A victim? large, lined with thick brown paper. Xavier opened it to the last written page with no comment, as if going through a familiar routine.

I stared at the words and felt faint, seeing a language unknown. All had been speaking English, no exception, and I had detected no accent. But if we—he, our friends, I—belonged to an ethnic minority, a linguistic enclave, was I supposed to…Breathe! The opposite page contained a translation. I nonchalantly backed up a little.

Everything was translated on the side.

Then his penmanship attracted my attention. God, could he shape letters! He must have used a fountain pen, delivering an irregular, malleable, animated ink flow. Did he study calligraphy? Unless he was an artist.

The text was illuminated as well. Not in medieval fashion… floral style? Sinuous shapes (stems, leaves, trees, roots, birds) surrounded the paragraphs, linking left and right columns—a curtain framing a stage.

The exquisite drawing enchanted me, almost made me relax. I read a few sentences... Oh my. Were these politics? Rather philosophy—some obscure form of speculation. Could Alicia appreciate it? I guess. Debate? I hoped not. Slowly, I put down the pad then turned the lamp off. A glare filtered through the window. Streetlights—cold, greenish, sour.

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vacillate, lose balance, lean forward. Please, could you repeat? I am sorry. You are already at fault, testing your interlocutor’s patience.

Where were you on this day, month, and year? I felt dizzy, realizing how small is a day in the ocean of time. They were asking about a decade ago. I thought I had my life straightened up, but now it seemed all muddy. My reaction was visceral. Home, of course! Then a chill ran through me, and I doubted.

Did I travel instead? I didn’t remember. Could I have just lied? If yes, would consequences ensue? Should I manifest my uncertainty or would it call for trouble?

Should I stand by my first reply at all costs?

Meanwhile where did my passport go? The officer was typing, quietly scanning the screen. In a flashback, I saw another man taking my papers—a few seconds before, still walking away. My identity leaving the premises sent a jolt of pain down my spine. From there on I was no one I could prove to be. * The lovemaking was brief. Not perfunctory, yet not quite sensitive. The discovery stage was long gone between Alicia and X. So was passion. Then what? I had more serious stuff to mull over. How could someone else’s ardor—or lack thereof— affect me?

I had strictly refrained from calling his name. Anonymity seemed to dispel embarrassment. * My last name was spelled out each time a new… clerk, employee, functionary? Officer must be the correct definition, though no office to speak of was visible—only the diminutive counter I stood by, in the middle of the gigantic hall.

My last name was declaimed each time a uniformed fellow came by, exhibited my document, shook it between his fingers while conferring with the guy-behindthe-desk—the one who had called this entire drama into being, the initiator, the demiurge.

Though I tried to match their composure—such cool, neutral impenetrability—I was quivering like the exiguous booklet they had stolen from me… that thing letting me circulate, covering the gap separating my folks, back in Motherland, from my child and mate here.

That thing, letting me fill the chasm between distant worlds, was mine! It had been released. No one said it could be made captive again.

By the way was I captive, since I had been dispossessed of my proof of identity? It dawned on me I was. I could go nowhere if my papers weren’t returned. Without need for restraint, I was chained. The internal tremor became harder to contain. I had no way to guess the import of whatever was happening, the proportions it might take. I only knew a worrisome stretch of time had gone by. Several steel-faced folks had bounced my ID among them—first abducting it, then bringing it back with a somber look on their face.

I was told nothing. Instinct said I shouldn’t ask questions. I was asked again and again the same one. Where was I on that particular date, ten years earlier? Home, I stubbornly affirmed. Home—the only word I had the strength to produce, to think of.

What was scraping me inside, drawing blood out of me, was the fear they wouldn’t let me reunite with my child and mate, or go back to my folks. Such perspective of limbo terrorized me. Panic sent me into withdrawal mode—a survival mechanism blotting out my surroundings, memories, feelings. Everything faded away, or maybe it was myself paling, diminishing. The effect was equivalent—a bit like hibernating, vital functions reduced to the minimum. Just inhale, exhale. Quiet. Quieter. * The epilogue was rather a precipice. I couldn’t have foreseen it, but then I had expected nothing, had I? Two more uniformed agents signaled me to follow them. I panicked. My heart raced. I dared asking the man behind the desk: “Why? What happened?” My voice was shrill

and shaky, with a teary undertone. I felt ashamed and I stopped, realizing the jerk wouldn’t answer.

But he pointed his chin towards those who were leading me away, meaning: “They are in charge. They will let you know”. They won’t, asshole. They are my transit team—only vectors. They’ll ensure I’ll get from where I am abducted to wherever in hell I shall end.

My passport, gone again, hadn’t returned. My passport (my passport!) hadn’t come to my rescue. It had preceded me towards obscure destination, probably not the same as mine. Someone help me. If only I weren’t alone. Isn’t it the worst? Having no witness, being unable to whisper: “Here’s the number, tell my child, my father…”

Somehow that was the worst—the dire loneliness, my dear ones not knowing... though I’m not sure I would have wanted them to see me, right then. * The bike helped, because I had to push it hard.

I can ride a bicycle, but that one (supposed to be mine?) might have been unfit. I might have looked clumsy and arouse suspicions. Would it have been perfect instead? Custom made, like these boots and coat. I did not wish to know.

I decided to push. It was heavy and that helped.

Holding it required the same endurance you would need for a mountain hike. Had I let myself slouch I would have lost balance, the thing would have collapsed and I would have followed. I squeezed the bar so tight that my wrists got sore—as if it was a buoy in stormy waters, and my life depended on it.

Although, nothing around me was threatening.

Gloomy—some towns can be that way. Sad? I couldn’t tell, didn’t have the needed objectivity. I was sad beyond description, so deeply it didn’t register any more. I was missing… I was afraid I would not… not anytime soon.

After a small eternity we let go of the canal, deepening through narrow streets squeezed by tall apartment buildings. I didn’t notice store windows—only a couple of bars, and a shoe repair. Then a florist, of all things, hastily closing shop. A few bunches—tightly packed, blooms invisible—were pressed into a plastic container, other ones carelessly tossed into a garbage bin. They would not see tomorrow. Clearly, they had over-lived their chance. The smell was penetrating, intense, rotten, mournful.

A long queue spilled out of a building entrance. Xavier briskly stopped walking and we joined the line.

“Since it is on our way,” he muttered. “I think we should try.” I acquiesced, not quite sure of what the deal was... I’d figure out later. The queue originated at the other end of a courtyard, where a small door was lit.

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Otherwise darkness was thick, punctuated by crimson dots of lonely cigarettes. * Xavier handed his ID to the weary fellow who had been processing—I bet—too many interviews like the present one. I had a peek, I confess. That’s how I learned his name. Earlier on, among pals, no one had pronounced it. ‘Boss’ they had called him—but lightly, with jocularity. Not that I had paid attention. Not really.

Yet a name would be useful.

After an intent study of X’s document—as if scanning for some coded meaning behind the data (or just verifying authenticity, based on details invisible to the common eye, small traces the detection of which caused that grave, ponderous, almost mystical attitude)… After such meditative pause, the man pushed forth a couple of forms X started to fill.

I stole askew glimpses, being able to read some of the printed matter. Therefore I understood he was ap-

someone, during your sleep, buried you in concrete.

Now the concrete has crumbled—daylight and consciousness did it. But those fractured slabs adhere to your skin, hindering your simplest gestures. Dust is lifted whenever you move, further burdening your respiration. All you see is well defined yet rigorously black and white—a gray scale, poor in contrast. No, not like a hangover. Not like depression. Multiply, multiply, add, then multiply again. * I was pulling myself together when he abruptly sat up. Then it all went fast. He had a cellphone. I hadn’t noticed anybody using one such. Seen the oddity of the situation—seen the bikes, the handwriting, the fountain pen (I know I’m not making sense, hang on)—seen the overall absurdity—and because my device had been removed since what seemed eternity—I had assumed cellphones were no more (or not yet) in use. Maybe I had just forgotten about them.

“You need to understand.” His voice sounded different. His tone was deeper, grainier. plying for a janitor’s job. We were. I saw a box next to the words ‘and spouse’. He checked it. If he were to be hired I’d also live on the premises, sharing some of his tasks.

I got nervous, fearful my turn would come to produce my papers. I had none, as you know. My mouth was very dry, my eyes burned, my breath became shallow. But, absurd as it sounds, nothing was requested of me. Because we were married? Were we? The lovemaking by then should have been predictable. Still it found me unprepared.

Did anxiety keep me from noticing his handwriting?

Was it the same beauty I’d later admire? Did he pull a fountain pen out of his pocket? My memory blanks. * Light barely peered in. It must have been early morning. Cautiously, he pushed the blankets away then turned on his side—motionless, for a while, as if pondering the following course of action. I had awoken when the room was still dark, then lain down in a state of lucid awareness.

I had awoken in a typical after-catastrophe mood. Let me brief you. Something acrid, like poisonous fumes, grabs your throat and makes breathing unpleasant. You feel as if your limbs were weighed with stones. As if

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He had a cellphone and he read a message—sitting on the edge of the bed, his feet on the tiled floor. I was contemplating his back. I saw it stiffen. Then he turned towards me and put his hand on my waist, briskly shaking me. “Hurry, please!” Anguish seeped through his voice. I detected emergency. Didn’t change lots to me— the nightmare kept going. Couldn’t worsen, in fact.

As he picked his clothes from the floor, wearing them at the speed of light, I grabbed mine. Though his frenzy made my heart race, I couldn’t help noticing how well everything fit. The neat flowery dress, mid-calf, the boots and the coat. Even stockings and bra? For god sake. Their coziness hit me like a blow in the stomach.

How possibly? Hurry, please. X was getting feverish.

At the door I spotted two rectangular cases. Both were black, buckled, with rigid handles. Made of cardboard, I guessed, covered in fake leather. X grabbed the largest one. I hesitated. He stared at me impatiently.

“The accordion!” he muttered with a tone of surprise.

What was I waiting for? I felt weak, perhaps hungry.

I sucked in my abdominals, ready to lift something as heavy as a cadaver, and equally useless. I was no musician. Alicia must have been. I grabbed the smaller case, still too large for me. I lifted it, and my heart sank. It was light like a feather.

* Our train was about to leave, and Xavier started running. I marched on, accordion in hand. The rail station confused me—a twilit, anachronistic cathedral, so contrasting with the airports I had grown accustomed to.

When had I last… No time for futilities. Our train was taking off, luckily in the stilted way typical of such means of locomotion: one small forward jolt, a pause of undetermined length, three jolts back.

That it was our train I wouldn’t have known. No idea of where we were headed and why. Xavier clutched my wrist, catapulting us after the wagons. I believe he just planned to jump on whatever first left.

The train we had taken—were my hypothesis right, chanced upon—was old style like the station, with compartments of six. We entered the closest one. It was empty. Hastily, X locked it behind us, then he hoisted our cases onto the luggage net. Only after he slumped on a seat I relaxed, melting into the opposite one. * I hadn’t paid attention to his features so far. I mean Xavier’s. I had registered them, as if taking note of a landmark in order not to get lost. I could have recognized him in a crowd… I had formed a mental image, a pattern, corresponding to this main role impromptu propelled on stage. But my brain hadn’t linked my perception to attributes—good, bad, pleasant, unpleasant. I hadn’t made any judgment, numbed by other priorities—keeping panic on hold, delaying grief, swallowing a desolate longing for my family, avoiding despair or madness.

The only thing distracting me had been… the notebook, for a minute. The illuminated double pages. The black ink so thick here, like tears of petroleum. So sheer there, like a veil of smoke. The elongated shapes—those oblongs, those spirals—a universe I had glimpsed at, and it soothed me.

“You…” The interruption cut short my inner musing, which was getting coherent at last. It had almost resumed—personality?—as my gaze assessed Xavier’s features. I had scanned the depth of his eyes, considered twists and tangles of his lips, how they pressed against one another, then relaxed without apparent cause.

My eyes lingered on his hands, peering out of the cuffs of a long-sleeved shirt. They were larger than his size implied… he hadn’t reached his full genetic potential. Poor upbringing? War, I heard myself think. Which?

When? Obsessively I detailed each tendon, vein, wrinkle, scratch on his skin. Hands don’t stay still for long—as soon as a finger shifted I restarted my catalogue. I was studying his hands when he placed them over my knees, so abruptly it took my breath away.

“You need to understand.” His voice sounded different. His tone was deeper, grainier. Did I hear it? He had the slightest of accents. * They knocked furiously at the door. They also shouted, but the glass muffled their words. Xavier’s hands went limp. His jaw slackened. His neck turned to face them, so briskly I feared it would break. His eyes seemed to sink deeper, as if they had fallen in, fallen back.

I was not panic-stricken. A strange weariness soaked me, my cells wavering like a blob of gelatin. Only later I started rattling as if I were running a temperature—a wave of adrenaline sent my heartbeat past the allowed speed limit. While my cardiac muscle went nuts, my brain treaded through cotton, mollified by the minute. It was anger in its initial stage, when—having found yet no goal or strategy—it bites at the first available morsel.

Yourself.

X stood up. He advanced towards the doors in slow motion, no doubt planning to unlock them. He didn’t have to. They had a pass and were bursting in. Legs apart, they tried to firm their stance in spite of the swing, grabbing what support they could find. Still they kept a free hand for gesticulating and pointing. A third man peered behind them, leaned against the doorframe for stability, his bulk blocking the way.

They went straight for the instrument cases. Did they know or else was it that simple? They barely gazed at the rucksack X had hastily filled. It was lying on the floor.

Having nothing, I had brought nothing. Would it look weird? I feverishly sought an excuse. We were going—I was planning—we were headed—I would find… My brain ran on automatic pilot, trying to fabricate lies as if circumstances were normal. I mean, as if I were I. I was I. Back to the beginning—as if my surroundings hadn’t shifted, wiping off all parameters of reality, which if skillfully manipulated make lies possible. Now, admitted I had needed it, I had proof of what underscores deception—having a truth to conceal. Presently I had none, or too many. * My anxiety—as I found no explanation for travelling luggage-less—was just meant to avoid deeper panic. I was sure they wouldn’t open the sack. One of them had already lowered the cases. As he grabbed them I saw a grin on his face, both outraged and satisfied—his lips stretched to the sides, his mouth a thin cut.

Of course the cases were locked. They did not ask for keys. Before I realized, one of them had produced a jackknife and slid it across, making the bolts pop open.

He took time returning the weapon to his pocket—

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careful, ceremonious, absurd.

The suitcases were empty. Why had I expected drugs? The usual baggies, maybe pinned to the velvet lining I looked at, mesmerized, because it was splendid.

Xavier’s, peacock blue, slightly worn. Mine (Alicia’s), light purple, wisteria. Not unusual. Most instrument cases have such gorgeous padding. Tears were filling my eyes... where did they possibly come from? Why did they surface now?

The guys had paused for a second—time for me to get sidetracked, emotional. X? I hadn’t turned his way since…Wait. Was he saying I should understand? Something, now slipped into the irrelevant side of reality, retrograded from the galaxy of revelation to the black hole of obsolence.

He hadn’t made a sound after the men’s entrance. I could barely hear him breathe, but I could decode his silence. He had given into a catatonic despair, so dark it didn’t allow chiaroscuro—a state of ferocious tranquil-

tion) was already charred.

Nothing between the pink brocade and the cardboard. The azure plush concealed a layer of tracts. They were photocopies but I recognized the design, the inked arabesques framing the text. As I stared at the pages spread over the floor, mindlessly I started to read— silently pronouncing the words my eyes were deciphering. They belonged to the unknown idiom I had spotted in the notebook. No translation. I could not understand.

Didn’t try.

Simultaneously, the two smokers pulled handcuffs out of their pockets. What a polished script. They led us neither kindly, nor brutally… Most impassibly they led us through the sliding doors, then opposite ways. I didn’t turn towards Xavier. We did not say goodbye.

I had turned back on exiting the compartment. I was last—the rule must have been ‘gentlemen first’. I looked at the carpet of fliers on the floor, all stepped over.

Dirty soles had stamped over them a sad, messy cob-

They belonged to the unknown idiom I had spotted in the notebook. No translation. I could not understand. ity, somehow somberly charming. He had fallen in such zone as soon as the knocks were heard. I suspected he had purposely entered it, then shut himself in. * The third man was cutting the velvet with an x-acto blade. Not the knife they had just used—a more banal tool, yet fit for the task. He was slicing the lining along the edges, carefully lifting it off the cardboard, as if it were mandatory to keep the fabric intact. He worked slowly and accurately—a surgeon.

The other two had slouched face to face by the sliding doors. The in-between pair of seats was empty. Suddenly, the geometry struck me. I saw a dice. Four dots at the corners (us and them) plus number five in the center—the man gingerly peeling the cases, as if skinning freshly killed game. Or, with just a shift in proportions, shelling boiled eggs. Something in the realm of food preparation, prequel to a banquet to come. A ritual. A sacrifice. With my index and thumb I brushed the top button of my coat. It was open. I closed it.

The two sitting folks smoke—steel-faced, yet with relaxed bodies. Time didn’t seem to matter. Or did it.

Maybe there was plenty of it and it needed filling. I was slowly simmering, my brains progressively fried—a sweet madness. Xavier (I avoided to look in his direc-

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web. Some were crumpled, some torn. Again tears engorged my eyes. * The van stopped next to a small metal door. I was pulled out then pushed in so quickly, I had no time for looking around. All was going too damn fast. Was I in transit again? Although I could do nothing, I was desperate for a sign, a trace, a direction. Where from?

Whereto?

Sometimes things run in circles. Nightmares do. Reality as well. Were they bringing me back to the very point of expulsion? Closer to my passport? Were they reconnecting my passport and me, perhaps for reexamination? I didn’t hope for a solution, not yet. Some reconsidering? Maybe a chance at…

In the split second left between the van and the building, my eyes rose as if contrived by an invisible power. The sky—the least informative item—was all covered with clouds, amorphous and useless. But I knew. Non-visual clues had been sufficient. Noises, smells. An airport again. Which meant nowhere and wherever, of course.

My guard hurried me towards a gate. He removed my handcuffs and pocketed them. After a quick nod to the lad-behind-the-desk, he went without a word—a fright-

PHOTOGRAPHY: Andressa Voltolin

ening sense of levity chilled me, made me vacillate. I was cold, though wearing the winter coat.

Let me tell you how I had first entered in possession of this garment, plus dress, boots, and stockings. I have to back up a day, day and a half. It feels like a century. * The uniformed pair who seized me at the counter, ripping me from the usual course of my existence, guided me through a metal door. Clearly an embarking point, but no signage was visible. While we walked, I registered small markings etched on random pieces of equipment. They said ‘General Gate’. I wondered who the General was, if Gate was his name. I repeated the words many times in their insignificance, storing them for later recollection.

In the waiting area a dozen people were seated— nothing strange about them, at first sight, yet a chill emanated from the scene. I was beyond scare or surprise… I had plunged, I said, into withdrawal mode. My burst of despair on removal, when I pleaded for an explanation, had been quickly reabsorbed (its uselessness as clear as day). Still the vision of the waiting assembly made me cringe, as if someone had given a squeeze to a screw twisted into my guts.

None of the seated fellows was talking. None was interacting. Clearly, a bunch of loners were gathered, all extraneous to each other. Yet in such case, sooner or later, someone sparks a conversation, introduces herself, especially if the waiting time is protracted. Here no one spoke.

No one did a thing—read a paper, listen to music, play with an electronic device. The obvious reason being no luggage was there—no purse, bag, briefcase. Postures and expressions were varied, though a kind of distress was evenly spread, not unlike what happens—for instance—in a hospital lounge. Some had their eyes closed, some stared at a window, others rested their cheek on their hand and seemed pensive. Some gazes scanned around, listless, worried, some wandered without object, pursuing invisible targets—as you might observe in the hall of a Motor Vehicle Department before driving exams.

By their clothes, hairstyle, make up, countenance, people were of different ages and social extraction. Such combo should have been reassuring... Look harder. No child was there. No elders either. All wore coats, though we were in summer. The strangeness of it slowly surfaced, though it might have subconsciously registered

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earlier. I would have expected light jackets, those you bring in view of the air conditioning, the unavoidable draft—but not winter coats. They were wearing them— someone with hands in their pockets, as if holding something precious, personal, secret. * I had my skirt and top on. Remember? The rest had disappeared on a tray. I hadn’t paid attention to temperature so far. Now I was freezing, and that kept me busy. I sat where my guides had pointed with a thrust of their chins—in the last row, like a tardy student, a late spectator slipping in after the movie has started. A nurse came around in minutes, tapped lightly on my shoulder, signaled I should follow. My legs had gone mushy, but I promptly stood up.

Did I say nurse? She didn’t wear white. Not sure anymore which color… How could I have forgotten? Her straight skirt, her collared shirt were a shade of green— not quite that of surgery scrubs, yet it must have rung

obvious. I had had chest scans done. She positioned me, summoned me not to move, told me when to inhale, hold my breath, exhale. We repeated the routine to capture different angles. Of course she made no comment.

Could I have asked for help? Could I have said I had been deprived of my papers, retained, practically arrested? I knew better. How could she not…If she was where she was and did what she did, she couldn’t be an ally. I knew better.

She walked me to the door.“All set. You can get dressed.” I felt lost for a minute. Then I saw the niche, wrapped the gown tightly around my body, stepped forth. I heard a lock click behind me. It didn’t strike me as strange.

On the bench, neatly folded, I found stockings, dress, coat, which weren’t mine. I rushed out, holding the paper gown. I felt naked and vulnerable. I knocked at the room’s door to no answer. Louder. “Please?

Please?” Dead silence.

Cold. Cold. I was freezing. My chest, mainly—and my toes.

My hands, which I thrust inside my pockets. the medical bell. Also, she had the kind of square cap you see in old red-cross imagery. Lastly, her face was stripped of make up, which you wouldn’t expect from airline personnel.

She led me through a corridor to a niche in the wall, closed by a wooden door reaching neither floor nor ceiling, like for a bathroom stall. Then she spoke, for a change, so softly I had to focus in order to hear, and the effort squeezed out my last drops of sap. “You can leave your clothes here.”She pointed at a bench by the wall.

“You must wear the gown with the opening in the front…”

I shook with alarm. Someone help me. “What for?” I was able to exhale. She spoke louder as if to reassure me. “Routine check before boarding. Chest X-ray.” “A new regulation?” I asked for the sake of it, knowing I had sunk into totally irregular domain. She was holding the door, polite but impatient. “Just,” she hasted, “for few destinations. Always been done. First time?” As I nodded, I started unzipping my skirt, to indicate her answers had been satisfying. * She came back very shortly, then led me to a room furnished with what seemed X-ray equipment, a small desk, of course a computer screen. The procedure was

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The clothes that weren’t mine weren’t new. They were clean, with a smell of soap. I wore them, then I wandered through the corridor trying to retrace my steps. I pushed a metal door, which lead into the waiting room where all was unchanged.

I sat down, feeling weak, longing for unconsciousness. God. I wanted to pass out. If I’d let myself go maybe I would. Just let myself drift, stop resisting. It shouldn’t be hard, but I couldn’t. I am not sure how long I sat in that mute, ghostly fellowship. After all not being alone was a comfort. And so was the silence, in spite of its ominous halo of shocked fear. * Had this happened yesterday?

Cold. Cold. I was freezing. My chest, mainly—and my toes. My hands, which I thrust inside my pockets.

The note was all crumpled up… When was it delivered? How come I hadn’t found it? Those pockets were uncannily deep. If I stood, my fingertips didn’t reach the bottom. A note? It could have been anything. Old receipt. Expired coupon. Completed to-do list.

The awareness of the thing being a message, perhaps of importance, tensed me, suggesting caution. I should postpone reading, of course, to a more private setting.

Meanwhile another nurse approached me. This one

rough, chubby, masculine, harboring a hint of mustache.

Her face was pearled with sweat. Was I the only one chilling? She shared with her colleague the plain looks, devoid of make up. And she wore the same kind of garb—dull green, near to gray. “Will you please,” she said with unexpected formality. A nod would have been more suitable. I had already stood up. Moving, hopefully, would warm up my bones. * Then a thought paralyzed me. She had started off, but I didn’t follow her, as I visualized the entire string of actions that would certainly ensue. Just like—yesterday?

—I’d shed my coat in a dressing room—right?—and I’d never see it again. I could not leave the note in my pocket, or anywhere else.

I should bring it with me. Put it inside my mouth?

Only if I meant to swallow it, but I still hadn’t read it.

Read it while I changed? Swinging door unlocked, my guard standing outside, it wouldn’t be safe. My vagina? I had never done it and I wasn’t sure I could manage. Despair pierced me between sternum and waist.

She had stopped, turned around, aware I wasn’t behind her. Her eyes hardened slightly. I reached her. “I need the bathroom,” I whispered. She seemed cross, but she nodded affirmatively. As we single filed through the corridor, she pointed at a door. Then she leaned against the wall, gingerly producing a cigarette.

I almost sighed, having feared she would come in. As I sat on the stool, the keyhole caught my eye. I was tempted to stuff it with toilet paper but, if she was peeking, my precaution would have been tale telling. I peed while still pondering options. My urine first didn’t come out, then it burned. Thirst briskly overwhelmed me. I hadn’t eaten or drunk…I’d think of it later.

Stroke of luck—the random positioning of the toilets—the note was on the hidden side of my body. Moving with studied calm I sneaked it out of my pocket. I removed my coat, tossed it across my arm, reached the sink where I stood—my back turned to the door. I released my fist at the bottom of the bowl… no mirror was there. Carefully I distended the scrap, then opened the faucet.

I proceeded washing my hands and the note. The ink started to fade immediately. In a minute I’d dry my palms with a paper towel, then I’d toss everything into the waste…Wait. A fit of pain pierced my stomach. I sat on the toilets again, coat across my knees. Was she watching through the keyhole? Was I on camera? If yes, where would the camera be? I squeezed out a drop of pee in order to look convincing, while I let the note go.

I flushed. She knocked at the door. *

It was the same handwriting, but miniature. The same fountain pen. I enjoyed the sight of ink smudging—for some reason—washed away under the faucet.

Though he must have hurried, letters were impeccably traced.

“I know who you are. Rather aren’t. I know it isn’t”—the sentence was left unfinished. Below, another begun: “Be ware of”—that’s all. Below, an X, so bent to the right it looked like a crooked cross.

When did he slip the thing inside my coat pocket?

Why did he deliver a maimed scrap, which made no sense at all? Unless he believed it would. Unless he trusted I could complete the last sentence. What wouldn’t one do under the spell of emergency? Had I forgotten how I felt when the guards abducted me? How I longed for a witness, wished I could cry for help, leave a trace?

X had managed it, and I should try to follow his lead, no matter how vague. Later. Now I was too fragile, too worn. * I was given a sundress. Sleeveless, with shoulder straps. Colors—orange and rust—were gaudy, too brash. Not that I cared.

I had understood the routine. Here’s a word I had never considered in its true meaning. Understand— equal support, bear, submit. A new task had been imposed on me. I let it seep through the dress with no interest, besides the cold curiosity brains can squeeze even out of misery. Together with the tunic, I had found an inconsistent windbreaker, also kind of orange.

On the airplane they gave us a meal. Had they fed us on yesterday’s flight? Couldn’t tell. I might have been under shock. Now I was present, though still buried in pain, and I munched with a sort of fury—as if biting my enemies, whoever they were. While I untangled green beans from non-descript meat, the thought of my child grew unbearable. Food was doing it—the habit of cutting small bits, smaller… My child—a horrifying longing for him, for life in general, grabbed me. Life attached.

Life grounded. Life mine.

Paradoxically, longing left behind a hint of determination—like those reverse impressions of color you get when you close your eyes, after staring at something too bright. Those green patches bursting under your eyelids after watching a crimson beach parasol, a red dress displayed in a window. Those wide yellow fields, when you blink after contemplating the ocean.

On its tail end, my sorrow sprouted a seed of willpower, a sort of tenacity—a wish to defend at all costs my present non-life, in hope… Hope was too big of a word.

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* A long flight, but who cared? I was not heading back but further away—the preparatory routine left no doubt.

Boredom was none of my worries—I was long past the mental zone where such irritation occurs. Again, I had shrunk to my smallest. My windbreaker zipped up, insufficiently warm—no blanket had been provided—I tried to doze off.

Xavier’s note crossed my mind, then—his handwritten sentences, black on white, a hieroglyph I should unravel. As when I had perused the notebook, I found solace in the very shape of the letters, their flow—as if my neural activity, my heartbeat, my breathing could match those gorgeous patterns.

Had I been instrumental to Xavier’s arrest? The question formulated itself, not expressed by incoherent me but by a calmer presence—perched above me, light, transparent, firm. Had I eased his capture? I must have, though the mechanism of the operation remained obscure. Let’s say…

Blank.

Try again, love. Insist. * Let’s say Alicia was aware of—accomplice to—any tract-related-activity of Xavier’s. Let’s say she had traveled for reasons related to whatever conspiracy, riot— you name it—they were planning. She had been arrested, but had not revealed X’s whereabouts. Of course, she could have been used as bait. She’d come back, they would reunite, and he’d be done for. Unless those who captured her doubted their ability to control her. Unless they were afraid she would alert him and allow him to escape, uncaring of personal risks.

Could she match such Mata-Harish profile? Why

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not? The above was a sensible reconstruction. They had kept Alicia, then found a true doppelganger. Just a puppet—subdued, frightened, tame.

I had often heard say we all have a double. A few, in fact. Computers come handy. Browsing millions, zillions of pictures, should take no time at all. Make your pick, locate your victim, get hold of her. Put her onto Alicia’s return flight.

Maybe not. Put her on a special flight where no IDs are needed. Small airplanes, circulating incognito. A quiet network of sly migratory birds, tiny predators.

Dedicated personnel, unobtrusive embarking points.

On and off a light slumber—cold prevented me from deeper rest—I was hatching a non-sense scenario, sounding plausible because I needed a chain of causes and consequences, or else I’d go insane. * Now, admitting I was Alicia’s exact clone, how could her man buy it? Bear their circumstances in mind. They might be used to altering their appearance, slightly or even considerably. Deception must have had a share in their life. Perhaps the feeling ‘I almost don’t recognize her/him’ was familiar. Yet they were both lovers and partners in crime—they must have a way to verify.

They sure did. The note ratified it. X had known since he had seen me at the airport. Why did he play along, then? It’s obvious. If Alicia was missing, her placeholder was the very clue to her vanishing, the only lead he had left. He grabbed it. Did he sense a trap? No imagination required—cards were turned up. He’d take whatever risk was implied. For the love of Alicia? Maybe of something she carried, she knew.

To be concluded []

POETRY

Daughters

A L E X R. E N C O M I E N D A

Sinclair speaks childish antics in her room, She’s dressed in cotton whites with smiles and laughs.

Sue Anne speaks coy and calm with blushing cheeks, For when she sighs, those words seep soft and slow, Two sisters in the garden of their childhood, Once wombed and peaceful in their mother’s body.

I wish to tell them tall tales from the bedside, To be the father told about in books, But autumn passes like the light of day; The sisters leave their paintings on my heart.

Collected with the trinkets dressed in webs And all these drawings from their tiny hands, I cherish all these years of childhood craze Beneath this autumn sun so come what may. []

Garden of Destiny

The Grass is Never Greener While the grass is never greener on the other side; It merely looks as though it is.

When the air balloons fill up the northern sky; The sunlight blinds us faltering our glare.

However, in the state of lamentations, Spring and splendors simply do not gel.

There was a time the grass was greener than The Irish in the midst of March; I was seventeen, a day the willows whispered, Waking every God; but love and language Lingers on my tongue the taste of every tulip In the name of Ides.

So the grass is never greener than the times We share in thought and love; those Ember little things. []

Surrendering to her promising words, I will be the only one; picker of woes - Destiny’s man.

Oh come all who took from me; my manhood and my words, Look me in the eye and say to me; charlatan, desirer, Because I have given all there is of me, I have given my broken voice just to believe She will love me one day; she will give me her words, Just as I have given mine.

Come and say to me I will give you my word!

These sheets are damp from my cold sweat, I imagine the holder of my former love; Keeping her from me while she bears the names Of every man she slept with and every face she followed And I can only dream that she remembers my face.

I can only lament our childhood craze Before our innocence faded. []

ART: Silke Lemcke

Intimacies That night I saw you by the window’s edge, You whispered something hidden by your heart, The filth you want yet choose to loath in vain, Has painted me a picture of your womb, I’ll dig into your body til you’re lost, I’ll eat you to the core until you scream, This place of darkness thunders like the sky, The words you wish to hear yet still deny, I’ll tear into your flesh until you’re mine. []

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 83

A Timely Effort to Interpret the Pain of Salvation There are so many years to go as I inspect What looms to my face; mother’s palms in silken flesh, The sound is so loud; all of these voices are calling for me To understand, That I am now a child of two and my voice is loud, The look between mother and I; healthy- observant!

For a moment I forget who I am but then she voices once again Adam; and I am now seven with thoughts and wishes.

The coil is different; I am no longer afraid Of the bedside rituals mother spoke of but seldom; I am lost with no perception of where I was, So I fret and run to mother wearing the face of childhood craze, The look between mother and I; healthy- reciprocal, And then she sways and sings of myths.

For seven years where have I been?

Each time I slumber the bedroom rows as if I am on a boat sailing nowhere to be nothing, Just like all the rest of these people sighing to bed.

I am now twenty seven and have stumbled in life, For my dreams and my wishes; I am a slave.

Things have changed dramatically since birth And still I have not found my way.

So many years have passed since I proclaimed my innocence.

I dreamed last night of a time long ago where I was just an acorn Humbled and amazed by the river flows, the earth of soil and salt, But an eccentric little passerine came to me and mouthed; We are the voices of the earth communicating through barriers.

And with an exceptional look of perplexity, I scoffed!

The world assumes the role of a peasant for one minute, I proceed to inspect him from head to toe; only he is fleeting.

Life; fantastic! Enigma of perpetuity… tis’ me, Adam.

A journey from the beginning occurs and it is loud and massive, The tales from my bedside seep through the firmament and now They are alive in the form of a beacon.

Falling up without a sky, Screaming without a sound, Venturing the smallest plane, Running in reverse, Whispering with no voice yet Speaking to the breathing ground, Feeling without a body the wounds of sleepless eyes, Circling the world and never finding a thing, Just to realize it is all but a second ALEX R. ENCOMIENDA is an author of fiction In the mind of a seeker, and poetry. He has been published in several literSo I give myself to mother beckoning childhood craze ary journals and anthologies including Harbinger And the look between mother and I; thoughtful… eternal. [] 84 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

Asylum, The Opiate, Kaaterskill Basin, The Penwood, Adelaide and The Blue Guitar. Alex often expresses concepts of love, lust, peace, faith and escapism in his work.

SHORT FICTION PETER

COWLAM

COMBAT ART: World War I: transport of the wounded. Oil painting by Ugo Matania.

I I suppose the wound I received was really of little consequence. I was, however, a young fighter – and it was my first wound. Almost instantly I forgot about the old men of war and the scenes of battle they’d described. I was wholly preoccupied now with the terrible pain that filled my own being. Nobody, I thought, can have felt this illimitable ache as I do; nobody has known the horrors of war in quite this way. I limped away. I took refuge. I would reassess the situation.

Of course, I rejected it, but the idea of desertion occurred to me – for the first time. Like everybody else, I’d been trained for war, had given too much of my forming years to that end, and would not now fit comfortably or confidently into civilian life.

I nursed my wound – I considered the various forms of revenge – and I brooded. Now, I cannot help but brood again.

II I begin with the person who inflicted my wound, difficult though he is to describe. He was a man of so many perspectives, so many different guises, that from one day to the next I just couldn’t be sure that, as an honest soldier, he’d ever stand toe-to-toe in combat. But of this I was certain. I’d never cease haunting this man, would never weaken in my deployment against him, would never allow him a moment’s peace of mind – even when, this worst of enemies, a man I’d stalked and antagonised, sneered at, ridiculed, despised – even when I

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 85

found him impossible to subdue. And why, why was that?

He didn’t seem to be a man of any particular strength. In truth he was not strong, certainly no stronger than I. Rather, it was due to certain flaws in his character, which would allow him to fight only within strict limitations. At any first suspicion he was out of his depth he would run, hide, elude me, cheat me. It was this precise knowledge of his own fallibility that gave him his uncanny ingenuity. Then, preferring to ignore my menaces, he showed the timid side of his nature.

When we did fight, it was only after unendurable taunts and pressure. And yet – and this I can see quite clearly now – I was always in his mind, and he waited only for the moment when, as a genuine rival, he might become my equal.

Nothing very much escaped his watchful eye, despite my efforts to conceal much of what I did. None of my plans, conceived and calculated in every last detail,

eager to distinguish himself in his first raid or manoeuvre. But this is where my subtlety set me even farther apart from my contemporaries. Know-alls had come and gone before, and had met their various fates. My quality was not my fighting prowess alone, but an encyclopaedic knowledge of military history, strategy and hardware. To crown all this I had discipline and patience. I was young, I had time, and I could wait.

Or could I? When that wait turned out to be a protracted one, it was with two, ultimately disquieting results. The first was my growing friendship with some of the old men of war, and my awareness of a certain coolness on their part. If they didn’t say it, they had singled me out for leadership. Informed, inventive talent shouldn’t be wasted, and if we were ever going to win this war then we needed people like me: natural leaders, visionaries. This was good, eventually too good for my highly competitive makeup, when a strange sort of caution contradicted all their apparent intentions, and they

That was how the man of the many identities became my personal symbol of all that the world must be rid of. seemed ever enough to overwhelm him. He would clutch at his charmed medallion, his visage might suddenly change, and I have lost count of the times he stood before me – not as a fighter or foe – but as someone who wanted to be my friend, was at the very least a reluctant enemy, an unfortunate like me thrown into this senseless squabble. How could I strike out at such a man?

You see, at the very moment that question formed, I hesitated. And at the very moment I thrust it aside and looked to first principles – what had been inculcated in my remotest boyhood – my inspiration died. By then he had turned and fled, unable to make the crucial decision – either defend his own cause, or throw in his lot with ours. Here, I have a confession. It was never my company’s intention to indoctrinate anyone. It was my own idea to capture and convert this man (my family, my religion, my political affiliations – all share a history deeply rooted in evangelism).

III What of the early days? I can say this: there was never a more willing student, never a cadet more qualified for the grim business of war, never a trained soldier more

86 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

were finally unwilling to send me at all into the cut and thrust, into the action. Of course, when I rebelled, as anyone must, it was without authority that I gathered up my weapons, that I walked out on the plains, and, once there, that I steadfastly fixed my gaze on my target, determined not to fail.

That was how the man of the many identities became my personal symbol of all that the world must be rid of.

I hunted him relentlessly, day and night, in the harsh bright sunshine or under the icy stars, in my dreams and in my thoughts.

It was never easy. At times I cursed my superior erudition, because however I designed my strategy (it was always theoretically perfect) he astounded me with something completely unconventional, and therefore unpredictable. My dignity shouldn’t allow me to scuttle after my quarry in the woodlands or bushes. I simply abhorred his long cowardly treks across unknown country – which, if I wasn’t careful, would culminate in some sleazy night raid, and a knife in my back, the shadowy assailant slinking off without ever having shown his face. Yet I was reduced to having to gauge all such low behaviour, and in meeting his cunning with my education, I never quite had the stealth to aim the vital blow – in fact I suffered that myself.

I fell, deeply hurt, my self-assurance suddenly deserting me.

He stood there in the sun, arms akimbo, puzzled.

‘Why?’ he said. ‘Why me?’

I watched him through the slits of my eyes, but said nothing.

He turned and retreated.

IV I returned, intending to remain alone, but when those gnarled old warriors took me aside, I told them what had happened – unnecessarily, as it turned out, because they’d been watching. I hadn’t done badly, they said, but now it was time for words of advice. This was not a war of honour or valour, not a crusade, and in some ways was not even a war to be won. It was simply a nagging question, and one we had asked more years ago than anyone here could remember. No one had the answer (an important point), and it was only with that realisation that you truly knew the enemy.

‘What you imply casts everything in doubt,’ I said. ‘Why have you never mentioned this before?’

‘We’re glad you have that capacity to question. That gives us hope.’

‘Hope!’

‘Think about what we’ve said….’

I retired temporarily, I was treated, and I made my way alone into the hills. Perhaps if I consider, reflect, I will overcome my doubts and difficulties (new experiences for me). But nothing, nothing – no wise words, no counselling – will ever dampen this fire, this lust that I have, this terrible desire to get down there again, when I am well, and have my revenge. To cut him down, to eliminate that other, that spineless foe, that man of the multiple identity. []

PETER COWLAM won the 2015 Quagga Prize for Literary Fiction for his novel Who’s Afraid of the Booker Prize? Cowlam’s Across the Rebel Network was longlisted for the Guardian 2015 Not the Booker Prize.

Visit www.petercowlam.one

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 87

POETRY SCOTT

THOMAS OUTLAR

Smoke in your eyes, smoke in your hair, smoke on your tongue, fire in your lungs, fire in your heart, fire, fire, fire… always burns…

It’s a Matter of Record/Opinion Tell me something meaningful and make sure I believe it before you double down my debts.

Then dance in your pride and vanity.

Then dance in your ignorance and vanity.

Then dance in your shaken identity.

Then dance, then dance, then dance in vanity.

thin ice, thin ice, thin ice…

All your sins have been collected from a life you didn’t live so pray to the gods of Big Data and confess that your days have been numbered drifting through the endless stream, scrolling through the timelines of life, searching for the source to find connection.

Tell me something meaningful in every single moment and make sure I buy, buy, buy but never sell…

Pat yourself on the back, pat me on the back, pat myself on the back, pat you on the back, pat us on the back, pat we on the back, pat them on the back, I take it all back, I take it all…

out and down, down and out…

thin air, thin air, thin air…

thin air, thin air, thin air…

There are ghosts in the system, ghosts in the visions, ghosts in the world, ghosts in your pores, ghosts pouring out…

never doubt, never doubt, never doubt that there is destiny and there is dust in the…

There are seeds in the ground, there is blood in the roots, there is will in the shoots, there is power in the bloom. []

SCOTT THOMAS OUTLAR hosts the site 17Numa.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, live events, and books can be found. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Scott was a recipient of the 2017 Setu Magazine Award for Excellence in the field of literature.

His words have been translated into French, Italian, Dutch, Persian, Serbian, Albanian, and Afrikaans. His radio show Songs of Selah airs weekly on 17Numa Radio.

88 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

ART: Jay Chakravarti

Kingdom of Chaos We don’t want your money, just your soul on a silver platter served to order for our warm feast while we spit out your raw famine.

We don’t want your respect, just your energy and time, just your mind numbed to the frequency of propagandized pestilence.

We don’t want your love, just your heart bled dry as every vein withers in the winter wind while our chalice remains ever full to the point of overflowing.

We don’t want your vote, just your faith that such a course of action can actually influence the order in which our puppets dance to a song of chaos upon the public stage.

We don’t want your salute, just your obedience, just your hands kept where we can see them while your feet continue marching to the drumbeat of our wars.

We don’t want your laws, just your land, just your culture, just your customs, just your heritage, just your traditions snuffed out beneath the global kingdom collectivized at our command. [] ART: Jay Chakravarti

Formulas for Pressing Flowers I longed for God to take my questions under careful consideration but the only answers that I received came in the form of laughter from behind bloodstained teeth Red are the fangs that suck on my wrist until I’m blue in the head Green is the envy that melts on a burning mantle when the fire fades to black and gray Yellow, yellow, yellow are the flowers that grow in new fields after sowing I begged for God to part the sky and rain apocalyptic wisdom but the only knowledge that could be found arrived with a smile and a wink from a source I still can’t fathom Silver is the compass that steers the ship after gold runs dry Translucent is the shine that pulses pink and purple when the sun starts glowing neon Yellow, yellow, yellow are the eyes that open as the sign lights up in shades of violet []

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 89

DRAMA DAVID -MATTHEW B ARNES

The

Snack Queens A One-Act Play

90 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

ART: Abdulrahman Mowakket

CAST OF CHARACTERS DEBORAH SUSAN DELANEY-GERSTENBERG, 40, the ultimate soccer mom; the queen bee; feared by all LEEANN MURPHY, 30’s, the rival and nemesis of Deborah Susan KATIE CROSS, late 20’s, a new soccer mom BARB ANDREWS, 30’s, the disciple of Deborah Susan LIZZIE DELANEY-GERSTENBERG, 17, the not-so-perfect daughter

THE PLACE A soccer field in suburban America

TIME Late spring. Present year.

(At rise, LEEANN MURPHY enters pulling a red wagon behind her. It is overflowing with snacks. Behind her is KATIE CROSS, who is struggling with a heavy ice chest, even though it’s on wheels.

BARB ANDREWS follows, carrying three folded portable chairs. She opens each one. Two of them are drab in appearance. The chair she places in the middle is bedazzled.

LIZZIE DELANEY-GERSTENBERG enters next. She looks bored and fed up. Through ear buds she is listening to music, drowning out the strange world that surrounds her. She sits in one of the portable chairs, but not the throne in the middle.

Finally, DEBORAH SUSAN DELANEY-GERSTENBERG makes a grand entrance. She is carrying two upscale shopping bags, filled with plastic containers containing a variety of snacks.

At once, she turns to LEEANN. The tension between them is intense and the cause of great suffering to everyone they know.)

DEBORAH. Where have you been? I swear, I’ve been waiting half a lifetime for you.

LEEANN. What are you talking about?

DEBORAH. You were supposed to meet me outside of the party supply store thirty minutes ago.

LEEANN. (Not so innocent:) Oh, was that today?

DEBORAH. Leeann, if you cannot be punctual for the important things in life, how do you ever expect to be elected the new PTA President?

LEEANN. Blackmail.

BARB. Deborah Susan, you should’ve called me. I would’ve been there on time.

DEBORAH. I know, Barbie. You’re one of the good ones. Not a heathen like Leeann who clearly doesn’t know how to tell time.

KATIE. (Referring to the game:) Who’s winning?

DEBORAH. The game hasn’t started yet, Katie. Anyone can see that. I know you’re new, but please try and pay closer attention.

KATIE. Sorry, Deborah.

BARB. (Correcting her:) It’s Deborah Susan.

KATIE. What?

BARB. Her name. Deborah Susan DelaneyGersternberg.

KATIE. Wow. That’s a long name.

LEEANN. Only a greedy woman would need so many syllables.

DEBORAH. Names are important and should be respected.

LEEANN. So should married men.

DEBORAH. (Referring to Lizzie:) Barbie, since my daughter seems to be in another galaxy at the moment, will you give me a hand unpacking the first round of snacks?

BARB. Of course. Where should I put them?

DEBORAH. On the tables. (Looks around, then:) Barbie, where are the tables I asked you to bring?

BARB. (Terrified:) In my garage.

DEBORAH. Well, now, that’s a fine place for them.

What are these innocent children supposed to eat on? I specifically said I need a flat surface. Do you see a flat surface, Barbie?

LEEANN. (Referring to Deborah.) Not since your last boob job, dear.

KATIE. Can’t they just sit on the ground? I mean, my

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 91

kid won’t mind. He’ll eat anywhere if he’s hungry enough.

DEBORAH. Was he raised in a third world country?

This is America, Katie. Our children eat on flat surfaces.

KATIE. And what is it they’re eating today?

DEBORAH. Their first round of snacks includes organic baked chicken, gluten-free pita bread, a side dish of baba ganoush, and soy honey almond yogurt for dipping sauce. And lemon-flavored sparkling water, of course. (Spying the ice chest:) That is if you remembered to bring them.

KATIE. I brought juice boxes instead. (Deborah, Barb, and Leeann gasp.) Apple juice. Kids love it.

BARB. Well, at least it isn’t soda. (She moves closer to Katie.)

How could you?

KATIE. It’s juice. They’re children. They don’t need sparkling water.

DEBORAH. My sons only drink sparkling water, Katie.

Not something out of a box. They’re not savages.

They’re twins.

KATIE. Well, that’s all that’s here today. If they’re thirsty, they’ll drink it. And they’ll survive.

DEBORAH. (Shifting her attention to Leeann’s red wagon of snacks.) Did you buy out the entire store or just the junk food aisle?

(Lizzie takes out her ear buds and starts to observe the confrontation.)

LEEANN. We’ll see whose snacks the boys like better.

Just wait.

DEBORAH. Yes, Leeann, you know a lot about what boys like.

LEEANN. I do. I also know about you and Pierce Longfellow.

DEBORAH. (Enraged:) Who told you that?

LEEANN. Are you denying it?

DEBORAH. I would never stoop so low. He’s a married man. And he sells used cars.

LEEANN. From what I hear you’ve been giving him plenty of joyrides.

DEBORAH. I see what’s happening here. Because your snacks reek of poverty and processing, you’re grasping for whatever ammunition you can.

LEEANN. No one likes baba ganoush.

LIZZIE. (To her mother:) And no one likes you, either.

DEBORAH. (To Lizzie:) I should’ve left you in the car…in Kindergarten.

LIZZIE. Leeann, look what you’ve done. You’ve upset my mother.

LEEANN. (With glee:) I know.

LIZZIE. I can’t wait to join the Peace Corps and change

92 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

my name.

BARB. Where will they send you, Lizzie? Far away?

LIZZIE. I don’t care, Barb. Anywhere. As long as they don’t play soccer there.

KATIE. (To Lizzie:) Would you like an apple juice?

LIZZIE. I would love one.

(Katie opens the ice chest, takes out a juice box, and hands it to Lizzie.)

LIZZIE. Thank you. My friend Mindy and me hotboxed in her mother’s minivan this morning and I’ve had horrible cotton mouth ever since. This should do the trick.

DEBORAH. You came to the game to brag about using drugs?

LIZZIE. No, I came to the game because you threatened to follow me on Instagram if I didn’t.

LEEANN. Ever since your mother discovered social media her reign of terror has evolved.

DEBORAH. This coming from a woman who uses a red wagon to transport snacks. She thinks she’s a pioneer.

BARB. Deborah Susan, I’m very sorry about the tables.

DEBORAH. I’ll deal with you later.

LIZZIE. Don’t keep her in suspense, mother. Barb loves to be punished by you.

BARB. I do not. You take that back.

KATIE. I just don’t get it. They’re only snacks. Why make such a big deal out of them?

(Deborah, Barb, and Leeann gasp.)

BARB. Only snacks? You will burn in hell for that, Katie Cross.

KATIE. I think I already am.

LEEANN. They’re not just snacks.

DEBORAH. That’s one thing we agree on, Leeann.

LEEANN. What would our children think if we showed up here empty handed? What would the other parents say about us?

KATIE. That you decided to feed your kids at home.

LEEANN. Oh my God, who does that?

KATIE. Look, I know I’m not all rich and fancy, but take it from me…kids are happy with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a juice box.

DEBORAH. Maybe they do in Wisconsin or Rhode Island or whatever backwoods place you come from, but in our neighborhood…we believe in giving our children the best.

LIZZIE. No, that’s not true.

DEBORAH. Go to the car, my child. And roll up the

windows tight.

LIZZIE. I played volleyball for three years. Not once did you show up to one of my games with gourmet snacks and sparkling water. I had to buy food from the vending machine. (Deborah, Barb, and Leeann gasp.) Tell me, mother, is it because I’m a girl?

DEBORAH. The boys appreciate snacks more. Just ask Leeann.

LIZZIE. You two use these snacks to compete against one another and it’s disgusting.

DEBORAH. Your behavior is deplorable, Elizabeth.

KATIE. I think she made a good point.

BARB. (To Katie:) Are you a feminist?

KATIE. What?

BARB. Are you even wearing a bra?

I played volleyball for three years. Not once did you show up to one of my games with gourmet snacks and sparkling water. I had to buy food from the vending machine. Tell me, mother, is it because I’m a girl?

KATIE. There’s more to life than gluten-free pita bread and sparkling water, ladies. Your kids are probably just happy to see you here.

LIZZIE. They could give a shit. None of these kids could care less that you’re here.

KATIE. Yeah, you’re probably right. I was just trying to make us all feel better.

DEBORAH. My children adore me. (To Lizzie:) Except for one, but we’re still not sure how she followed us home from the hospital.

LIZZIE. Be careful, mother. I know more than you think I do.

LEEANN. (To Lizzie:) Honey, let me buy you lunch after this. Just the two of us.

LIZZIE. No, thank you. I’m full. There’s enough insanity around here to kill your appetite.

DEBORAH. I’m known for my snacks. In fact, some might say they’re legendary. Have you any idea how much work goes into preparing them? But I do it because I care. I want my children to know that I sweat and slave over a hot stove reheating food I purchased at a very expensive grocery story, so they can have the best

snacks in the world. So that they’re friends who are less fortunate than them can seethe with jealousy and all secretly wish I was their mother. I’m proud to be a soccer mom. And soon I will be the newly elected PTA President to add to my many, many titles. And one day, when I’m long gone, mothers will speak about these snacks.

They will tell others. They will make certain that my legend lives on. They will all know that I am the Queen!

LEEANN. Are you finished? The game is about to start.

(Deborah quickly moves to the bedazzled portable chair and sits.

Barb sits on one side of her and Leeann sits on the other.

Lizzie sits on the ground, puts her ear buds backs in, and drinks her apple juice.

Katie takes a long look at the other women, grabs the handle of the portable ice chest, and walks away.

As the crowd begins to roar, the lights fade to black.) []

DAVID-MATTHEW BARNES is the award-winning author of several novels and collections of stage plays and poetry. His acclaimed screenplays have earned many accolades including a 2017 Los Angeles Film Award. DavidMatthew has written over fifty stage plays that have been performed in three languages in ten countries. His literary work has appeared in over one hundred publications. He earned an MFA in Creative Writing at Queens University of Charlotte in North Carolina. He has been an educator for more than a decade.

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 93

POETRY KAIKASI

V S

The Lost Generation They don't want toys --Nor do they long for crayons They have never seen birds singing Or ants moving around with grains They refuse to watch butterflies But they know everything about them Essays on Metamorphosis sealed within They have never felt the whisper of --Crystal clear brooks Nor have they climbed a tree They know everything under the sun Knowledge at their command Have they ever seen Nature in its glory ?

The smell of Earth after the first shower The quiet solitude of rocky cliffs The glittery sparkle of fireflies The to and fro of swings in action The thrill of sending kites to the heaven The rustic charm of playing in the fields The innocence of floating paper boats They laugh !!!

We have no time to waste No time to waste over trivial things For its time for the next season Season ??

Spring brings you tender leaves Summer fills your day with fragrance Autumn makes you nostalgic Winter wraps your colours in white Only to be reborn as spring Again ...

No ! No! No! They exclaimed!!

We are talking about the next season The next season??

The next season of Game of Thrones Indeed you are ---Simply , A lost generation []

KAIKASI V S is an assistant professor of English, University College, Trivandrum PHOTOGRAPHY: Sasin Tipchai

94 CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018

SHORT FICTIONS MICHAEL CHIN The following is a presentation of five linked short fiction pieces

Tournament

MICHAEL CHIN was born and raised in Utica, New York and currently lives in Georgia with his wife and son. His hybrid chapbook, The Leo Burke Finish, is available now from Gimmick Press and he has work published or forthcoming in journals including The Normal School, Passages North, and Hobart.

He works as a contributing editor for Moss. Visit miketchin.com Follow @miketchin.

Spivey and Mercy looked like family. Both short, skinny in the arms and legs, skinniest of all on their necks, and yet the both of them had pot bellies like they were pregnant, like forty-tofifty years of fried chicken and livers had caught up with their boyish metabolisms in that one specific spot of their bodies.

It was absurd that these two men would control the fortunes of two dozen finely tuned athletes who passed through west Texas to work pro wrestling shows. But the two of them did good business.

Spivey was the promoter, focused on luring in talent he and Mercy agreed might draw, then getting the word out. He spoke nostalgically about days of promising local kids free admission if they hung up flyers a piece around town. The game had changed, and now he offered tickets to a slightly older crowd for spamming social media outlets and email lists.

Mercy called himself the creative head, but most wrestlers called him the booker. He made matches and picked the winners and how finishes would go down.

There was a smaller crowd than usual when Erica and Tigress Numero Uno got to the locker room that afternoon. All women, except for Spivey and Mercy, and soon word got around about a specialty show that featured only lady wrestlers—according to one whisper, because none of the male headliners had been available.

Spivey made it official. “Eight women. Seven tournament matches. Only one winner.” He often spoke like this— clipped into the sort of taglines you might see on a promotional poster.

Mercy went into more detail. “We’re going to use this tournament to get Erica over as the top challenger to the belt.”

Erica could feel a shift in the room—maybe her imagination, but she felt eyes shifting on and off of her and bodies shifting subtly, almost imperceptibly from her, all except Tigress and she could imagine the two of them standing back to back, surrounded, fighting off all comers like some ninja movie.

Mercy had drawn out the brackets by hand on a white-

CultureCult Magazine Winter 2018 95

board. Erica would open the night opposite Dragon Princess. Erica had never met her before, but her legend preceded her. Legend that she had once killed an opponent in the ring. Legend that it wasn’t an accident, but no one could ever prove that conclusively. Dragon Princess was a bigger star than Erica. If they were ever going to share ring space, she would have assumed that she’d lose. “It’s an underdog story,” Mercy explained to her, to the whole room. “No one will expect you to win.

In the second round she’d face off with Tigress.

They’d wrestled a hundred matches, probably more.

Tigress usually went over. For independent wrestlers, always moving around, she had the name recognition from her work in one of the national companies. “Hero vs. hero,” Spivey sold it.

Mercy picked up, “Everyone expects a short match in the semifinal to rest up after the first round and gear up for the finals. But we know the two of you can go. We’re going to push it right to the half hour time limit, then Erica steals the pin.” The theft was no surprise—largely how Erica had been booked as beaten down but never giving up, achieving what victories she could via last-gasp flurries and sunset flips and small packages.

We can do that. Tigress nodded.

Then we get to finals. Now the finals are our problem.

When Spivey finished, Erica looked around her and observed for the first time that Felicia Feelgood—written in as her final opponent, the female star of the territory, was nowhere to be found.Felicia walked when she found out she wasn’t winning. We need to replace her or re-jigger the whole bracket.

We can’t reconfigure now. Mercy tugged at the back of his hair. Seven matches shouldn’t have taken all night to figure out, but she imagined that it had for him. He

was a perfectionist like that, who felt the need to plan every match from the curtain jerkers to the main event, who didn’t tolerate dissent on how a show ought to go, and only Spivey could get him to change his mind—and even then, only sometimes.

There were suggestions from the room. Maybe Dragon Princess could be moved to the opposite side of the bracket to offer the same sort of star power to the final while Erica went over someone else early on. No, Mercy said, Every round needs to be a surprise. Maybe someone else could get a fresh push, too. Another fresh face to the main event opposite me. Nurse Wretched proposed that it could be her, and she could get a bye in the first round to give her an advantage, sell the underdog.

But Erica already knew where the conversation was headed. She supposed that Mercy, in his infinite scheming, wisdom set up this particular scenario that Erica would be uniquely qualified to put into practice, and how could Erica deny it when she was being gifted the night of a lifetime?

When she made eye contact with Mercy, he locked on. She remembered him as a younger man. The first they’d met, the night Erica’s mother had called in a favor to get Erica a dark match, putting over a twohundred-fifty-pound boulder of a woman. That Mercy had talked to her then, in a ways she read as flirting, only to come to understand later he wasn’t attracted to her— or at least that wasn’t the matter at hand. He saw potential in her. A star. A key cog in his storytelling machine for decades to come.

And so, amidst the clatter of suggestions and debate, Erica spoke to Mercy directly, just in earshot of Spivey, whom she could only imagine was in on the plan, too, for Erica book her own main event opponent.

She said, I’ll call my mother. []

Calling Mom Erica talked to Mom often. Not the nightly calls that her traveling partner Tigress Numero Uno made to her madre, but once, maybe twice a week, usually when Mom called but every now and again when Tigress was on the phone especially long or when one of the bookers had cast Erica into a particularly absurd gimmick match or angle and she wanted to vent to someone from both outside the territory and who had more experience to confirm she wasn’t crazy. Or, if they didn’t agree, then someone she could openly argue with without risking her job.

Erica hated to ask Mom for favors. Maybe it

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was residual from her teenage angst, but she thought it one of the defining characteristics of adulthood to take care herself without needing Mom to come to her rescue.And then, how could she even classify this particular call? As a favor? As an opportunity?

As a challenge?

“Mom, I want to wrestle you.” Erica laid it out.

That she had the break of a lifetime, booked to win a tournament, but she needed a suitable opponent to defeat in the final round and, Spivey and Mercy wanted her mom to come out of retirement again for this last, epic night. What better way to pass the torch, they’d implored,

than from mother to daughter?

Mom was a cynic, and Erica thought for sure she’d point out the contrivance of the situation. She’d say that she didn’t know who was being used more— mother or daughter, and that Spivey would book any match just to say he’d done it first, and Mercy had a sick mind. Erica had heard that all before, ever since she came back close to home and started making regular shots in Mom’s old stomping grounds.

Mom took pride in stretch marks and complained about the chronic ache of her lower back. She blamed all of those overnight road trips between shows for ruining her eyesight, in the same breath she boasted about knowing every highway and backroad between every major city in Texas. She was unpredictable like

that, romanticizing and casting blame with all the reckless abandon of The Wild Woman, her best friend in the business who she also blamed for ending her full-time wrestling career, on account of jamming her shoulder into the ring post wrong in a brawl outside the ring.

Mom waited a moment. That space that just as likely consisted of thinking as it did of consciously building suspense—the wrestling business was in her veins, and she’d been the one to teach Erica to wait behind the curtain after her music started playing to let the crowd build and build and build to a fever pitch. Until they couldn’t take it anymore. “Hell yeah, I’ll do it,” she said at last. “Stay off my shoulder, though, will ya? Or I’ll pop you in the mouth.” []

Wrestling Dragon Princess Tigress Numero Uno warned Erica not to call her The Dragon Princess. She didn’t like that, in part because she wasn’t the only Dragon Princess. A part of her legend was that she wrestled and defeated another, older Dragon Princess in Japan decades back, early in her career, in a match the promoter intended to pass the torch from the veteran to the youngster. Out of respect for her elder, Dragon Princess refused to take her name, and ever since insisted that she was only a Dragon Princess, never the only one.

Still the was hard to shake. Harder for all of the stories.

As Erica learned, there were a number of legends around Dragon Princess.

About how she’d gone shot for shot at a bar with Andre the Giant when she was just starting her career and he was nearing the end of his life, and after a half dozen men had thrown up or passed out drunk.

About how she’d saved a child from getting run over in a busy parking lot after a show, not by knocking the child out of the way or by calling out to the driver, but by springboarding from the pavement, to the hood of a parked car, and over its roof to land on the hood of the car of the hapless driver who wasn’t paying attention—to make him pay attention—just before his car would have hit the little girl.

About how Dragon Princess had killed an opponent in the ring with her trademark sleeperhold. It was deemed an accident, but the wrestlers were all skeptical, knowing Dragon to be too expert, too skilled, too precise to kill by accident.

So it was that Tigress warned Erica to be careful when she was booked to not only wrestle, but defeat Dragon Princess in the tournament. So it was that she emphasized not to use the the lest she make Dragon angry.

Erica talked to her before the match, while she stretched, splitting her legs impossibly far, seated on the floor, leaning all the way over to clutch her right sneaker. She pitched spots for the match. The crisscross, drop-down, leapfrog, into the dropkick. That Erica would back her into a corner for a monkey flip and that Dragon would knock her down to take over on offense.

Erica posed each suggestion as a question, wary of overstepping her bounds. For her part, Dragon nodded along.

Until the finish.

I was thinking that you could use your finisher—the choke. And I could start to fade, then bridge over you—sort of a jackknife—and steal the pin. But you’ve still have the hold on, and maybe it would look like you didn’t realize the pin was happening.

Dragon Princess stopped stretching and studied Erica. Erica doubted the choice to stand over her in that moment when maybe she ought to have sat by her side, or waited for her to finish her pre-match rituals. Let alone that idea for the finish. Would Dragon think Erica meant for her to look careless? Foolish even?

But when she spoke at last, Dragon smiled. I like that.

And so it was that they wrestled. Going through

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the essentials of what Erica proposed, with Dragon calling most of the heat segments. She was a softer worker than Erica expected, delivering her snap suplex and her Russian leg sweep fast and clean, but each time cushioning Erica’s head against her arm. Soft landings.

Finally, it was time for the choke. A variation of on a Japanese sleeper and a triangle choke that saw Dragon cross Erica’s arms over her own throat, then collapse a figure-four headscissor around her, theoretically squeezing her neck from three separate angles. A deadly looking clutch for sure, and yet Erica breathed easy. She thought of how easily Dragon might cinch in on the hold. How it really might kill someone.

It tightened momentarily. Not a death knell, though. The signal that they had the crowd at a fever pitch, and it was time.

Erica got to her knees. Up on her feet. She leapt.

She may not have had enough momentum on her own to complete the flipping forward motion, but Dragon pressed her feet between Erica’s shoulder blades, all but forcing her body to bridge, the pin complete for the referee’s count of one-two-three.

Dragon sold anger and confusion after she released the hold, masterfully in character without missing a beat. Erica played her role of the humble wrestler, who might have lost the fight, but won the match, gingerly getting to her feet and walking toward the ropes to escape the fray. And then she felt the hand on her shoulder.

Dragon had slapped her hand down hard on Erica’s skin. Hard enough to stop her. Hard enough to spin her around. Hard enough that Erica was certain she’d made a mistake and now Dragon might deliver some fatal blow.

But the hand dropped. Not all the way to Dragon’s side, but outstretched, just below chest level.

A handshake.

The crowd erupted at the show of sportsmanship between the two, at the two crowd favorites getting along after a competitive match. Dragon held the ropes open for her, even, a show of further respect. The two of them friends now, at least for the eyes of the crowd.

Backstage, Tigress still wasn’t so sure. Don’t turn your back on her, she said. You never know what to expect from Dragon Princess. []

Wrestling a Tigress Erica hadn’t wrestled Tigress Numero Uno in years, and she didn’t want to wrestle her again.

There’s that universal truth that people still felt smart for pointing out for some reason or another—that wrestling is fake. An outsider didn’t need to be smart to know that. But it took someone inside the business— someone who’d been inside the ring ropes to understand how real it could be. That physicality was physicality. That holds hurt, it was just a question of how much, and that bumps against wrestling mats may not hurt so much individually but added up to chronic pain. That there was no way to make a punch to the face look real unless you actually punched someone in the face.

Erica didn’t want to punch Tigress in the face.

Don’t worry, Tigress reassured her.

It was Tigress who’d taught her whom to listen to and whom to steer clear of. Who taught her to ice her knees and elbows after every match, even when they weren’t sore, and to strip the bun from fast food chicken sandwiches to get all of the protein and none of the carbs, and to use bands to accent all of her sinew, minutes before she went to the ring.

They’d wrestle in the second round of the tour-

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nament. Indie wrestling fans knew them to be friends and the booker was trading on that. Had them work a babyface match where they shook hands to start and locked up, almost tenderly in a test of strength in its truest sense, neither aiming to hurt the other.

Tigress had driven through the night to get them to the town, Erica didn’t know how many hundred times. She let Erica sleep, against the wrestler’s code to help keep the driver awake, but Tigress was all right. She didn’t sleep much anyway. And sometimes, Erica wouldn’t sleep either. Just recline the seat backward and pretend to, watching Tigress through the slits of almost shut eyelids. She guided the steering wheel almost without touching it, almost effortlessly, like she was one with the car. Erica would follow the lines of her body like that, looking straight head. When the sun was just coming up, she’d see the silhouette of her, from body to the tigress mask—always the mask—against a backdrop of red rocks and redwoods and grassy plains. They’d traveled the country together.

The battle in the ring intensified. It had to. This was what pro wrestling fans came to see. Erica, clamping a bearhug, squeezing their bodies together as Tigress screamed as if she were actually in pain. She’d escape

with elbow shots. Then fists. The only means of escape for such a hold and a natural intensification of the story they told.

This would be a fight.

They wrestled in their hotel rooms. Practice at first, more like sport, before it became something more intimate to hold one another in locks over plain white sheets over a squeaking mattress. It probably sounds like we’re lovers, Tigress said once, between giggles when the wrestling was done and they were both hot and sticky, both breathing heavily, both still in each other’s arms.

Tigress climbed to the top rope. She was getting older now and couldn’t leap quite as high. But she was always on target.

Erica had set a photograph of the two of them as the background image of her phone. Overlooking Big Sur the wind whipping her hair, midflight behind her, a

few strands flowing over her mouth. But she didn’t care.

Smiling devilishly, smiling carefree. The happiest she’d ever seen herself. She felt that way a lot around Tigress.

Tigress was smiling in the photo, too.

And in the ring, they went through their closing sequence. Tigress applying the step-over crossface. Erica struggling. Erica ducking her head out of Tigress’s clutches and turning, grasping her body in a gut wrench, into a pin halfway between alligator clutch and the end result of a sunset flip. Inescapable. Irresistible. The referee counted to three.

And Erica hugged her after the match. Tigress’s shoulder’s slighter than hers, though not weak. They were strong together there. Tigress clutched Erica’s wrist and raised her hand high. Victorious. Glorious.

Weren’t they? []

The Last Match The first match Erica remembered wrestling was against her Mom in the living room, against a backdrop of the meek protests of her stepfather that it wasn’t safe, and her stepsister saying they were Neanderthals, though she didn’t looking away from the spectacle. And Mom gave her a suplex.

Erica loved the vertical suplex, her head tucked in her mother’s arm, Mom’s head tucked under hers, Erica’s body lifted, inverted, before they fell back together, Mom absorbing almost all of the impact despite Erica falling form the greater height. Mom insisted that Erica jump to facilitate the lift, because that was how the pros did it, even when she was light enough Mom could have suplexed her easily without the cooperation. Each time, after the suplex, Mom swung her body over—a float over—to constitute a pin, in a move that felt to Erica more like her mother protecting her.

Mom knew about protecting bodies. She did it for a living. Always said that’s what wrestling was. Less about competition than collaboration. Less about hurting someone else than keeping her safe.

This was especially true for mother and daughter. Before and after they finished wrestling, and all those times in between their makeshift matches on the living room floor and in the backyard, Mom would explain that when Erica felt pain, she felt pain, too. That’s what it is to be family. If you get hurt, I hurt, too.

When Erica was a teenager, Mom took her on the road for short swings, for a full week over summer.

She’d bring Erica backstage to introduce her around,

before they staged their family wrestling match for the crew in the locker room. They grapple around in a basic sequence of headlocks and hammerlocks leading into the moment when Mom whispered, It’s time to go home.

In wrestling parlance, going home meant the end of the match and the way they’d planned it, Mom went for the suplex, Erica kicked out a leg to block it, and then reversed it. Mom needed to jump high to make it work, Erica not strong enough for anything but the most assisted snap suplex. But after they’d practiced it in the hotel room and it worked, they took it live in front of the crew who applauded when Erica hit the suplex and floated over for the pin, for the one-two-three.

The third night they staged their match, the suplex went wrong. Looking back, Erica felt certain it was a combination of her grip and her timing but she fell slower than her mother, and Mom landed more on her tailbone than her back and screamed out in pain.

Erica froze before Mom gestured her hand for her to pin, because of course the cardinal rule was not to let the spectators know anything had gone wrong.

Mom had to ice her lower back and her neck after the errant landing. She told Erica not to worry about it, but for the first time, Erica understood what she’d meant about family and feeling one another’s hurt.

And she felt that way, too, fifteen-some-odd years later, a decade into Erica’s wrestling career, that night Mom came out of retirement yet again, and the first time they worked a match together in a ring, in front of a real crowd, in a match that mattered. The

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both of them equal parts selling sluggish and actually exhausted as they were each in their third match each of the night, the climactic final round of a tournament.

Mom smelled.

She hadn’t showered between rounds on the insistence that she’d only get sweaty over again, and as the veteran of the locker room, no one could tell her she was wrong. Erica fought through clamped in her mother’s armpit in a dragon sleeper.

They worked up to a sequence of trading forearm shot to each other’s jaws, then punches and finally slaps across each other’s faces. The third slap knocked Erica to one knee, a moment Mercy insisted fans would buy as a call back to her youth—Mom smacking her down her after she’d gotten smart.

Mom shoved her down on her back. Through gritted teeth, as if she were angry, as if she were talking trash, she told Erica, It’s time to go home.

Mom methodically climbed to the top rope.

The crowd grew louder as Mom rose higher. When they’d reached a fever pitch, Erica got up.

She charged her, running up the inside of the ropes to meet her with more forearm shots to daze her, and then climbed up to the top rope, where she threw her arm over Mom’s head, and slung Mom’s arm over

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hers. The familiar positioning for a suplex. But this time, a superplex.

Erica had gotten the tattoos on her arm after her mother’s. Mom had the big tree that reminded her of where she’d grown up. Erica had the fallen leaves that reminded her of her mother. When their bodies connected, the tree was touching the leaves. When Erica lifted her, it would be like that tree was turned upside down, shaking all of those leaves all over her, like it was readying for winter. Like it was fall.

Tucked down into each other’s skin, for that moment while the crowd lost its collective mind, Erica whispered, I love you.

It took Mom a minute. Not just the wrestling, but the act of climbing up to the top rope at that moment had exhausted her. She was still out of breath when she managed, Love you, too.

The timing was perfect this time. It had to be from this height above the ring. Mom’s leap. Erica’s lift.

Falling down together.

Erica kept Mom’s head pillowed over her arm.

There was no escaping gravity, but she cushioned the fall and kept her safe all the way.

Before the float over.

Before the pin.

Before the one-two-three. []

PHOTOGRAPHY: Scott Webb

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