Vortex 39 December Online Edition

Vortex 39 December 2012 Online Edition

Content Fiction:

06... His, Hers, Yours, Lyren Grate 14... Empty, Katie Chesser 16... Cycle, Taylor Lea Hicks 20 ... How to Survive Chemistry, Taylor Neal

Poetry:

05... I Waited, Janie Brown 12... Alaska , Andrea Eades

Nonfiction:

09... Papa Joe, Hannah Bryant

Art:

08... Chicago Street, Christopher Hall 11... Wife of the Lamb, Keith Pope 15... Isolation, Caley Pennington

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Staff Editor in Chief: Sarah F. Wilson

Assistant Editor: Lisa Ference

Judges: Poetry:

Chelsea Calllantine Christopher Hall Taylor Neal Sarah Jane Rawlinson

Fiction:

Section Editors:

Copy Editor: Savannah Moix Poetry: Colleen Ruth Hathaway Fiction: Lyren Grate Nonfiction/ Scriptwritting: Chase Night Media: Mary Mulford Art: Jessica Camp

Layout Editor: Allison Vandenberg

Assistant Layout Editor: Ashley Thomas

Faculty Advisor: Garry Craig Powell

Cover Art:

“Isolation” by Caley Pennington

Candice Baker Meghan Feeney Nicole Godfrey Emily Qualls

Nonfiction:

Hannah Bryant Kayelin Roberts Alissa Michelle Sexton

Scriptwriting:

Taylor Lea Hicks William “Tre” Sandlin III Alissa Michelle Sexton

Media:

Elizabeth Furrey Emily Walter

Art:

Meleah Bowles Calli Nicole Morrison Logan Whittington 3

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Vortex Magazine Print Edition 39 Released April 11, 2013

Submission Deadline Jauary 25, 2013 See Page 21 for new submission guidelines!

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I Waited

Poetry

Janie Brown

Roses are Red, Violets are blue, I kissed a bird And thought of you.

Away it flew into the sky, I pretended not to cry.

I waited a week, Didn’t hear a peep.

A month went by, Not a feather in the sky.

A year or two I waited for you.

Then three and four, My heart grew sore.

Before too long, I locked my door And dreamed of how it felt to soar.

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His, Hers, Yours Fiction - Best of Web Nomination

Lyren Grate

These are your hands. They are rough and calloused. The nails that grow from your finger tips are pointy and sharp. At night, as you sit up in bed with your legs tucked under the comforter and your soft pillows propped behind your back; you slide open the wooden drawer of the bedside table and search with your hands for a little travel size bottle of lotion. There is no lotion. There is never any lotion. You should keep lotion in this drawer. These are your hands and you should take better care of them.

When you are bored and waiting for the water to boil for dinner, or waiting for him to slip into bed, or wandering the house unsure of what to do while she sleeps, you’ll stand leaning against the nearest wall and cross your ankles as you pick at your pointy, sharp nails. You will dig one nail under another to remove grime that has securely embedded itself under your nail. You’ll hold your hands close to your eyes; bend your fingers with the palm of your hand facing you, and now the whites of the nails smile at you. You’ll move your hand and examine the nails with the palm of your hand facing away. Now the whites of the nails frown at you. You like them this way. They seem more real this way. You should file your nails. You should file them so that they are round or square like the professionals. You should paint them so that they can be pretty. Pretty nails make pretty hands.

These are your hands. Small, plump palms and long, skinny fingers like the legs of spiders. All day these are your hands. You cook with these hands. You fold, and wipe, and clap with these hands. There are so many things you do with your hands during the day, but at night they are his.

At night, as you realize there is no lotion in the drawer for your dry hands, he stands undressing. First, he unbuttons the white collared shirt, and then pulls over his head the white undershirt. His round stomach hangs over his suit pants. You wonder when that happened. Every night you look at the stomach and you wonder: when did he get fat?

You wonder if you should say something. Would he be sensitive about his weight gain? You say nothing. You did not like the comments he made about your weight gain over those months, so you say nothing. You buy bigger sizes and watch his stomach grow more rounded and you say nothing.

He tells you to turn off your light. You do as he says reaching your hand under the lamp shade. He slides into the bed next to you invading the warmth you have harvested under the comforter. Cold seeps in, and you shudder. He takes your hands and puts them around him guiding them lower and now with the light gone from the room your hands transform into his hands as you rub and caress him for his pleasure in the dark under the covers. ***

These are your breasts. They are supported by wire lifting them into an illusion. You remove your bra. You stand in front of the mirror holding your breasts in your calloused hands. You push them up. Should they look like this? They drop back into place as you release your hands: saggy. Are your breasts saggy? When did that happen?

You have a drawer that is filled with brightly colored, expensive bras. When you were younger, you would wear low shirts over dramatically uplifting push up bras. You’d walk into a room, and men would smile at your cleavage, and you would smile at their smiles. Your cheeks would glow as you flipped your hair away from your face. Now, when you see girls doing this, walking with their breasts under their chins, you defend them, and when he calls them sluts, you call them young.

The drawer that contains these bras is never opened anymore. It’s been a year at least, hasn’t it? Your breasts are dressed in a white cotton nursing bra. You have to change the pads throughout the day. The pads prevent the creamy milk from your nipples to leak through the cloth of the bra and onto the front of your shirt.

But these are not your breasts. Your hands holding each breast release and they drop back in place. They are no longer yours. Lift again. Turn sideways. Shouldn’t they be up here? They were your breasts: the right slightly larger than the left; a freckle in between. No more. They are hers. They belong to her. She will cry until she gets her nipple to suck on.

She will find you at any hour. She does not care if what you were doing was important or not. Your only purpose is to feed her. She will climb into your lap and lift your shirt. Unsnap the cotton bra, toss the damp pad behind her shoulder, bring her mouth to her nipple and there she’ll stay until full because they are hers, and she is hungry.

You face the mirror. They’ll never be the same. Your breasts are gone forever. Because they are no longer yours, you do not care: release. Let them sag. Throw away the pretty bras; replace them with sports bras.

He cannot even claim them anymore. He knows this and he is jealous. “You’re leaking again,” he says from on top of you. If they were your breasts, you would be embarrassed. If they were his breasts, he would take them in his hands, squeezing slightly, nestle his face in between them; but now they are hers and they leak milk. They disgust him. ***

This is the website. Your hands have taken you there. You have clicked on the mouse with your pointy, sharp finger-nailed fingers. You cradle her with the arm of your other hand as she sleeps with her face pressed against her left

6

breast. On the website are images of smiling students with backpacks slung over one shoulder. They smile at you. You smile at them. You click on the mouse again, and now you are given information about the law school. The law school at Michigan State: a one-hour commute. You quiver with an unexpected desire, an urgency rising in your body, his body, her body. Ignoring the heaviness in your lap, your tiring arm, and the sweet warm milk that drips onto her soft face, you click on the application and press print.

This is the test you pee on. The white stick shakes under you. At first you pee on your hand, unaware. Your concentration is fixed on the fallen cardboard box at your feet.

You wipe the bathroom mirror as your cellphone beside the bottle of blue Windex counts down to the moment that life -- your life -- may become someone else’s yet again. Split into four instead of three. You swipe the mirror in wide circles: spray, swipe, wait.

The last time this happened, you spoke in the kitchen. His tie was loose around his neck. He was smiling, and you sat at the round kitchen table with tears in your eyes. You watched the sun fade from the summer sky. The neighborhood kids were called in for dinner by their mothers. You wished the sun would take all sound with it, would take him with it, and his smiling. You wished the sun would take everything and everyone and leave you alone for one night. You’d have the house to yourself. The bed to yourself, yourself to yourself, and you could figure out what to do; but it was too late. You had told him, showed him the test, and the sun left the moon in charge of the sky before granting your wish; so you looked at him and told him how you felt.

“I don’t want it.” You put your hands over his hands and said, “I want to go to law school. That was the plan: I put you through and then you put me through.”

He took his hands from under your hands and gripped your wrists, “We’re Christians. What you’re implying is unethical and incredibly selfish. What do you mean you don’t want it? Don’t you want a little me? Or a little you? Now you have an excuse to stay at home instead of make yourself sick working at a challenging law program. You’ll love it.”

And now, two years later, the timer has gone off. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, because you feel you should be sitting, you hold the test in your hand and now you are aware that your uterus is no longer yours, but its and his because he put himself inside your body, which became his body and left a little him behind. The application sits in the printer untouched. She is crying for you in sonorous cries, demanding her breasts. You close your eyes and wish for silence so that you can figure out what to do.

This is the clinic you walk into. The lights are too bright; you can see yourself reflected in the shiny tiled floors.

This is the outfit you wear: a baggy sweater and high waist jeans. You grow hot, nervous. You remove your sweater and stuff it into your bag.

You have dropped her off at your church day care. “What kind of appointment?” you were asked. “Gynecologist,” you replied, which caused the curious woman to blush.

You are led back to a room. You are alone with the nurse. Your left hand holds your right hand. Today, your body is yours and no one else’s. The nurse pauses in prepping you. “Are you sure about this? Your shirt has me thinking otherwise.”

You sit up. What shirt are you wearing? It is one given to you by the church for participating in a fundraiser: Prolife it reads in bold white. You threw it on this morning after leaking through a blouse. “It’s just an old t-shirt,” you say leaning back. The nurse nods and continues. You begin to feel nauseated. You close your eyes and steady your breathing.

Now, you must wait for the feeling of regaining something or someone you have lost, even if the feeling will not come for some time. ***

This is the white envelope that contains your application. This is the month you will reclaim your breasts. These are the hands that will buy lotion to put in the wooden drawer of the bedside table. The creamy lotion will nourish the hands because these are your hands, and you will take better care of them.

7

Chicago Street 8

Christopher Hall

Best of Web Winner

Papa Joe

Hannah Bryant

Nonfiction

Best of Web Nomination

Plunk.

Scraaape.

Sigh.

I need to eat, but I just can’t stomach it yet. It’s too soon, and nothing on that plate looks worth it anyway. Pitter Patter. Chang. Pant. I should give Taco some attention, but I just don’t have the energy to play fetch right now. Ziiip.

Jingle. Clank. I need to get going. But my legs just aren’t sturdy enough to carry my burdened body out into the cold afternoon fog. Besides, I can’t even hang on to my keys and I’ll take any excuse to put off that four-hour drive. I just made the commute about sixty hours ago, after all. And it had taken me a full nine hours then. I should have never attempted to make that drive home so soon after those ferocious blizzards, but I just couldn’t take their ‘No’ for an answer. Always so stubborn. ***

I knew Papa Joe was sick. I knew that this heart attack was worse than the last one. I knew there was a great chance I’d be leaving campus this weekend. “Just in case.” But Thursday afternoon . . . it all happened so fast. It wasn’t one of those days people always tell of. You know, those days that set the perfect scene for some truly life-changing story.

Rain had not fallen torrentially from the skies since early that morning. All the snow storms had seemingly, finally ceased.

No cloud of doom or agony followed me from class to class, foreshadowing the events to come. I had no sense of just “knowing” that everything was about to change. But it did. And it was inevitable.

I had just finished my homework and was pleased to finally have a few moments to share with pen and paper when my phone blared the all-too-familiar ring. Barely glancing at the screen, I picked up.

“Hi, Mum!”

“Hannah,” she said. I instantly recognized the tone in her voice. It was the same voice I always use when I have to call and alert her of a fender bender I have been in. It was that slightly chilling tone used when one needs the other to stay calm while potentially bad news is being delivered. Unconsciously, my heart sped and my palms developed that same clammy dampness common of young children with fever.

“What is it?” I could barely form the words. Fueled by the stolen intensity of my voice, I could feel my heart beginning its ascent to my ears. Soon, the entire room was sIightly spinning. I sat, aware of only my dad’s voice in the background and of the beat my inner drum was producing, as the world danced around me to a rhythm dreadfully different.

“Things have gotten worse,” she explained. “The doctors say he could go any time. They don’t have much hope that he’s going to make it through the night.”

I could hear the sting of sincere sadness in her voice. This wasn’t just her father-in-law, after all. He had loved her and valued her from the very beginning. He had made her feel special in that way only he could.

“He isn’t talking but he’s still responsive. I’m going to hold the phone up to his ear. He will know it’s you,” she managed to say. “It’s time to say goodbye.”

Her words violently stripped me of the numbness that had set in. As I listened to the phone rustle, I let my first tear fall. Unusually large and full, I felt the traces of the salty water splash up from my desk and onto my arm. It was as if a single tear had broken the dam that had been holding back the flood waters. Suddenly, I had no control. Tears spilled out onto the desk and my notebook. I thought back to when I was younger. How many Barbies had Papa Joe and I tried to stuff back into their original boxes? This was harder.

“Go ahead,” Mum gently whispered.

Trying to keep my words intelligible through my bawling, I choked out a goodbye. I had no idea what to say. It was just too hard. Too soon. Too wrong.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He was supposed to stick around. He was supposed to slip a fifty in my hand when no one was looking next time I came home. He was supposed to tell me again how proud he was of me when I finished freshman year. Supposed to give me a few more cans of Vienna sausage for Christmas next year. Supposed to show up at every occasion with those red suspenders on.

9

Sobbing, I told Mum I was coming home. I think somehow she sensed the determination in my voice and knew that ultimately, there was nothing she could say to change my mind. But before handing the phone over to Pop, she offered the obligatory “It’s Not Safe” speech. Attempting to persuade me from a different angle, Pop explained it would be dark soon, and the roads would be covered in black ice.

“The last thing we want is for you to not make it,” he reasoned.

But my mind was made up. I couldn’t just settle for a blubbering goodbye over the phone. I had already thrown most of my essential items haphazardly into my oversized red and orange Vera Bradley bag. I had to get there before . . .

Feeling frustrated and not understanding why they didn’t see the importance in me getting there as soon as possible, I abruptly stopped my feverish packing frenzy and cried loudly into the phone.

“Please,” I begged. “I can’t stay here!”

“Ok,” came the soft response.

They had all agreed; if I brought along enough cash for emergencies and promised to drive slowly, I could come.

We all knew I would be getting in my little white Sentra regardless. I was always so stubborn. ***

I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t had my iPod. It saved my sanity over those nine arduous hours, though I have no desire for it now. No desire for anything, really. Especially not for taking on I-40 and its long stretch of solitude. At least the roads have been cleared off now. My dreaded drive back to Arkansas won’t be filled with hours of parking on the interstate waiting for wreckers and police and ambulances and choppers to clear the wreckage left by victims of that invisible, sneaky black monster. As much as I want to stay, I must go back. I can’t get behind on classes. ***

Crinkle. Rattle. Munch. Those Cheez-Its were the only thing keeping me from starving on the long journey home.

In my haste, I hadn’t even considered I might get hungry and hadn’t grabbed any grub. Thank goodness for that box of small orange crackers I had neglected to take into my dorm for the past week. My friends had griped nearly every day about how much the snack was in the way, but absent-mindedness had won out. Stuck in stand-still traffic now, I was grateful.

Ring. Ring. Riiiing.

Pushing the small round button on the left side of the steering wheel, I answered the call coming in from Pop’s cell.

“Hello?”

“Hannah . . . he’s gone.”

Silence. Sniffs. Sobs.

I had been keeping myself collected all night. I had blinked back the tears and swallowed the cries. Hanging up the phone, I sat back and gave in. Every emotion that I had stifled came pouring out. Every memory I had ever made with Papa Joe played through my mind on a continuous reel. I saw us. We were fishing. He was buying me Reese’s at WalMart that his diabetic self could later sneak away. I was at Pringles Park enjoying the sound of the ballpark as I ate my hot dog. Blame was being thrown on him after I had innocently and unknowingly blurted out my first cuss word. “Lappa Joe says it,” had been my only response that made it through my worried tears. Reminiscing was a violent tide; it was quickly pulling me under. ***

Walking into his stone house the next day proved even harder. The remains of his prized roses still stood outside.

Barren, dead, with no signs of regaining life. His water glass and endless stacks of folded paper towels still sat on the end table next to his oversized blue recliner. Clothes worn just days before still lay in the laundry basket. The small reading glasses that always perched on the tip of his nose rested by the phone. Everything he was remained in place. Nothing had changed. Yet, everything had changed. ***

It’s all over now. All of the friends and family have come and gone. The excess amount of food Tupperwared.

The services wrapped up. The only thing remaining is to walk out of this house. This house that so many of my childhood memories occurred in. This house that would never be the same again. His house. I know I should get going. Just grab my keys and head out of the door to my awaiting Sentra. I can say my goodbyes and collect my final hugs and make it back by eleven tonight if I leave now. I know that everyone is right; there is no need for me to stay. Staying will change nothing.

But maybe I will stay. Just one more night. Always so stubborn.

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Wife of the Lamb

Keith Pope

Best of Web Nomination

11

Alaska

Poetry

Cold, she was afraid Of the heat That laid below Her Feet Bright! she was a sight to behold With open eyes; Enlightened.

Head up in the sky hedonic heart, fucking wild Mind so unconfined Still she was tired

she was dying Tried to stay alive.

But she died.

Don’t be sorry.

She looked up at the sky And she cried.

Said it was pretty.

It was pretty.

It was pretty and I wonder‌ what she

saw.

12

Andrea Eades

Best of Web Nomination

(Was it a shining light?

Or the sight

Of black when weary eyes shut

tight?)

It’s what we’re all afraid of.

It’s what we’re all afraid of. and Oh it happenedfast breathe.

Why does nothing ever last - BREATHE - in this world? . . . RELEASE . . .

She was

Only

Trying

To escape

The labyrinth

13 13

Empty

Fiction

Katie Chesser

There is a half-emptied pint of strawberry ice cream in my freezer. The freezer door is wide open relying on its hinges for support. I know I must be frozen. That would explain why there are no tears. They are frozen in place. Surely, if it wasn’t for the cold air, I would be crying.

But instead of tears, all I can give is a hollow stare. I have been staring at this half-emptied carton of ice cream for — actually, I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I tilt my head to one side, hoping this will lead my mind to an answer.

But it doesn’t. So, I just continue to stare.

And then my phone starts to buzz on the counter, and I’m yanked from my reverie. I blink rapidly and then reach to push the freezer door closed. The caller ID says Mom. I gaze at the phone for a second longer, and the buzzing stops. I slide the bar on the bottom of the screen, and it takes me to the home page. Six voicemails. Hmm, maybe I should check them. Maybe I shouldn’t. She wants to talk about how I’m holding up — I don’t have to answer to know that. She’s worried about me, but I don’t have it in me to talk about feelings right now.

I reach for a wine glass and then turn to pull the almost empty bottle out of the refrigerator. Yes, more wine will do. I empty the bottle into my glass and then drop it into the trashcan. It’s full. I guess I should get around to taking that out. Strange. That chore was his. I take a large gulp of wine and look around at the Sorry for your loss flowers and casserole dishes that lay untouched on the counter. As the red liquid slides down my throat, it does nothing to the numbness. Maybe I need a shower.

I walk to the bathroom and set the almost empty glass on the counter. I dare to look in the mirror. I don’t recognize the face looking back at me. This girl, she looks cold and hard with large, puffy bags under her eyes. Her hair is tangled and unkempt. There is worn, unwashed make-up that is days old. I tilt my head. No, that can’t be me. I am bright and happy; never to be seen without a smile or blush on my face. Before I can spend any more time looking at that stranger, I turn and start the shower.

The water is hot and it burns my skin. But I don’t turn it down or move out of the way. I think maybe it will help, but it doesn’t — there is still nothing inside. I get out of the shower and step back in front of the mirror. It is fogged over.

Good. I run my fingers through my hair to at least attempt to untangle it.

I let the towel around me drop to the floor and I turn on my heels into the bedroom. I walk over to the chest of drawers and slowly pull one open. I am immediately hit with his smell. I feel something inside me stir. An emotion, maybe? I run my fingers over the large t-shirts. They are soft and worn. I pull out my favorite and slip it on. It drops down to the middle of my thighs.

I walk back into the kitchen and open the freezer door. A decision needs to be made, so I yank the pint of strawberry ice cream out and reach for a spoon, making my way back into the bedroom and slipping under the unmade duvet. I slowly open the lid and look down at the contents of the carton. There is a layer of little ice crystals covering the top. I take a deep breath and plunge the spoon in. In hurried motions, I dig the spoon in and take a bite, dig the spoon in and take another bite. Until at last, I stick the spoon in, and it hits the empty bottom.

I tilt the carton up and examine it. It’s empty. Empty. Everything is empty: this apartment, my mind, my body . . . my future. And then, before I can stop it, I burst into wave after wave of sobs. They rack my body, and my chest heaves and falls, and I can’t catch my breath. I make strange strangled sounds as I choke on my own tears. Empty.

The carton falls from my hand and lands on the ground next to the crumpled black dress and shoes that have been untouched for two days. I don’t look down or reach to retrieve the carton. I let the spoon slip from my hand, and it lands with a clang on the hardwood floor next to the black dress. The right sleeve is stained with snot and tears. The whole dress is tainted with death.

I roll over so that I am lying on his pillow. I inhale, and everything comes flying back to me, along with that one scent. The day we met. The first time we said ‘I love you.’ When we moved into this apartment together. The late night talks about what we wanted from life. The looks we shared that said more than words ever could: I’m forever yours. The night he didn’t make it home from work. The funeral.

I am overtaken by uncontrollable sobs again. As I lay there consumed with crying, a deep tiredness sweeps over me. I am exhausted. As I begin to drift off, silent tears falling from my cheeks, I think about how strawberry ice cream was his favorite and that now it is gone.

14

Isolation

Caley Penningon

15

Cycle

Fiction

Taylor Lea Hicks Best of Web Winner

One must be born so that one can die. That is the one Rule of our race. But we cannot die. We do not age. We cannot be killed; we require no sustenance. We come and go as we please, act as we please, feel as we please. We do not bicker or wage war, for when one is immortal war is futile. We are creatures of existence, of thought.

We are Crétok.

I have been Crétok my whole existence. I do not know where I come from, or how I was created. This knowledge is lost to my race.

Nothing ever changes here.

When I grow weary of being, I visit my mentor, Haják. Ever since my earliest memories, Haják has been there to guide me; to answer my most offensive questions, and allow me to vent my frustrations when I do not quite like the answers.

I make my way up the hill to Haják’s shelter, making the polite throat call alerting him to my presence. His thin ears poke out from behind the mud hut, so I circle around to the cliff side to find him resting in the grass, eyes closed.

I stretch out beside him, smelling the dust in the breeze. The dead sky beats down on us, a light lilac sky that burns my sensitive eyes. I shut them tight. Haják purrs.

“When was I created?”

“After I.”

I snort. “Everyone was created after you.”

“Not the sky. Nor the water. Nor the grass. Nor-”

“Yes, I understand. Our world was here before you.”

He props his massive head upon his claw, exhaling. “What is it that troubles you, Iahnó?”

I open my eyes, peering up at the sky. The fluffs shift across it, making the funny shapes I used to point and laugh at before I matured beyond such things. I push air out through the slits in my snout and spring to my feet.

“How long have we existed together, Haják?”

“Your entire existence, Iahnó. And most of mine.”

“And what has changed in that time?”

“Well, my hut certainly has grown messier-”

“In seriousness, Haják. Look at me,” I spread my arms wide, stretching my body to its limits. “I have not changed!

You and I look the same as the first memory I have of us. Everything around us recycles, dies and has new life, but we do not. We stay the same. We exist.” I allow my body to collapse on the ground, imprinting my body into the grass below.

“And I am tired of it.”

“Every day this rant. Is existence not enough for you?”

“How is it for you?”

“I have my thoughts. My fellow Crétok. This exquisite planet. This existence has given me everything I need to continue living; to ask for anything more would be selfish.”

“Well, then, call me selfish.”

“You are unsatisfied?” Haják cocks his head.

“Much so. I have seen all this world has to offer me, Haják. It may be enough for you and the other Crétok, but not I. None of you even question the Rule when our very nature means we are indestructible!”

Haják falls silent, and as the sky darkens to a deep amethyst, I slowly forget that he lies beside me and allow myself to be cradled to sleep by the soft breeze.

The ache in my eyes slowly brings me back to the world, curled under the bright violet sky. I stand up, rubbing the pain out of my eyes and stretching my limbs, a morning purr escaping my throat.

“You slept long.”

I jump, my sluggishness having kept me from sensing Haják’s proximity. I growl.

“You didn’t have to scare me like that,” I snap at him.

“I have been waiting for you to wake.” He waves his claw at me, entering his hut without another word. I huff and follow.

Haják’s hut is simple, inhabited by only a mat for laying and a tall table for guests. We do not like sitting indoors; it makes us feel trapped.

“It is just as well that you slept. You will need your strength.” Haják stands at the table, his claws lying upwards.

16

“Come. Join claws with me.”

“What is it, Haják?” I eye him warily, but join claws with him.

“You are aware of the Rule. Recite it for me.”

“‘One must be born so that one can die.’ It is the law of Crétok existence. But Haják, no one knows what it means.

We can’t die, and Crétok aren’t born, we just are.”

“The Rule is an ancient truth. We are born.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “How do you know?”

“Every cycle, one Crétok is entrusted with the Rule, so that the truth of the process can be passed down and the cycle continued on. But it can only be continued by a Crétok that is tired of existence and wishes to move on. You are the first in all my time keeping the Rule that has truly wished to do so. I had begun to think this cycle would never break.” He grasps my claws so tightly that I almost feel an inkling of pain. “You must promise me that this is truly what you wish.”

In all my existence, I have never felt pure emotion. Not anger, or fear, or sadness. Nor even, I think, happiness.

I have never done anything except be what I was told a Crétok was born to be. And something inside of me has always wanted more. Death, whatever it is, is more. It is more than any of the Crétok I know have ever been.

“I could wish for nothing else.” I grasp his claws as tight as possible. “Tell me how.”

He bows his head and begins to roar.

I awake with Haják’s roar and its instructions ringing in my ears. Earth. Humans. Find the one that will continue the cycle; the human Crétok. So many confusing thoughts swirling in my mind…And then one shocking, ever-amazing, breath-taking thought.

The sky is blue.

All that I have ever wanted: change, a break from monotony, a world full of possibilities, is mine in that one realization. Life fills my lungs and purpose pierces my existence. I search around for the next sight that will give me meaning.

Shelters. There are shelters here. And not just huts – real, sturdy, colossal shelters here that shine like water. The creatures on this planet must be ten times my size.

I sniff the air. No dust. There is a freshness I have never tasted before. I fill my lungs with it. Oh, it tastes wonderful. But then there is a new taste, a new smell. I stick out my tongue to capture more, and immediately gag and growl at the foul odor. This world is a constant surprise. The exact opposite of mine.

Haják’s directions flash across my mind once again. From first impressions of this world, my task will not be easy.

But if I wish to continue the cycle, it must be done. And existence here is not an option, no matter how impeccable this world is. Crétoks were not meant to exist outside of our world. I shouldn’t linger here.

Strange squealing sounds slice the air, high and loud. I hide my ears and search for the source. Flashing lights of color dance across my eyes, and I chase them. With my long legs I catch up to them fast, crouching behind a shelter made of hard stone.

A creature of some slick skin sits on all fours, the flashing lights atop its back. It was no longer making the piercing sounds. Two smaller creatures are deposited out of its side, wearing a thick dark skin and walking upright. They enter one of the shelters hurriedly. I approach the large creature cautiously, squinting at the lights.

“I greet you,” I hold my claw upright to it, in the Crétok sign of greeting. “I am called Iahnó.”

The creature does not reply, and the other creatures do not return. I try again.

“I am Iahnó. Are you the creature that is called a human?”

Again the creature does not reply. I am about to give up and try to find a different sleek creature to address when one of the upright creatures returns in a huff. It stops when it spots me.

“God. Is it Halloween already? That is some costume. But we’ve got back up on the way, buddy, so this isn’t a place you want to be. I suggest you get out of that God ugly Halloween costume and beat it.” It walks over to the sleek creature and reopens its side.

“I tried to address this creature, but it would not discuss with me. Please tell me, are you a creature they call a human?”

The upright creature gives me a funny look.

“I said beat it, pal. It’s for your own safety.” It digs around inside the larger creature for a moment, creating abrupt thumps from inside, and then closes the hole again.

“Why are you harming that creature?” I give a light growl.

The dark creature eyes me warily, then slowly pulls a dark gleaming object from his side and points it towards me in both hands. “What’s your name, sir?”

“I am Iahnó.”

“Why don’t you step out of that costume for me and hold up both hands there, Ianto.”

“No, it is Iahnó. It is ancient Crétok.”

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“I don’t care if it’s African, just put your damn hands up!”

“What are hands?” I cock my head, confused. “And what is that object you are holding?”

Two more sleek creatures with the blurring lights arrive, screeching to a halt around us, and more dark-skinned creatures like this one crawl out of them, brandishing the same objects at me and screaming. Never in my world have I seen such emotion, such color. It floods me, confuses me. I no longer care about my task, I simply want escape.

I run, and from the objects in their hands come ear-splitting cracks, like I never before imagined. Accompanying those cracks is actual pain; pain in my chest, back, legs. I have never before felt this kind of pain, which my kind have a high tolerance for and see no use in. This is a new experience, and I am beginning to resent new experiences.

I run as swiftly as my limber limbs will carry me, passing the upright creatures as I run, watching them point and gasp. They are as fascinated by me as I by them, but I am too afraid to pause. I begin to pass into rows of stone shelters when a familiar scent hits my nostrils. The smell of Crétok. Here? In this world? I race toward the smell until I reach trees.

Familiar trees. I leap at the first one I reach and climb to the top, clinging to the friendly branches. Nothing has ever felt so secure.

There are no marks on my rough russet skin, but the pain is still there. I trace the jagged lines of my muscles and joints, feeling each crack in my memory as it hits me over and over again. I feel the cruelty of this world as bitterly now as I miss the security of the one I left.

A giggle drifts up to my branch. I peer down through the leaves, my sensitive eyes catching the sight of two of the upright creatures sitting at the base of the tree. I sniff the breeze. They are both young females. Hormones waft through my snout pleasantly, but also a hint of another smell. A familiar, empty smell.

Crétok.

I watch them sit and talk with keen interest, gesturing expressions and phrases I do not understand. These two creatures are not like the ones I met before. These are almost…gentle. As they converse, I slowly inch my way down the tree, sniffing their scents for Crétok.

“It’s been almost a year since your dad died, Jenny. You’ve got to move out of that house eventually.”

“I just feel like there’s nothing to move to. I mean, after Mom died, Dad had me to look after. I was his life. He had to move on for me,” one of the creatures, smaller and lighter colored, lays back and closes her eyes. I freeze, still hidden by the shadow of the tree but afraid of what she will do if she opens her eyes and finds me there, lurking above them.

“You shouldn’t look at things that way. You have your whole life ahead of you. Now you have to move on for you.

You’ve got no one left holding you back.”

“My dad wasn’t holding me back.”

“That’s not what I meant. I just meant now you can do things for you.” The other creature stands, looming over the one she called Jenny. “I’ve got to get to work. See you later?”

“Sure, Deb.” Jenny sits up, waving her off. She sits in pondering silence for a few minutes, and I softly inhale her scent. Mixtures of hormones, emotions, and deep within the other scents, a faint touch of Crétok. This creature smells of Crétok!

The creature called Jenny stands and stretches, walking away from my tree. I watch her go through the branches. I can’t lose her now. She is the closest lead I have.

I follow the creature Jenny, scurrying from tree to tree until she reaches the rows of stone shelters. I scale one of the shelters and bound from roof to roof, trailing her to a small shelter surrounded by dead plants. She enters the shelter.

I leap to the wall and enter in through one of the windows. I am in some kind of sitting room, with a tiny table and chairs. I latch onto the ceiling and crawl into the next room.

The creature Jenny is laying on her back on some kind of mat, holding something in her hand. Water falls from her eyes, slow and silent.

The creature Jenny looks straight up, directly into my eyes. “So are you just going to follow me all day?”

I gulp. “No. By then I will have returned home.”

“Where is home?”

I study her, interested. “Why are you not afraid, as the others of your kind are?”

She shrugs. “I figure if you were going to hurt me, you would have already done it.”

I continue to stare at her. She sticks the object in her pocket and cocks her head. “Come down from there.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Are you the creature they call a human?”

She gives me a strange, penetrating gaze. “What are you?”

“I am Crétok.”

“That’s a weird name.”

“No, my name is Iahnó. I am Crétok.”

“I’ve never heard of a Crétok.”

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“I’d never heard of a human until today.”

The expression on her face is one I cannot decode. “Come down from there.”

I hesitate, but something about the way she looks and smells tells me that she is to be trusted. I warily unhinge my claws and allow myself to drop, landing on my hind legs. She sits up on the mat to face me, but I am still much taller than her.

“Are you a human?” I ask again.

She nods slowly, her eyes working over my body. “Why is it important?”

“I heard you talking to the other human female. She said you should move on.”

“Yeah, Deb’s always saying that. But she can’t tell me what I should move on to. No one can.”

“Do you want something to move on to?”

“I dunno. I guess.” She throws up her hands, glancing over at me again. “God, this is insane! I can’t believe I’m talking about my life to a…what are you again?”

“A Crétok.”

“Right. A Crétok. Whatever that is. What are you exactly?”

“I am a creature of existence.”

“What does that mean?”

“I exist.”

“Which means what exactly?”

“I live. I breathe. I do not require food, nor water. I live in a world with other Crétoks. And there is only one way we can die.”

She cocked her eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And how is that?”

“For a human to be reborn in our stead.”

She immediately begins to back away on the mat. “Whoa buddy. I’m not gonna become one of you things. I’m not even sure if you’re real right now.”

“I won’t take you without your consent. You have to wish it.”

“Wish it? Why would I wish to be like you!”

“Think about it, Jenny. I can smell you on the air. You smell like a Crétok. Empty.”

She stops, leaning against the wall. “I’m not…empty. It’s just…I guess, ever since my Dad passed, it’s like I keep trying to find something to make me want to keep going, and there’s…nothing…everything here is so hard.” She takes the object back out of her pocket and shows it to me. “This is my mom and dad. She died giving birth to me.”

“No one dies in my world. I have never seen death.”

She gives me a weak smile. “Lucky you. All I’ve ever known is death. My dad never got over losing my mom. What is it like on your planet?”

“Everything is…simple. It is too easy. Everything stays the same, and you have everything you need, and there is peace. There are no challenges. No struggles. No need to survive, just live.” I exhale. “Just exist.”

She smiles. “It sounds wonderful.”

She rises off the mat and we gaze at each other. Kindred souls, suffocating in our birth worlds. I thought coming here would make me feel free, but all I have found is pain. I do not feel at home here, nor in my world. An outcast, belonging nowhere.

“I think…I think I would like to see your world,” she tells me. “I’m finished here. There is no next step for me in this place. You’ve given me a choice, and I haven’t gotten many choices in my life.” She takes a cautious step towards me.

“You can take me.”

My whole body loosens in relief. I extend my claw to her. “You must stand very still, and close your eyes, no matter how afraid you are. It will not hurt.”

She takes my claw and closes her eyes. I stroke her face with one claw, tenderly, trying to commit her face to memory before she becomes the image of a Crétok, forever rough and jagged. She trembles under my touch but she does not move. For her, this is a new beginning. For me, this is the last step, the final journey. Was I a human before this?

Reborn as a Crétok, tired of this world I now fear, eager for the next realm? Do all humans make this journey?

Where will I go next?

With one fell swoop, I unhinge my jaw and swallow the human Jenny whole.

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How to Survive Chemistry Fiction

Taylor Neal

The same people who brought you Covalent Convalescence and Acidity vs. Stupidity have done it again. That’s right! The fine folks at Chemistry Is Fun now bring you How to Take a Chemistry Course and Hopefully Live to Tell About It, or in short, How to Survive Chemistry.

In this exciting new manual, you’ll learn everything from where to sit in class, procrastination techniques, and even tips on how to pay for the textbook.

And this time, the manual comes with the textbook, so you don’t have to steal someone else’s — although, if you choose to, that’s your business.

This manual is a must-have for all college students. Buy your copy today!

Congratulations! You’ve lost your mind and decided to give chemistry a try, or all the other classes were full, or you were forced by some stupid degree requirement, knowing you’ll never use this stuff anyway.

Either way, you’re here for the next semester and since you’re reading this, you’ve probably already spent a good chunk of money on this monstrous book (or you stole someone else’s manual; like we said, we won’t ask questions). If you have purchased your book, skip Steps 1-9.

The following manual was designed to help you survive this course. At least, we hope. Our focus group participants haven’t answered back yet. They ignored step 13 and ran out terrified. None of us have heard from them since.

If you happen to be one of those participants, we’re sorry. And could you please send back the surveys? We would love to hear your thoughts.

We hope these 33½ steps help make this Chemistry semester a pleasant one. However, we here at Chemistry Is Fun wouldn’t bet on it.

Please follow these steps precisely. Results may vary.

STEP 1: Empty all the money from your piggybank in a dramatic scene in which you apologize to the inanimate object you’ve had since you were little and then smash it with a hammer.

STEP 2: Frantically count the money exactly three times, and, when you realize it’s not enough, ask your parents for the money.

STEP 3: Pretend like you don’t remember the “I’ll pay for college myself” agreement or the huge argument that came before it.

STEP 4: When the puppy dog eyes and begging don’t work, and they still refuse to give you money, sneak into your older sister’s room and break her piggybank.

STEP 5: When you finally have the money (and after you told your sister her piggybank broke in a huge earthquake), march confidently into the book store and hand them your schedule and money.

STEP 6: Try not to hyperventilate when they put the book in front of you.

STEP 7: Take the book and the $5 change and walk out, feeling a little less confident, all the while trying to not drop the book.

STEP 8: Decide you need to start lifting weights.

STEP 9: Take the change and go eat fast food.

STEP 10: Promise to lift weights tomorrow.

STEP 11: On the first day of class, sit in the front; but, when the teacher walks in and starts talking about her 15 cats and how she can’t even remember the last date she’s been on, move to the back.

STEP 12: While the teacher talks about her cat, Oscar, start flipping through the book like the other students.

STEP 13: DO NOT PANIC. STEP 14: Watch the students who ignored Step 13 run out.

STEP 15: When the teacher finally gets to handing out the syllabi, take one. Try looking through it.

STEP 16: Stop when it gives you a headache.

STEP 17: For the rest of the class, wonder why the professor named her cat Oscar.

STEP 18: Later, when trying to do your mountain of homework, complain to your friend that this class is impossible.

STEP 19: For procrastination, eat more fast food.

STEP 20: Doodle on the paper that your homework was supposed to be on and hope the professor doesn’t notice.

STEP 21: Hand in your homework/artwork.

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STEP 22: Spend the next hour hitting your head on the book. Hope that the material will absorb into your mind.

STEP 23: Try to follow along for the next few weeks until you’re so lost you can’t remember if you’re in Chemistry or How to Speak Greek 101.

STEP 24: On the multiple choice portion of the first test, try to spell words. Start with C A B then go to B A D, etc. After that, circle C every time and pray that’s what you get on the test.

STEP 25: Once you’re done with the test, smile just because you survived. Then, debate whether or not you should throw your book in the garbage since it’s not helping anyway (the only things you understand are the page numbers).

STEP 26: When the teacher tells you your grade on the test, pat yourself on the back. At least a 5% means you got something right. Unless your teacher is easy and gave you points for spelling your name . . .

STEP 27: Decide to lift weights again when you’re lugging your book back from class, but instead get more fast food as a reward for your 5%.

STEP 28: Again, consider throwing away your textbook, but then realize it would make taking out the trash that much harder.

STEP 29: Even though she scares you, and your certain her office is probably full of thousands of cat pictures, talk to the professor.

STEP 30: After you’ve been in there for three hours, realized you were right about the cat pictures, and heard six billion stories about her cats, drop the class.

STEP 31: Get as far away from Chemistry as you can. Major in Art. STEP 32: When driving home after changing your major, find a kitten on the side of the road and decide to keep it.

STEP 33: Do not name it Oscar.

STEP 34: Throw away your . . .

We’re sorry for the inconvenience. Our textbook writers were too mentally-scarred from the chemistry material to finish this manual. If you would like the other half of question 34, please order the deluxe edition. As an apology, please enjoy the complimentary Periodic Table in the back.

We are also looking for new writers. No chemistry experience necessary.

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Colophon & Judging The Vortex October 2012 Online Edition was created on a Macintosh iMac, using Adobe InDesign CS5.5 and Adobe Photoshhop. Theme fonts are Charcoal CY, MAWNS Handwriting and Georgia, with varying font sizes and styles throughout.

All pieces are judged “blind�. Judges and Section Editors only find out who submitted the piece after it has been selected for publication. Each piece will receive a vote of yes or no and must have a 75% rate of yes votes and approval from the managing editors to be published. Staff Members automatically vote no to their own works to ensure fairness.

The University of Central Arkansas Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art Thompson Hall 201 Donaghey Ave. Conway, AR 72034 Torreyson Library 126 201 Donaghey Ave. Conway, AR 72034 vortexmagazine.squarespace.com vortexmagazine@gmail.com

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