Nexus Spring 2015 issue by Nexus Literary Journal

NEXUS

SPRING2015

Nexus Literary Journal Spring 2015

Spring 2015 Staff Thomas Talbert - Lead Editor, Fiction Editor Brandon North - Poetry Editor Adam Randolph – Assistant Poetry Editor Deborah Rocheleau – Coordinating Editor McKenzie Reeves – Staff Photographer

Zach Moore – Advising Editor Brady Allen – Faculty Advisor

Copyright Nexus, Spring 2014. All rights revert back to the author upon publication. No part of this publication maybe copied, distributed, transcribed, or electronically posted without the express written permission of Nexus or the writer or artist of the piece.

Table of Contents

Poetry Liz Schoppelrei

To my brother:

Craig Cotter

Brothers

Ayesha Alexander

Remember Me

Jerrod Boitse

Hiding

Fiction Lonnie Dixon

The Fire Outside

Jerrod Boitse

Repeat

J.E. Irvin

All the Odds Are Even

The Nexus Ekphrastic Series Spring 2015: Portraits of Ekphrasis E.S. Renfield

The Unspoiled

All Photographic Art used in the Nexus Spring 2015 issue provided by and property of McKenzie Reeves

Spring 2015 Submissions

Liz Schoppelrei To my brother:

Salmon is a color. His shirt was salmon. You knew it. You told him so, the teacher even backed you up.

Between pink and red I see you. Stuck in a place mom and dad donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t care to admit exists,

and I tell you itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s okay to use the word salmon and be in that in between place that they pull us back from every time.

And I am still here with all the adjectives begging you not to leave us.

Craig Cotter Brothers

16-year-old Latin sits on green wood bench LA County Fair

his 18-month-old brother stands at the other end patting his hands

on the flat wood slats smiling at his brother.

Early October, 98 degrees. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Wanna drink,â&#x20AC;? older brother asks?

He opens his mouth but makes no move to the water.

Older brother slides down the bench, holds the bottle to his brotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mouth

and he drinks.

Ayesha Alexander Remember Me

Heaven has a place for people who still write letters to their lovers. I have been reading these books with old covers that make me look smart to strangers When I am around someone I like, I die like falling, like ripping and I will swear I hate you I hate you so much that I am dripping all over these pink petaled flowers I picked for you when I was thinking of all the ways you could love me I like to draw hearts on the side of my math notes on the days when my anxiety has kept me up past 3am You ever notice the way people get desperate to make connections with other people like in all those little movies in my netflix queue Our conversations with the moon were never as connected as I made them out to be in my head You will remember me as a non-lover, odd, and maybe a little crazy Remember me when you are flipping through all the books I made you read and you find my writing in between the pages with the underlined words

Jerrod Boitse Hiding

Ancient light aimed for the dinosaurs but got the two of us instead. The stars think they are late but I think they came just in time.

Stumbling light revolves in your iris until it loses momentum. It falls asleep and stains your eyes in a perfect mess.

The sky is full of the living and the dead and I couldn’t tell you who was who. It’s black or it’s white; The night sky is a holey blanket.

You blend yourself into the deep. We camouflage into the earth. The stars would never know we Were spying, the stars would never know we are hiding.

Lonnie Dixon The Fire Outside A silent silhouette sways in the shade of night. It whispers, muttering a sweet soliloquy dampened by the trees. I cannot hear its pain or joy. I cannot tell if it breathes emotion. Its eyes, shaded by the mask of darkness wander around. Its silence is deafening as I await its sharp cry. Something rustles to my left. The silent silhouette prances gracefully into the shade of the forest. A flickering light dances in the moonlight. It breathes. Its energetic body happily moves suspended by a cage. It feels free but yet is confined in such a small space. My feet step back and my body follows. The bright stars guide my dim heart back to my dark cave. As darkness slowly fades to light, the sun kisses my cheek. I remember how gloomy this place is. Cobwebs and dust keep the old wooden furniture company. A silence hovers over this place. My cold hands brush off the covers of my blue blanket. I walk towards the kitchen where all I see is empty chairs at an empty table silently whispering amongst themselves. The dark wooden floor whimpers as I tread to the sink. The pale white walls watch while I drink a glass of water. A crisp cackling creeps into the house interrupting the silence. It’s him. I haven’t seen him since yesterday dancing in the cage. I gather the courage to step outside. My shaky hands push for their freedom. The door swings open. The grass gasps for help as the fire scorches its body. Smoke billows into the crisp air. He should have stayed in the cage. Now he is lost. I dodge through the patches of grass the fire spared. The scent of gasoline is noticeable on my dark blue clothes. Sirens whale in the distance. They’re coming.

A familiar fear rushes over me and I start to sprint. I feel lost. I feel like I've just opened up an old memory haunting me from the past. The sun beats on my body hammering away what energy I have left. I manage to make it to the road. There’s a gas station not far from here. One foot in front of the other is all I can think of. The sirens come closer. My heart beats faster than the 425 horses racing to get me. The roar of the engine gets closer. I can make out the headlights of a car. The withered grass that surrounds me, watches as a man gets out of the car. The vehicle looks familiar but I can’t remember where I’ve seen it. The silhouette of a man appears out of the cruiser. He shares my brown messy hair and rugged beard. His sunglasses hide the anger in his eyes. Everything happens in a blur and I’m carried off. The strange thing is I don’t remember being in the back seat. I feel as if I were driving myself. As he drives away I glance down looking at my tattered dark blue clothes and inspect the scars I don’t remember getting. Fire trucks rush past us. Memories past by me as I see them outside the window. A few minutes later and I pass out. I awake to find myself with dozens of eyes staring at me. They glance at my slightest movements. Somehow this place looks familiar. My ears overhear the words arson and asylum. “You should have just stayed inside the cage” a man in uniform yells. That phrase is all I remember. Moments pass and I find myself in a small room. Markings in red pierce the white walls in the corner. I can feel myself moving closer. The walls draw me in by their ominous presence. A red pencil lies in the dark cold corner afraid of the world. Words and drawings appear along the walls. I should have listened. It is my handwriting after all. After thinking about it, I don’t even remember how I got to that house or

why I was there. The only thing I remember is my fascination with fire. Hair rises from my skin and my hands shake. I must have started the fire again. A lurid bang reverberates throughout the hallway slicing its way into every cell. Keys rustle and voices chatter. The swarm of people buzzes past me. They target a person a few cells across from mine. The swarm flares a whirlwind of hatred towards the poor man. He begs for them to stop. The white pale floor stained with fear stay silent beneath him. The swarm sling venom up and down the halls. The frail bars shiver as the walls tremble. Movement and vibrations drive the people mad. Venom comes closer to my direction once more. Their eyes gawk at mine. Stingers ready they open my cell. I step back. My body quivers intro a frail wool ball hiding in the dark corner. Nothing happens. I look up to see them gone. My legs shake as I muster the courage to peek into the hallways. The halls remain silent. Tall white bars stand in place guarding nothing but hollow people. A dash of sunlight spreads in a little area in the middle of the hallway. It gives a sense of false hope as I look around and see everyone on the ground. I stretch and notice something jingling on my waist. The keys to freedom are lying in my hands. They look familiar but I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t recall where Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve seen them. However, I remember the writing on the walls. Maybe I am supposed to be here. I lift myself up. I skulk around like a paranoid goblin creeping through the asylum. Silence is the only thing that remains. I look around to see if I can find anyone but they are all silenced. I notice another familiar looking set of keys on a rack. I grab them and tread out the front door only to be greeted by blinding sunlight. I see the same black and white car that I was carried away in. Maybe this is my time to start over. I go back inside towards the kitchen to see if there is anything I can scavenge. The people that were at the front desk are missing as

well. In fact, I don’t see anyone. I grow nervous. I sprout vines of fear and confusion. I find myself back to the cruiser with a bag full of food in hand. I unlock the trunk and find a large gasoline jug completely empty. I notice something in the passenger’s seat through the back of the window. It glistens on the hot seat. I pick it up and notice the badge number looks familiar. It might explain why I’m wearing a worn out uniform. In fact, I think I was the one the driving away from the house. I didn’t hear the sirens wailing, it was my heart. Scared to drive I go back inside. I look down at my bag and its nothing but large rocks. I tremble. I travel back to my cell and notice something ominous. Skeletons and cobwebs mark where the people had been. I cannot tell if I am living in the past or present. It all blurs together. The pale walls guide my dim heart back to my dark cave. I close the cell door behind me and go back to my corner. My eyes widen as I see a cut out from a newspaper on the other far corner. My name is sketched into the headlines. My mind scatters as it tries to gather the information that the policeman charged with arson was me. I don’t remember much of the house or the outside of my cell anymore. Slowly, I walk back to my other corner and sit down. I whisper, muttering a sweet soliloquy.

Jerrod Boitse Repeat “Ow, fuck, would you take a hit? You’re burning my finger!” “Mmhmm.” Janelle took a long drag, making the dancing flame sink into the pile of greenery in a multi-colored glass bowl. Ryain released the little red button, extinguishing the light. “Do you feel it yet?” Janelle grinned. “I don’t know, what am I supposed to be feeling?” Ryain’s eyes closed and he thought. “Kind of like, you’re in slow motion and everything else is speeding up. It makes you feel… happy? Or, well, blissful, I guess.” He glanced up at Janelle who was holding a meaningful gaze. He bit his lip and leaned away from her, his heartbeat made itself known. “And,” Ryain fumbled with his words, “you have really random thoughts and you get hungry, you know, munchies.” Janelle let out a sigh. “How could I even be hungry in a graveyard at three in the morning?” “Well you don’t have to have the munchies, it’s just a possibility.” “Did you get accepted to I.U.?” “I see you’re already having those random thoughts.” “Oh my god, shut up, it’s not random, we’re graduating in a month.” She brushed the hair from her face. “Is Rain going to be stuck in Colddell forever?

Ryain hated being called Rain. It wasn’t his fault his parents were hippies. He insisted people call him Ryan. The common miss pronunciation of his name irritated him. Janelle calling him Rain didn’t bother him so much though. To her, that had always been his name, since the first time she said it wrong as kids. He also understood people’s confusion; Ryain Grothaus was a weird name. “No, I haven’t heard back from them.” Ryain lied. There was a pile of unfinished college applications hiding under his bed. Ryain turned away, wanting the talk of his future plans to end. Janelle could always read him like a book, sensed his discomfort, and started playing on her phone. Ryain enjoyed smoking weed. His head felt crowded and he was glad to step out of it every now and again. It was a chance to not be Ryain. He could forget about the past few months that seemed to be the worst he had endured this far in his life. The idea of spending thousands and thousands of dollars just to prolong high school was practically the lighter to his marijuana. He had what some might call seniorities but not to just finish school. He just wanted to be left alone. There has always been a permanent position for him at his parents’ Wiccan shop; The Finite Collection. This shop was located in the heart of his hometown, which was in the shadow of Chicago. As much as he enjoyed the security his parents brought him, he wanted out. There was just the problem of trying and failing. Change was craved but never satisfied. He had only ever lived in Colddell. His peers were fearless, tying their shoes tight so that they could run as fast as they can from this forgotten town. Ryain was just having trouble finding comfortable footwear. “So why did you take me to a cemetery to do this? Aren’t there security that comes around here?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know, it’s calm here. I’ve also never really seen a security guard come through this late. You going to Ballville State?” “Yup. I can’t wait. You have to come visit me when I get there.” She scooted a little closer to Ryain. His hands started accumulating sweat. He pulled out a cigarette and lit up. She rested her head on his shoulder. ******* “I need to leave by three today, Mom.” “For what?” His mother asked while handing a customer a receipt. “You know we always get that last minute rush and Kate already called off.” “It’s for Janelle’s grad party; I’m not missing it.” He walked around the counter to stock up on sage since it was running low. Why are so many people buying this shit, he thought. “Aw, I always loved that Janelle girl, you two would make a great couple.” Ryain’s face turned a subtle shade of red as he ignored her comment. His Mom continued, “And are you totally sure that you don’t want a grad party, dear? I know that none of your potential colleges have gotten back with you but you know they’re probably up to their noses in applications. You still have time, it’s only July.” “Yeah, no Mom, it’s really okay, I doubt I’ll get in any school.” Mrs. Grothaus smiled as a few new customers came to check out. Ryain glanced at the window to his left into a blistering hot day and was thankful the temperature in the shop was much lower.

Gold light leaked through the window to his right, spilled onto the ground and covered his feet. It was so familiar to be standing where he stood. The past few months of his life was filled with uncertainty and depression yet he took solace in the fact that he was home and constantly met with comfort. Stocking his parents shop with magical bullshit kept his head clear and heart numb. Once Ryain finished stocking the sage he approached the window to see passerby's working towards goals and ambitions, something he had never done. A faint warmth met his face. He squinted as he peered through the glass. There was nothing Ryain really cared for, maybe he just had not found his niche or maybe he would die in the shop in this town without anyone knowing who he was. Someone he knew from high school was with their mom and entered a school supply store across the street. The sight made his stomach turn with guilt. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was only a quarter past one.

******* The heat radiated off of the passing pavement as Ryain sped down the road. Artificial frigid air blew light brown hair out of his vision. It seemed that the townsfolk had all retreated to the safety of indoors to beat the heat. Driving through the usually more busy roads was unusually simple. Janelle lived on the far end of town in stalks of soy and corn. He dreaded thinking that her party was going to be outdoors and he would have to brave the heat, yet there was probably more playing into his feeling of dread. Ever since they met in his adolescence, heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s had a strange fondness for her. Ryain didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t understand the concept of love because he had never felt it. To be so involved in

another, to give someone your all, to make living impossible without them was something he couldn’t wrap his mind around. Though he would never admit it, he questioned if he ever even loved his mother. There was truly nothing in this world that he particularly cared for except for her. Janelle was the only one whom he wanted to spend time with but something was amiss. Maybe the media blows the feeling of love out of proportion with sunsets and fireworks. Everyone must feel their own way when it comes to such a powerful emotion and maybe this was his. Maybe there were no sunsets and fireworks but weak coffee, nine-tofives, and paper cuts. It was also possible that he was trying to convince himself that he wasn’t a sociopath. She had been the only person that ever made him feel a hint of anything. Ryain slammed on the breaks almost missing Janelle’s long gravel driveway. He was so distracted with his thoughts. He felt that he had created more questions than he had before. He drew a long breath, opened his door, and let the chilled air he had accumulated dissolve. There were a lot of faces Ryain recognized from school. There was also an older looking crowed that appeared to be her family. Her family lived a very different life than Janelle and her parents. They resembled people that seem to be coming back from or heading to the gas station for brown bag liquor. There was a cloud of cigarette smoke surrounding them. Mullets and Harley Davidson clothing made Ryain’s eyes roll as he passed them. Alcoholism runs in her family and it actually had a strong grip on Janelle’s father. Ryain kept walking and noticed that the party went inside the kitchen and that he could save himself from melting. He climbed the wooden patio stairs while navigating his way through a swarm of people. The layout of Janelle’s house was familiar; he had practically grown up there. Her

home was a ranch style, only one floor but very long. The kitchen held the newest appliances and a freshly waxed wooden floor. With Janelle’s family being the way they are, her immediate family ended up doing all right. He saw Janelle talking to what appeared to be her grandmother and the sight made a faint smile flash across his face. He quickly grabbed a Diet Coke, sat in the back of the room, and watched. Janelle’s sundress fit her physique perfectly. Her hair always turned into a lighter brown as the summer months past. Her complexion did the opposite of her hair, transitioning into a deep caramel color. Her hair curled at the bottom and fell to her shoulder blades. It seemed almost unfair that she never needed braces or any kind of acne treatment. Somehow she skipped the ugly duckling phase of life. He became very aware of his heartbeat. He took a sip of Diet Coke and tried to remember how to breathe normally. There wasn’t a whole lot that he could offer her. He was struck with normalcy. Nothing about him really stood out. His grades embarrassed him and being an outcast at school wasn’t something to brag about. He had been smoking cigarettes since middle school and picked up pot just a year prior to his senior year. Ryain wasn’t sure what she saw in him but he knew she felt the same way he did. Maybe it was the fact that they lived in a small town and only knew Colddell that kept the spark alive between them, however faint it was. Maybe she saw something in him that he couldn’t. He was running out of time. Once she moved to Ballville State University, she would move on. She would come out from the shadows. The world would be able to see her. He would lose her. Ryain went unnoticed for a long time. No one he knew came over to talk. He even had a chance to grab a plate full of room temperature food and a second Diet Coke without anyone

acknowledging his existence, he wasn’t even sure if Janelle knew he was there. He was very content with not having to make small conversation. He kept himself busy by watching her. Eventually, Janelle ran out of people to talk to and surveyed the room for a little break. Her eyes met with Ryain’s and relief swept over her. She made her way to him. “God, save me.” “Making some good graduation money, huh?” “This is not even worth it,” she sighed, “Anyone sitting here?” Ryain shook his head. She took the seat. “So I got some interesting news. I just found out that Colddell University is giving me a really great scholarship. I mean, I’m actually really considering it. It’s just, I kind of need a little bit more of a reason to stay here.” She became fidgety and starred into her lap. He watched her little thumbs spin around each other. The room became silent and Ryain could only hear her. Is this it? He thought, should I tell her how I feel. Does she want to stay behind to be with me? He gazed over to the mute crowed, he watched them talk to one another, laugh; he couldn’t hear them at all. He looked back to her, her thumbs had stopped moving, and her attention was on him. “So, do you think there’s any reason to stay here?” His hands were trembling,” I, I’m not sure.” Contrary to having two Diet Cokes, his mouth was surprising dry. “Ballville State University is a great school.” What the fuck are you saying? These words echoed internally. Her eyebrows came together. “Are you sure?” “Yes.” “Okay, thanks for coming today, Ryain.” She got up and left, leaving her sorrow

behind and went to talk to her other guests. Ryain could tell that he probably didn’t appear like anything was bothering him, but on the inside, his heart was broken. That was her giving up. That wasn’t what he wanted to say. A flurry of emotions had taken over. He wanted to cry and he wanted to understand why he had no control over what he said. He wanted to rip all his hair out. He wanted to explain to her how he felt. He wanted to not be scared anymore but mostly he wanted to apologize. Ryain left her grad party shortly after that. Janelle and he had little contact for the rest of the summer. ******* Ryain zipped up his jacket and headed out into a chill autumn night. He made sure that the back door to his home gracefully glided shut creating minimal noise. He jammed clenched fists into the pocket of his hoodie. The sound of crunching beneath his feet was only muffled by the sound of leaves being scrapped against the pavement as they blew by. There wasn’t a soul in sight. The town was asleep. The wind made him realize how cold his tears were once they started rolling down his face. He was heading to Tindall Bridge to make a decision. Almost everyone in his graduating class was gone, beginning their life, and moving forward. Ryain just couldn’t take that first step, he was perpetually moving sideways. His mother discovered his unfinished college applications under his bed and got very upset with him. His father said he was disappointed. Disappointment hurts. Janelle had since moved on, meeting a guy within the first month of attending Ballville State. Communication with her quickly turned to nothing. Ryain didn’t really speak to anyone. Which is one of the

reasons he was at this bridge, it was just high enough for him to be something, to be remembered, to be missed. Ryain hoisted himself onto the guardrail and balanced with the help of the large wooden pillar that maintained this ancient structure’s foundation. He peered over into the black water below. It was shallow. So maybe he wasn’t going to amount to anything, maybe he could just be that one kid in town that killed himself. He could live in infamy for a few months, even years. Ryain could escape normalcy, he could make a difference, even if he wasn’t there to experience it. He didn’t feel the need to leave his parents a farewell note or anyone else for that matter. He did leave a note for Janelle. He left her a hand written letter on his bed for his parents to give to her someday. Everything that he had felt for her was written out for her. He was relieved to get it off of his chest and tell her what he was too afraid to say at her grad party. He let go of the pillar and stood without any assistance. But again, fear took hold of him and he was reminded of his inability to ever take a first step. He lifted his foot but was betrayed by the other one that remained rooted to the spot. He took a deep breath and braced himself. He tried to clear his mind. He closed his eyes. He was so lost in the emptiness of his head that he didn’t notice that his hair started to flutter wildly. He wasn’t sure if the wind was to blame. “Ryain stop!” A woman's voice echoed around him. His body tensed and he opened his eyes, he had not jumped. He spun around gripping the wooden pillar next to him. “Janelle?”

“Come on we had plans.” “What plans? What the fuck are you doing here? He paused to let the sobbing spill out of his chest. “How, how did you know?” “That you’re dead?” “I’m not dead.” She shook her head ever so subtly while turning her attention through the ground she stood. He turned back over the ledge and looked down. There he was, face down in the water, motionless. He stared for a while, hoping for some kind of movement. He was gravely disappointed. “Don’t pay to much attention to that. Come on let’s go.” He wiped his eyes and climbed down, it was hard to breath. “Where are we going?” “To the graveyard, we’re smoking tonight.” “Oh yeah, that’s right.” He lied, which calmed him. He checked his pockets and realized he had what he needed. “And we won’t get caught will we?” “No, security guards to don’t come around this late.”

J.E. Irvin All the Odds Are Even

Dev Mosely tossed the dice, desperate to roll a seven. It was time to change his luck. The lights from the motel sign blinked off and on through the glass. He didn’t hear his brother come in. “Stop with that,” Cal said. He closed the curtains. “We’re leaving soon.” Dev jerked to his feet. The dice skittered across the table. Snake eyes. “How long we gonna be gone?” he huffed. “Pear’s gotta work tomorrow. She needs me to watch Baby Boy. Says I got to be there for her.” “She’ll change her mind, once you bring it home. Ain’t no woman can resist a big fat roll of shopping money.” “Pear don’t like it when I gamble.” Dev picked up the dice. He ran his thumb over the pips, but he didn’t knock the cubes together. He didn’t want the edges chipped, his luck influenced by the odd imperfection. “Thought you liked going to the casino.” Cal rubbed his nose with his thumb. “Thought you were gonna use your winnings to sign up for classes at that community college.” “Don’t make fun, Cal. Besides, we ain’t going to no casino.” Dev cradled the dice in his palm. “Maybe we should let this one ride.” “Get your jacket, Dev. This time tomorrow, we’re gonna be rolling in it. You can thank me later.” In the parking lot, slick from the late night rain, Cal eased the rental out from between

two vans and headed south, tires slapping, the night lights of Fort Wayne near extinct in the fog. “Can’t see shit,” Cal said, scrubbing at the windshield with his sleeve. Dev studied the dice in his palm, a five and a six, lucky eleven, baby, then tucked them into his breast pocket. “You ever think about getting a real job?” Cal wove the car back and forth down the center line. “I got one,” he said. “Minimum investment, maximum payout.” Dev pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his ears and shifted lower in his seat, Cal’s words scraping at the scar of his recent incarceration. Cal switched on the radio, flipping channels till he caught some preacher giving a night rant. Dev stuck his fingers in his ears. Cal changed the channel. North of Wapak, they pulled into an all-night gas station. “Gotta go.” Cal stared at the windows of a Caddy parked two spaces away, cut his eyes at Dev. “You coming?” Dev shook his head. He touched the gun in his waistband. The car idled. Darius Rucker wailed on 101.2 FM. When Cal returned, he tossed a fat wallet onto Dev’s lap. “Got us some traveling money.” Dev saw movement at the Caddy. An old man helped an old woman into the passenger side of the car. “Tell me you didn’t.” “Didn’t what?” Cal picked his teeth with the nail of his pinkie finger. “Con those two. Sweet Jesus, Cal, they’re old.” “And senile. Easy as picking apples.” Cal backed up and floored the rental.

Dev watched the old folks grow smaller in the side view mirror. Then he blinked and the pair disappeared. He opened the wallet. A hundred in cash, a Medicare card, a Visa and a Discover. Pictures of grandchildren, names inked on the back in calligraphy. Corinne. Eddie Jr. Martha June. Martha June’s dimples reminded him of Baby Boy. “We should give these back,” he said. “My ass.” Cal rode the fast lane. R & B spooled out, muted and feeble, from the rental’s speakers. “Start looking for it.” Running a hand through his hair, Dev stared at the darkened shopping strips. “What do you want me to see?” “Same’s always. One all by itself, with someplace to hide by the door. Lots a roads back to the interstate.” “There’s nothing but warehouses along here.” Cal drifted back to the slow lane, took the Austin Road exit off I-75. He cruised south, his headlights illuminating a sign that read Dayton South Airport. “This is where those sisters got killed in that plane crash last summer.” “Now how the hell do you remember that? Damn, Dev, you’re like some idiot savant or something.” “No, I’m not. But you and I, we knew them girls. Went to junior high with the youngest one, before Mom moved us north. Delphine was her name.” Dev shook his head. “Don’t seem right to be so young and be so gone.” “And what were they doing so far from home, flying airplanes?” “Following their hearts. Ain’t you ever had a dream you’d die for?” “Man, you’re talking crazy tonight. I ain’t heard so much horseshit since I got out.”

“That’s cold, Cal,” Dev said. “What if they were our sisters?” “They weren’t. So shut up about it.” Cal pursed his lips, blew out air. “What’s got into you?” “I got a feeling.” “You’re crazy foolish from that damn dice you’re always studying.” “I read it in a book somewhere. No matter how many times you roll them,” Dev said, “the odds are still the same.” Cal stopped the car right in the middle of the road. “How many times do I have to tell you, slick? This is what we do, you and me. Ain’t no backing down from it. No way to waltz the straight and narrow. Who’s gonna give you a job? Who’s gonna trust you with their goods? Their money? No, this is who we are now. So you best accept it. And don’t be rolling no dice to tell our fortune cause that die’s already been cast.” “Stop waving that thing in my face unless you’re planning to shoot me with it.” “I will shoot you, you talk any more goofy shit.” “There.” Dev sat up. The bank stood alone at the edge of a cornfield. Four large juniper bushes flanked the front door. A Max and Erma’s rode the opposite end of the strip of underdeveloped land. A row of small shops selling ice cream and telephones and dreams huddled between the bank and the restaurant. “I always wanted to have a store of my own.” Dev patted his pocket where the dice were keeping company with his last joint. “What are you gonna sell, advice for ex-cons?” “Go on, make fun,” Dev said, “but I got ambitions.”

Cal snorted. He did several figure eights in and out of the parking lots, crossed the street to get a better view of the Oaks Bank. A second bank, a branch of Citizens Federal, faced the highway too, but its access road narrowed to a single lane and the drive-thru sat under a streetlight.

“Oaks it is. Stop frowning now.”

Dev glanced at the clock. The drive only took three hours. The bank wouldn’t open till nine. He took out the joint and lit up while Cal parked the rental on a residential side street two blocks away. “Gimme,” Cal said. When the joint was gone, they left the car and quick-stepped through the fields. Clouds gathered overhead in the weak morning light. “Looks like rain.” “Just keep still and stay down. When the manager comes, I’ll follow him in. You bring the bag.” The hoodie kept the drizzle off Dev’s head. He cradled the gun next to his chest, thought about Baby Boy waking for his morning feeding, how Pear sang while the baby nursed. Then she went to work and Dev took over. Who was going to watch his son now? He felt a balloon of fear swell in his chest. “You said we’d be done with this shit by now.” “Shut your pie hole, Dev. We ain’t never gonna be done with it.” “I hate this damn crouching down. And, look, there’s too many cars.” “We’re plenty far back from the road. Just shut up and relax.” A car pulled in, lights playing over their hiding place. “He’s early.” Cal took his gun out of his pocket. Dev took his out too. A man got out, hunched over against the rain and hurried up the walk. He placed a key in the lock. Cal jumped up and crowded in behind him.

“Don’t yell,” Cal said. “I got a gun.” The man cut his eyes at Cal, looked back at Dev, blinked hard to clear his double vision. They filed inside. Dev set the sack on the counter. “How long we got?” Cal shrugged, took his eyes off the manager. The man shoved Cal, zigzagged past the counter and ran down the back hall. “Damn!” Cal raised his gun, but the man had reached the back door. “Get him, Dev!” Dev sprinted to close the distance between them. He hauled hard on the man’s shirt and they fell in a tangle. The man wriggled free. He scooted backward, struggled to his feet. He jumped over Dev and headed back to the lobby. Diving through one of the cashier’s windows, he tumbled over the counter. Dev hurdled the half-door at the end and sprang at the manager. They went down. Dev jammed the barrel of his gun against the man’s head. The man raised his hands. “I got a wife. Two kids. Want to see their pictures?” “You shouldn’t have tried that, man.” Dev eased off the trigger. “Cal’s gonna be real mad.” Cal leaned his head through the opening and sucked his lower lip. “Think he tripped the alarm?” Dev shook his head. He hauled the man up by one arm and shoved him out into the lobby. The man rubbed his elbows. Cal cursed. He used his gun to club down a brochure rack. Deposit slips and loan forms scattered across the floor. The man stared hard at Dev. He swiveled his head to follow Cal’s pacing. “You guys twins?”

“Keep your mouth shut.” Cal sighted on the man’s chest. “We got to go, Cal. I can’t do more time.” Cal scattered more papers. He ran from one teller station to the next, yanked on the drawers. Locked. “Don’t stand there rocking. Help me find the damn money.” “There ain’t no money.” Dev shoved his hands in his armpits to stop their shaking. “It’s all locked away, like we’re gonna be if we stay here.” “He’s got keys.” They both looked at the manager, who lifted his chin and shook his head. “Everything’s on a timer.” The man pressed his back against the counter wall. “Maybe we should let him go.” “If he gives us the money.” Cal kicked at the litter of papers. Dev took a deep breath. “He’s got a family.” “I do too.” Dev stuck his gun in the waistband of his jeans. “Then let him go. Let it all go.” “I can’t.” The man wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Please don’t shoot me.” “You gonna give us the money?”

Swallowing hard, the man shook his head. “I can’t.” Cal sighted down the barrel and fired. The man clutched at his chest and slumped to the floor. Dev’s ears rang. He shook his head, but the muffled feeling didn’t go away. “Ah, hell, what’d you have to go and do that for?”

“Maybe he lied. Check his pockets for keys. I’m not leaving without something.” “Then you’re not leaving, except in handcuffs,” Dev said. “Why won’t you help me?” “This ain’t my dream job,” Dev said. “What’d I say about talking goofy shit?” “What? Are you gonna shoot me too?” Cal kicked at the scattered papers. The clock ticked off another minute. Dev put a hand on Cal’s shoulder. “When your luck turns, you got to own it.” “Well, go on then, roll your dice. See if luck can get you outta here.” “Me?” The distant wail of a siren intruded. “Go on, before they get here.” Cal tossed the car keys at Dev. “We can still get out. Both of us.” Behind them the manager coughed weakly. Dev took a step closer to Cal. “He knows there were two of us. He’ll tell.” “No,” Cal said. He raised the gun again. “He won’t.” “You don’t have to do it this way.” “Someone’s got to be responsible. I’m older. By ten minutes. So it’s on me. You go on, and don’t look back.” “Cal,” Dev said. The siren sounded closer. “You tell Pear I said hello,” Cal said. “Take your shot, now that all the odds are even.” Through the glass of the drive-in window, Dev watched the flashing lights come closer, saw traffic backing up behind a black and white halfway down the block. He ran back the way the manager had gone, the roar of Cal’s gun drowning out the stutter of his heart. The

dice jiggled in his pocket, sorting themselves for the next throw. Halfway across the field, he stumbled and fell. Mud oozed between his fingers, seeped through the knees of his jeans. He crawled the rest of the way to the car. The engine stuttered twice, then turned over. He drove like an old man, slow and steady, checking for pursuit, but all the police cars were headed back the way he’d come. He took deep breaths, the kind Pear called calming when she was in labor. Three hours and he’d be back home with her and Baby Boy. He hunched forward, shaken, sobbing. Cal was dead. Three hours and he’d be home free. Alone. Dev patted his pocket. Only one die. He clutched at his shirt, his lap, the driver’s seat. No second die. He wouldn’t throw snake eyes ever again. A car swerved around him, horn honking. The dude in the passenger seat gave him the finger. Swallowing the bile in his throat, he drove on, but he couldn’t stop the quiver in his gut. By the time he neared Wapak, the quiver had turned into cramping that doubled him over the wheel. Not much out here. Where could he stop? Remembering the station where Cal had lifted the wallet, Dev calculated the distance remaining. The pain in his gut clawed at him. He passed a sign announcing the next exit, number 113, State Route 67. One and thirteen and then a six and a seven. Thirteen again. Lucky numbers for sure. And by now the old couple had to be halfway to Florida, didn’t they? The clerk working the late shift would be off, too. Coming down the off-ramp, he flipped on the turn signal and headed west. The pumps stood empty. An OPEN sign on the door blinked blood-red against the gray gloom of the spitting rain. Hugging himself against the pain, Dev slogged across the puddled asphalt. He pulled on the door and stepped smack into a state trooper. Behind the

cop, an old man supported an old woman, who stared daggers at Dev. “That’s him, Officer.” The old man made a gun with his hand and leveled it between Dev’s eyes. “I knew the punk’d come back.” “You sure, Mr. Goren?” “I’d bet my life on it.” “Nah, man.” Dev’s teeth chattered, searching for the lie even as he remembered the wallet lying on the passenger seat, the lost die sinking in the muddy field, his brother lying next to a corpse. He grabbed the remaining die from his pocket and slammed it on the counter. The cube hopped twice, skittered over the edge and disappeared.

Ekphrastic Series Spring 2015

E.S. Renfield The Unspoiled

What is the soul? People always assume that is some type of thing. Just an object. A myth. But it’s not. It is you. I am you. Me. Us. We are your brothers, your sisters, your lovers, your mothers, and even your fathers. Those skills that you call ‘talents.’ Those are mine. I have all talents, but you choose which ones to pick. Are you shocked? Spirits are not some entity, some extraterrestrial being. We are born. You are born dead. You are not alive until we enter you. We are not parasites. It is not parasitical if we are keeping you alive. If you only knew how much you could do if you really tried…but you don’t, do you? You limit yourself. You always do. Not to crush your, pardon my use of language, souls, but you are not at all unique. It is your soul that makes you unique. It is me that makes you unique. You might call that selfish. I call it the truth. I am factory made, and in a way, so are you. I know many things but I do not know why it has to be this way. I do not know why you are flesh or why you are born dead, nor do I know why I make you breathe, and why I am not made of flesh, but of stardust, of light, of darkness, and of oxygen. I only know that I was born this way, as you were born your way. I do not ask questions. I only do what I am told. You have your own conceptions, and I do too. You think of God and of aliens. I think only of creation and what lies beyond the crack in the door that no one must speak of, or even think of. I can love, and I can make you love because of this. I am a traveler. You are a lingerer. But this is not to say that you are not special. No, you are indeed special. You have choices. I do not. I am what I am and I do not have the freedom of choice. I cannot go back.

No, you can change if you so wanted to. You could toss old talents and pick up new talents if you so wanted. You can die. You can make it all go away. I cannot. I am recycled. When you die, I depart your body and enter another. I do not get to choose which body. I am given the body. I am purified. I am rinsed. All that is unclean is extricated from me. You may choose to be impure. I must be pure. With every impure act that you play out, I must face the consequences. If you could see what impurity does to me, would you ever do anything impure again? No, I shake at the idea of that. But what is impure? Is it sticking a dirty syringe into your arm? Contracting diseases through the acts of intercourse? Is it lying? Is it evil, macabre thoughts? Our motto, if it could be called this, is, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Unity through Honesty, Purity, and Loyalty.â&#x20AC;? We have failed. Our motto means nothing now. I am you, but you are an uncontrollable animal at times. We have failed to unite because you have no wish to be honest, nor pure, nor loyal. I am you, but you are not me. I become you, but you have no wish to become me. From the moment that you are born, you fight me, you reject me, and you detest me. Purity to you is a prison. You long for freedom, but from the moment that you are born, you have no freedom. Would you be so shocked to discover that the soul of your late father was also the same soul as the one who now lies in your baby sister? It is true. While you are renowned for small successes in your life, without me, without your soul, you would have none of the talents that you needed to achieve these small successes. I can feel the start of your tears. That downhill vibration that tugs at your throat, inches into your mouth, soaks into your gums, and slithers its way to your eyes, filling you with only thoughts of despair. Do not fret, for I am

not perfect. I feel what you feel. I am by no means heartless, although I have no heart. No, you have the heart, but I have the feelings. If we turned this around, based on the basic definition of heartless, or, one without feelings, we could come to the conclusion that you, in fact, are the heartless one. I know what anger is, despair, grief, melancholy, all of the categories and subcategories of emotions. I have felt them all. It is said that without jealousy, without anger, and all of the bad emotions, that life would be better, and that you would be better off, but without these emotions, you are only dead. You may be asking, “How can I achieve honesty, purity, and loyalty with these bad emotions?” And you are correct in asking, for impure acts often start with these so defined “bad” emotions. There is a difference, though, between acting and feeling; a great difference. Thoughts of murdering and the act of murdering are two different things, although whether both are impure is an argumentative topic. There was talk of giving up, but if all souls suddenly left, all humans would die, and killing humans isn’t pure, is it? No, that would be ironic, and if there is one thing that we souls do not wish to be, it is to be ironic, or hypocritical. We are stuck. If I leave, you will die, but if we stay, we will only become impure. The process of impurity to purity is a painful one, but you wouldn’t know. You do not feel pain. I feel it for you. I am stretched. Squeezed. Wrung out. Every impure act leaves me a shriveled carcass, withering with cracks and marks of dirt. I am scrubbed, I am cleaned, and I am pressed, yet I am not the same soul as I was before. No, I seem to have changed ever since I was first made. How amusing, I think, that although you are dead, that you have changed me in some way.

It is an unusual thing. How can someone be born dead? And yet humans are born dead. When a baby slides out of its mother for the first time, covered in grizzle and slime, it is unbreathing. From the moment of the first scream and of the first cry, the soul has entered the body. Your first breath. The fight begins with the first breath. The struggle of purity and impurity. You would want to dispute, but you couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember. How could you? When we leave, we take your memories with us. We are the memory holders. We choose what you remember and what you do not in your life. When you die, your body is an empty husk. We are the substance. Am I coming off as discourteous? Pardon me. I only wanted to speak the truth. And I believe I know what you are wondering: Do we control everything? No. You can think for yourselves. After all, if you can fight us, then that must mean that you have some kind of conscious. I only wish that we could figure out just what that was. It is the mystery of our kind; the mystery that we face every day. What is your mystery? I believe your mystery to be the concept of creation. The afterlife. What lies beyond. It must be unfortunate to spend most of life thinking of these questions. Questions that will never be answered, because, with your last breath, we depart and leave you with nothing. You either burn or you are buried. How unfortunate. Our creation is not a mystery. We are made. We come from The Machine. But there are some mysteries. How can humans change us? Who controls The Machine? What exactly is beyond the crack in the door? I have tried, many times, to discover the answers, but alas, I do not have all the time in the world, because my job is to animate. To bring to life. I cannot spend my time here in The

Void. That is what we call it. The Void is where we stay until we are given a body. The Void is where we are made. The Void is where we are purified. The Void is home. We are the Animabuses. I have no name. None of us do. We are one. But we are separate. We are all pure. We are unique. We have no mother. We have no father. We have The Machine. How does The Machine work? You might wonder. Alas, it lies hidden beyond the crack in the door, no soul has ever seen it, though. There are only tales. Nobody remembers being made. We only remember The Void and the closed, pale blue door. Sometimes, looking through the crack, strange lights flicker within; gold, blue, orange, silver, and white, so bright that it is impossible to see beyond the lights. Is it The Machine or is it newborn souls making these lights? It seems as if you and I both have something in common. You spend your life trying to figure out your creator, and in a way, as do I. I know The Machine but not the Controller. “Salutations, Fellow Animabus.” A bow. “Salutations, Fellow Animabus.” This is how we greet one another. We have our own opinions, but very rarely do we speak of them. No, it is, as I have said before, rather odd. Our opinions are only spoken through the mouths of humans. This is not to say that you do not have your opinions. You have your own thoughts; why not opinions too? Perhaps we are more persuasive with ours. After all, we rarely speak them. You cannot blame us for being excited. I am not sure if there was ever a time when we did not give life to humans. If there was such a time, it was before I was created. It is quite strange, but now I feel less confident. I

can feel myself question what I am saying. If we are humans…if humans are dead…how can they fight us? How can they voice their own opinions if we become them? It feels like I am caving into myself when I think these thoughts. Are humans the ones who are alive? Are we born dead? No, that would not make sense. I am alive right now. I am speaking. You are the dead one. I saw you die. I left you. But how maddening this is! How and why could you possibly fight back? I am not supposed to think of these things. This is not the way of the Animabuses. We are to accept. And how frustrating that I still use your terms! How can I ‘think’ when I do not have a brain? How can I ‘feel’ when I do not have a heart? Or am I the heart and the brain? Sometimes when I think of these things, I feel a strange spinning sensation. And why must I speak to you when you are dead? Does a part of you linger in me? How is this possible? My fellow Animabuses have noticed my disposition, but none comment. They only say: “How goes today, fellow Animabus?” And I say: “All too well, fellow Animabus.” But all the while, I think of the pale blue door with the crack. I wonder if I am impure. Is it possible that no cleanse could ever work? Will my impurities fail to be extricated? I find myself even wandering to the pale blue door, but when I stare at it for too long, I am whisked away by an Animabus, not forcefully, but the message is all too clear: Stay away from the door. We are not supposed to ask questions, but I cannot help myself. You have changed me. I want my opinions to be heard. I do not want to be the same. How are we unique when we are all the same? You and your kind, you have souls, you have us, but yet you are different from one another. That difference can cause hatred and it prevents unity, but …there

is a certain undying freedom to it. I sometimes wonder what would happen if we left your kind…would your kind die? Is it just a myth? At one moment, everything that I am told seems full of truth and at other times it feels like a legend.

I used to be so sure and firm, and driven with purpose. I felt like a messenger delivering a gospel, and now I feel like a pupil--doubtful and meek. When I became you, I changed. Did you become me? I doubt it, for you fought me like no other body had fought before. I sent thoughts to you, hoping that you would hear them. I was not there to harm, only to give life. You didn’t believe me. After forty-five years, I could tell that you were weary of this war in your mind, and I was tired too. I left your body. I felt no hope. I saw you die. So it must be true. My kind must be the sole reason why your kind live. We must be the source of feelings, opinions, and thoughts. One moment I feel like all the answers have been solved, and then I remember the fighting and the separate thoughts and opinions, and everything that muddles my world. I made a decision today, after I thought of you for some time. It is almost becoming a habit. I am tied to you for some reason, more than any other human that I have ever animated. I am so used to sending you thoughts and talking to you, that I find myself still doing it, as I am now. I made a decision today to go through the pale blue door, even if it meant fighting my way in. A human habit. So, after blending in with my fellow Animabuses in the Void, I floated pleasantly to the pale blue door, expecting at any moment to be taken away. Nothing happened. Animabuses floated past me, but none paid attention. I felt equal amounts of delight, suspicion, and fear. Why? There must be a reason why none are here—why no one

has led me away yet. I pushed open the door reluctantly. The room was buzzing and I felt a tingling sensation sweep through my body. This was the room of Creation. The Machine lay in front of me. It was so high that I could not see the top. There were tiny, shallow tubs, each with a soul in one. I heard sounds of pain. Little shrieks. This was not purifying. This was something else. In a different section of the machine, I saw souls being pulled apart. The souls pulsed faster and faster as their fear increased. Soon after, the pulse slowed to nothing. Was the soul dead? I had never seen a soul die. The Machine ceased. The newborn souls were taken away. I saw their energy fields die too. How cruel I thought. Why create something only to kill it? I knew at that moment that I had to escape, and I turned away to do so, all the while thinking, how can I ever escape The Void? But I stopped when I saw you. You were blocking the door and you were smiling. You were taller than me. I had never noticed your greatness ever before. “You? You died,” I said, full of wonder. You only shook your head and smiled. “Why are they being killed?” I asked of you, while pointing myself towards The Machine. “Because they are killers.” I was shocked, and my shock was expressed through my words, “Kill? My kind only animate. We do not kill. We only leave bodies when our time in them has expired.” You sighed and with that sigh, I could feel your grief and frustration.

“No,” you said. “You know that is a lie.” “A lie? I do not lie. ‘Unity through Honesty, Purity, and Loyalty,’” I stated. “Yet you are neither honest nor pure nor loyal.” “Of course I am!” I felt my anger growing. My energy pulsed harder, transforming to a deep red. “Just now you lie to yourself. You do not believe anything that you say. I know you, Animabus. You were in me. You tried to kill me.” “Without me you would be dead!” “Yet here I am, alive.” “How?” I wondered. “I would have died had you stayed in my body for any longer.” “I…I don’t understand.” “No,” you sighed. “You are too far gone.” “Too far gone?” “This wasn’t as expected.” “What wasn’t? Can you please explain?” I asked, feeling nauseous. “You are not a soul.” “Of course I am! That is what I was told.” Something came back to me; an image that left me

in confusion. I remember seeing not you, but one of your kind. I remember stepping out from a door with a tiny window and I saw a human. “You are not a soul.” “If I am not a soul, then what am I?” It felt like my entire world was falling apart. My existence felt null. “You are a parasite. An experiment gone horribly wrong.” I made a move to escape, but you grabbed me. You told me that I had to die. “Why do I deserve to die?” I asked, filled with desolation. “If you remain alive, lives will be in danger.” “I don’t understand! How can lives be in danger when I bring people to life? I am given bodies to animate. I am in that body for as long as I am told to be in the body, and then I leave.” You shook your head. “What can you remember?” “I remember…” I started to say, and then I shocked myself, for I could remember little. I only remembered you and the vision that previously came to me. I couldn’t even remember the bodies I had animated before you. “What is happening to me?” I asked, trembling in dismay. “You must die. This cannot go on.”

“Please! If you are going to kill me, please explain what I did wrong. I don’t understand!” “This was my fault. I am sorry, Animabus. This was a terrible idea.” “What idea?” “I created you. You were a mistake. The Animabuses are a mistake.” “A mistake? How were we created?” You took my world and you turned it upside down, and with it, I began to freefall. “I thought that I had found a way to make humankind live together in peace. ‘Unity through Honesty, Purity, and Loyalty’, those are my words.” “I am not made from light and darkness? Or stardust and oxygen?” You shook your head and seemed dejected. “You are the creator?” I said in a hushed whisper. “Yes.” “Why did you lie to me? Why did you lie to us? If those words are truly yours, surely you believed in honesty, purity, and loyalty?” “I did. I suppose that at that moment, I should have realized that it is human nature to deceive, to be impure, and to be disloyal. My lies to the Animabuses should have proven that, but I did not see it.” “What happened? Why do we have to die? We only tried to help!”

“I labeled you and your kind as souls. The word ‘soul’ lies in the root of the Latin word ‘Animabus.’ I thought it was a fitting word, as I believed souls were pure and free of mistakes. The very best of what life offers, if souls do exist. I told you a false story so that you would never know what you truly were and what your true purpose was. You were supposed to repair, but it did not work, as you now know. Humankind rebelled, and some were killed in the attempt to become pure.” “I still don’t understand. Were we planted in newborn babies?” “Yes. I thought it was best that way, so the children may learn to be pure from the start.” “And…” I couldn’t explain the question that I had formed in my head. I wanted to ask you if I had ever animated any other bodies except for yours and at the same time, wanted to know why. Why about everything, but my words were lost, yet you seemed to read my thoughts, for you said: “I realized that I needed to have an Animabus in me. After all, as the Creator, I should not fear what I have created. It seemed to work at first, you and I. I did fight you. I fought the purity, the honesty, and the loyalty. It is hard to be so unclouded by mistakes. I continued. I thought it was because I was already so corrupted. I continued because I believed it could work with the younger generation.” “But my…the cracks in me…the process of purifying…I don’t understand…and I saw you die. How are you alive?” “I did not die. I was unconscious. I did not anticipate this happening. It seemed to work so well, at first,” your eyes were slit with concern and pain, “I did not create a way to extract the

souls from the body. The only way was to physically extract it from the body. That is why I wanted the souls to stay in the body until old age, when a person was ready to die. Unfortunately for me, you and I reached our climax before I felt it was necessary for me to die. I stabbed myself and extracted you from me. I fell unconscious but I did not die. I was fixed. Now I have made my decision that your kind can no longer exist. People will start stabbing themselves just to extract your kind from their bodies. Now I believe that I have found a way to extricate the soul without physical harm, but the public knows nothing of it yet, but you and your kind must cease to exist. You will always be a threat. Humans want to be vile and wicked and contaminated. As for the cracks in your body…you are fragile and the extraction is harsh on your body. When you are ‘purified’, your cracks are fixed. You are stretched, the cracks are rubbed and are filled in with more…substance.” “So when I am purified…none of the impurities in me are being…extracted?” “No,” you look ashamed again, “You are impure. Human kind changed even the purest of beings. Human nature is a curse. It is a sickness. Not even you were immune.” “Why did you lie?” “Because your kind were in human bodies that were not honest, nor loyal, nor pure. After the extractions, we did not want you to believe that you were impure, as that would make you lose faith in your mission to purify. Why would you want to purify, if you yourself were impure? That would not make sense to you. You would not believe in yourself. I know your kind. I made them.” “And…what am I made of? How do I exist? Why do I look like this?”

“Genes. True, unsoiled genes. The purest genes. When I harnessed these pure genes, a strange thing happened. You were created. These pure genes wielded together and created this…light…this form of light, and your kind were born. It was a strange experience, and I still have not figured it out. I don’t know why you are what you are. Sometimes we create mysterious, unexplainable things. This is called a phenomenon. Even the creator can be lost by his own creation. Now I will never find out because it was all a mistake. I no longer care because you are a failure. This failure has brought me to the realization that humans as a species will never change. We can evolve, but our nature remains the same. Not even you could change that.” “I am nothing. I am a mistake?” “People don’t want you.” “Oh,” I whispered. “I am sorry, Animabus. You mean well, but this wasn’t worth the lives that have been taken.” “How many people have died?” “Fewer than the ones who have been injured trying to extricate the Animabuses.” “Maybe the experiment will work! If what you say is true, if a gentler extrication process has been discovered, perhaps humans will give my kind another chance!” “You haven’t been listening. No, we won’t. There is no hope for humanity. We thrive on violence and anger.” “Everything is a lie. I am not the heart, nor the brain. I am not the source of love. I do not

possess all talents. Everything that I was told was a lie. I have no purpose. I am a failure.” “I had to make you believe that your kind were the purest beings in existence, and you were until humankind found you.” “And now I must die?” “Yes.” “Is it worth it to try and escape?” “You have nowhere to go. If you escape, humans will not want you alive. You are too fragile on your own for my world. You have no protection. You need a human body to survive my world. You are not wanted. My kind want all Animabuses to disappear.” “Every human in existence wants me dead?” “There are some who believe in the cause, but most believe it to be a hopeless one.” “Oh.” Then you seized me with a force that I had not expected. You actually hurt me. I did not believe that I could really die. Perhaps I am as fragile as you say. My energy tensed, taut and ribbed, and fluctuated in light, fast pulses. I was led to The Machine. I let you because I didn’t want to live anymore. Not when everything was a lie. Not when I served no purpose. Not when my help, when my attempts at saving, only resulted in death. I was put into The Machine. I saw your face. It wore a grim countenance. I looked back at you through the tiny window and then I saw brightness and felt a pain twice as great as the process of purifying, or extrication rather. I felt my entire being stretch out, stretch out so far that I could not tell

where I began and where I ended, and then I was surrounded by a blinding, gold light. The gold light squeezed itself into a ball, slipped away in the distance, and I was lost. The image of you disappeared. I tried to call out to you, “I’m--” My light was dimming; my energy waning. I heard a peculiar humming and then the whimpering sound that I recognized as your crying. I— Am— …. ….. ……….. ………………………….. G…o…o...d…b...y...e…

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