Everyday for a year, I wrote about the light rail. Clutched backpack, stiff-seat side-straddle scribbling into sunrise—the chime, a pealing soundtrack to the cinematic universe of my journaled streams. I do not know when I became a poet, but I know the voice of poem when it whispers in the morning. I am not good at keeping good habits, but one day, I’ll grow into the ones I’ve been too stubborn to claim. I’ve found myself asking what makes me a writer even after asking what’s the meter of rain. I’ve penned my existence into a page before I was able to question if I had the words for it. I’ve never needed a passport for this language, never needed to prove my residency; I’ve only prayed it could find a home in me as well, could curl its way to the center of my chest, light a candle and exhale.
Course Objectives
here, we turn
to cobbled streets
for answers—grass
swamped in skyfall,
our muddied feet
licking a slick path
we will sing
the prints we leave
on the sidewalk
see our names
in the lines
of the sanded rock
Student Learning Outcomes
we are just as much
an author of
our own breath
as we are
of anything we place
a name to
we shake hands
with chance
knowing nothing
is new—it is
a small language
the probability of
a word running
into another
is more likely
than not
but when last did
they dance
until dawn when
last did they
inhale into
themselves
one line
into the next
remembering how
many moments
they share
here and still
in this tongue
elsewhere
Requirements
open hand open heart open fist open eye open mouth open ear open arm open lung open
Graded Assignments
Participation:
ready your whisper with me; I will not ask
you anything I would not ask
of myself—I am my own risk, willing to grow
weary in the same spot, gaze-up,
until the landscape begins to speak.
Weekly Responses, Posts & Poems:
the chill in your arm, the choke in your throat,
that sinking—there, in your stomach
the second the wind hits—the scrunched brow,
your upturned lip, your nostrils flared
in utter disagreement, your stuttered tongue,
your jump-start heart, racing at the words
circuiting in your head.
Workshop poems:
will you let us? carve into the clay
of your minds-eye, your second chance
at a first impression. we’ll trail
the edges of this sound-swept carnival,
stand in its lines so we can tell you
how it rides.
H-Town Homies Poet Presentation:
this literary city, a one-stop station to every shape
your words could muster. there is no lack
of source material, shared in one room
and back into another. this stream. this never-ending
well of ‘well, actually’ warm and running
raw between your fingers. we hold hands anyway.
let it bake between our palms.
Midterm Quiz:
you may forget the name, the face, but never the way a poem sways to your own bodysong.
Final Portfolio:
we trick ourselves into believing we could ever know an ending. in truth, we are only ever continuing this lifelong thing of language, taking the poems before us and breathing them back with our heartbeats in them.
Grade Breakdown:
if you give 100%
your full attention 100%
your honest ask 100%
and avid unknown 100%
the page will tell you 100%
if you have ignited 100%
a practice 100%
Total: worth repeating
Grading Schema:
A we dig B- the ditches D+ of our spines
A- and ask them C+ to hold D the hailstorms
B+ of our grief C the runoff D- of our good days
B the language C- we dare F to claim
Aris Kian’s poems are published with The West Review, Obsidian Lit and elsewhere. She is the 2022 recipient of the Inprint Marion Barthelme Prize in Creative Writing. @ariskian/@rosewaterframes
Swollen jawed, she turns on Stevie Nicks at Red Rocks and let the ice melt in her Hurricane. She’s paying for a digital time warp, Endlessly streaming in the chilly living room of Friday night.
This is how she always hid before: Bundled on a couch, TV flickering all hours of the night a slow burning technicolor flame that melted into her dreams until the insomnia lost its grip.
She hopes she hasn’t hurt others while trying to keep herself safe, a glittering glass cage that cuts both ways.
Rachel Cathleen Stewart holds a B.A. in English: Creative Writing from the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga. Sometimes her words get published, but she holds a rejection pile close to her heart.
Vitser already knew where she would have found her girlfriend. After all, Emma was not the type of person who would miss a chance to admire the Moon in the middle of a bright sky, even when all she wanted to do was lay in her bed, crying herself to sleep.
Indeed, as soon as she reached the stone roof, she found her, sitting with her legs crossed, as she looked at the Moon.
She was as beautiful as usual, to her mind, but she did notice something wrong. After all, the remnants of tears were still covering her cheeks, and she was barely closing her eyes.
Thus, she sat next to her. «Emma, are you alright?» asked, making her turn around. All she had wanted in that moment was to caress her face and remind her that things were going to be fine, but she avoided doing so. Emma needed to feel better first.
«Yes, I am,» she simply said, showing a little and faint smile. «Sorry for what happened earlier.»
Vitser chuckled upon hearing that. «You don’t need to be sorry.»
Emma then inhaled, letting the nightly air inside her body. «It’s just that everybody always expects great things from me,» she explained. «I have gotten used to this, to the point where I always make sure you can count on me all the time. However, it still does not feel great to know that I am not allowed to fail, not even once»
Vitser knew what that felt like. After all, people always had great expectations for members of the Haussinger family, and she would constantly receive criticism whenever she would do any little thing.
Therefore, she knew exactly what to say. «What is wrong with failure? Why can’t people make mistakes? How is everyone supposed to learn if not that way?» she asked, widening her smile as she spoke. «I have always thought that people just need to pretend that there are perfect beings out there. Sometimes, you need them to motivate yourself in trying to become like them, but there are also times where you need them to cultivate enough anger in knowing that, every now and then, it should be you to get what you want, or what you need.»
«That sounded like it belonged to a song,» Emma replied, almost instinctively. Still, hearing her beloved say those things warmed her a lot, and she was grateful for it.
Then, Vitser grabbed both of her hands, while still looking in her eyes. «Emma, I am aware of what happen when people expect you to act as a perfect being. After all, everyone thinks I should resemble a golden porcelain doll, down to every detail, including its delicacy.»
«That is a curious analogy, Vitser,» said Emma, as she looked down. Vitser wasn’t merely holding her hands, she was grasping her. She was worried about her, and that made her feel something special.
«I know of a place, in the eastern outskirts of the Continent, where artists would use gold to glue together broken vases, because they believe that highlighting an imperfection is what makes a thing true perfect.» «And I agree,» she said. «Is this why you always highlight strange parts of my behaviour?»
Emma freed one of her hands to gently caress Vitser’s blonde hair, which looked even more golden and brighter as the Moon and the stars were shining on her.
«When your hair are fuzzy and cover your face as you wake up, or when you forget a word and your face resembles a little bunny waiting to get feed, or even when you start walking loudly as soon as you get tired, you look like the most perfect person I have ever seen,» she said.
Vitser blushed a little, as Emma’s hand was stroking her face. A simple gesture that, yet, always melted her heart, whenever she would do so. «How are you so romantic even when you are sad?»
«This is what loving you does to me, Vitser,» replied Emma.
In that moment, Vitser decided to let her instinct act, and immediately kissed her girlfriend. They both closed their eyes for a few seconds, but that felt like one of the warmest kisses they have ever shared.
«I love you too, Emma,» she said, as she admired her once again. «But seriously, do I look like a little bunny when I forget a word?»
Emma laughed a little. «I always assume your mind thinks something like “I made a mistake, I better look adorable so it will be covered up” more or less.»
Vitser’s blushing intensified, while Emma embraced her. Now, all that mattered was that they were there, together.
The tunnel leading to the arena was dark and cold and clammy, and the hot wind whispered around the cracks of the door with the light.
Nemeliah’s heart pounded as she listened to the blare of trumpets and the roars the crowd beyond. She could just make out the shapes of the others in front of her, twitching and checking themselves. One of them, Merinda probably, was doing a bad job of hiding her sobs and Nemeliah alternated between wanting to hug her or slap her.
Beside her Binjay fidgeted, pulling at his armour.
“Be still,” she said.
“But it’s itchy…” Binjay whined.
“You’ll get much more than an itch if you take that off. Put up with it.”
“Citizens of Keeron!” the announcer’s voice boomed through the doors and Nemeliah went rigid. “Please welcome to the arena the contestants for the crown!”
The roars blasted in with the heat as the doors opened. Nemeliah squinted against the harsh light and started walking forward. She tightened her sweating grip on her spear as Binjay gripped the folds on her baggy trousers.
Handmaiden of Destiny, she pleaded, let my thread run.
They were the last ones out and as they reached the door an assistant grinned at them. “May Aspect grant you luck and favour!” she said cheerfully. “Have fun!”
Nemeliah just stopped herself from nicking her ankle with her spear.
They emerged, blinking, into a large earthen coliseum the seats packed with people cheering and unfurling and waving banners. Silken dancers covered in sweat ran out of the arena alongside people carrying large drums. The other contestants spaced out: Dandrion, a whip wrapped around his chest, waved nervously to the crowd; Scala ignored the crowd, her face a mask of focused fury, chakrams held tight in her hands; Merinda sobbed, arakhs loose in her hands and some assistants consoled her, as she was almost carried to her place; Eyroo stood tall, sword point down and smiled and acknowledged the crowd.
Boruc, a bandolier of knives wrapped around him and dressed in heavy armour, strutted about, grinning and blowing kisses to the crowd. He pretended to attempt a backflip before ducking out to laughter and cheers.
Nemeliah turned her gaze away and marched towards an open spot, Binjay trotting to keep up with her. _Ignore them, Nemeliah thought. _Just keep focused. Keep focused on what is important.
She halted in place and took a deep breath. She was dressed in light, leather armour, a spear held by her side. Beside her, her twelve-year-old brother Binjay was lightly armoured, with a helm on his head and a short sword held in his loose and sweating grip.
Nemeliah glanced up at the balcony that projected slightly over the arena. The balcony had a woven drape laid over the top, shielding it from the sun, and three figures sat inside. One was her uncle, wearing loose robes of purple and black and a crown of red and white, his expression stoic. Behind him sat the Games Master. And next to her uncle…
She squinted. It was the only white figure in the arena. White of face and white of clothes, an ornate jacket with gold thread bearing a silver insignia: two I’s shaped to look like a lightning bolt.
_The High Inquisitor? Why is that Neverbeen here?
A twitching brought her attention back to Binjay. His eyes were fixed across the arena and Nemeliah glared across at Boruc. He grinned at them and dragged his thumb across his throat.
Binjay flinched and turned away. Nemeliah put her hand on his back.
“Don’t worry Binjay, I’ll keep you safe,” she said. “And then I’ll kill myself.”
#
Yesterday…
She was about to knock on the door when she heard voices. Soft voices. She gently pressed her ear to the door.
“…if I and Nemeliah die, I want you to run away.” Binjay’s voice kept low.
“B-but that’s not going to happen!” The other voice, a bit hoarser, a slight rattling edge to it.
“It might. Nobody can predict which way the contest will go. Did your sister tell you anything before she left?”
“N-no…nothing…she just disappeared…”
Nemeliah stifled a grin and then burst through the door, causing the two people inside to jump in fright. “What’s this I hear?” she boomed. “Sounds like treason!”
Binjay’s wide eyes morphed into a glare as he recognised her. Behind him cowered a sancon about the same size, with white fur, two small horns poking up from his forehead and a tuft of fur hanging from his chin.
“Oh, it’s you…” Binjay muttered, relaxing. “It’s all right Tomay, it’s just Nemeliah being stupid.”
Nemeliah jerked her head. “Scram Tomay. I need to speak with Binjay.”
“Y-yes of course.” Tomay scampered towards the door. He paused as he passed Nemeliah. “I-I just wanted to say that I’m s-sorry that my sister ran–”
“I said scram.”
“Y-yes.”
Tomay hurried out of the room.
Nemeliah shut the door and flopped onto one of the mounds of cushions. Binjay glared at her. “You shouldn’t be so mean to him,” he said.
“Sorry I have little patience for them. Not after my best friend in all the world ran away.”
Binjay snorted in derision. “What are you a child? Of course she ran away, you and I would do the same.”
“We were friends Binjay. I never treated her as a slave.”
“No. But maybe she noticed the way you got mad as a kid and broke your toys. Maybe she wondered what might happen if you got mad at her.” He regarded her. “You could choose to be her friend. She couldn’t.”
Nemeliah waved her hand in irritation. “We have more important things to discuss.” She leaned forward. “The Tournament is tomorrow and you’re going to be the winner.”
Binjay slumped slightly.
“Why? What’s the point of me surviving?”
“Because you’re my little brother and I’m not having you get killed.” She sat back and twisted her hands. “I thought you’d want to survive. If you have your great dreams of liberating the sancon.”
“Oh, yes, of course. That will happen. I’m sure the nobles, and the merchants and the advisers and Imperial Centre will allow that.” He scoffed.
“There’s more support for it than that. The nobles wouldn’t like it and some of the merchant guilds, but a lot of them do. And so do the commoners, I mean it practically already is the case in many of the rural areas. As for Imperial Centre, what can they do apart from harsh language? Besides you read Acorn’s speech delivered to the Chamber, on his project? Word is the Emperor is inclined to go through with it.”
Binjay looked away. “I know all that,” he said, quietly. “But I don’t want you to die.”
Nemeliah took in a breath and steeled herself.
No crying!
She took advantage of Binjay looking away to wipe her eyes. “I’m not sold on the idea either,” she said, injecting humour into her voice. “But there isn’t another way.”
“Couldn’t you win and then concede? I could spare you?”
“Only the winner lives. That’s the rule.”
“It’s a stupid rule.”
“Most traditions are. But there they lie as solid as rock.”
“Rock can be worn away.”
“Over a substantial period of time, yes.”
Binjay looked at her, tears stinging his eyes. At the sight, Nemeliah’s control slipped and her smile wobbled. Binjay ran into her arms and they hugged and held one another and cried.
Throw it into the Nowhereland, Nemeliah! What happened to ‘no crying’?!
“If I win can I build a statue of you?” Binjay asked.
“What do you think I’m letting you live for?” she replied.
“I’ll have Tomay build you a big and beautiful one.”
“Yes. Not as big as the Handmaidens, but close.”
They held one another and shook together.
There was a knock at the door and they pulled apart, Nemeliah wiping her eyes. Binjay didn’t bother. “Yes?” Nemeliah asked.
A Sabre poked his head through the door, tri-finned helm brushing the top of the doorway. “Nemeliah,” he said, “Grand Duke Keeron wishes to speak with you.”
#
She walked along the carpet towards the great door, two members of the Sabres standing guard outside. As she approached a man walked out, clothed in loose-fitting robes of red with an ornate hat. He had several rolled-up sheets of paper under his arm.
Nemeliah stepped aside and presented her palm to him as he passed. He smiled at her and drew his hand back through the air.
“Nemeliah, how are you feeling?” he asked.
“Good, Games Master,” she replied. “I hope all is going well in the preparations?”
“Oh yes, quite well, quite well,” he laughed, joggling the papers under his arm. “It should be quite the spectacle. Quite the arena.”
She gave him a tight smile. “Any hints?”
He laughed. “Oh no, I couldn’t do that! Only the Grand Duke gets to know.” He winked. “But there may be a few surprises in store for you.” He gestured to the door. “Go ahead, Raziel is waiting for you.” He carried on down the corridor.
Nemeliah continued to the door, her heart pounding in her chest and she licked her lips. She passed through the doorway and the Sabres shut it behind her. The room was large and semi-circular in shape. The carpet led up some steps to a throne and, behind the throne, the room opened onto a large balcony. The cool night air whispered in and Nemeliah ascended the steps and walked onto the balcony.
Grand Duke Raziel Keeron leaned on the balustrade, looking out into the dark. Noises of celebration and amusement wafted up from the streets. The moon shone down brightly and the contours of the three statues of the Handmaidens, facing one another at equidistant points of the city, were clearly visible. Nemeliah swallowed as she caught sight of the coliseum.
The place where she was going to die.
“Nemeliah,” Raziel said without turning around. Nemeliah crouched and proffered both of her palms. “If I find that you’re offering me your palms I will smack you.” Nemeliah stood up in a hurry and whipped both hands behind her as Raziel turned with a smile. He was dressed only in a loose red gown with gold accents and beige trousers. He looked strong, forceful, but weariness was visible in the lines of his face.
“Uncle,” Nemeliah said.
“Niece,” Raziel replied. He gestured to a small table and chairs on the balcony. “Shall we sit and converse?”
“I would like that.”
They sat on the chairs and Raziel poured water from a pitcher for her.
“How are you feeling?”
“Oh great, really.” Nemeliah drank and struggled to swallow her water. “My legs feel like they’re going to give way. I feel like crying all the time. And my stomach is churning and tightening as if I was menstruating. Though minus the stabbing sensation so there’s that I suppose.”
“No, the stabbing will come tomorrow.”
Nemeliah barked a laugh that verged on hysterical.
Raziel winced. “Sorry. That was a little close to the bone.”
“There’ll be lots of that tomorrow as well.” Nemeliah grinned and Raziel returned a tight smile.
They sat in silence a moment and listened to the noise of theatre, cheers and play coming from below.
“I’m sorry Nemeliah,” Raziel said. “I would have liked to have spared Binjay this, as my youngest brother was. Had I known that…that I didn’t have long left I would have abdicated sooner.”
“You weren’t to know,” Nemeliah said quietly.
“I wish I could have had time to arrange a hunting accident for Boruc…but the chance never came. And I suspect the bastard is too canny to be caught out with the old ‘look at that down there!’ and then punt him off the balcony trick.”
Nemeliah smiled. “Does that really work?”
Raziel grinned. “Oh yes! Happened to my cousin. She was the finest swordsman in these lands and we all expected her to win. Then my younger brother tricked her and shoved her off a cliff. She was hopelessly trusting and naïve.” His chuckle morphed into a cough when he saw the look on Nemeliah’s face. “Sorry, that probably isn’t helping.”
“No, not really,” Nemeliah replied, fighting the urge to vomit.
They sat in silence.
“Do you have any questions?” Raziel asked.
“Just…what’s it like?”
Raziel’s face flickered. “Like nothing you can prepare for,” he said softly. “You spend your whole life loving some of your family and hating the others and then when the moment comes…you take advantage of the hesitation in the ones that love you, and you struggle over killing the ones you hate. My eldest sister and I had that. I hated her, always had done and she’d never liked me and yet as we came to strike the killing blows we hesitated.”
He paused, staring at nothing. “I got over it fastest,” he whispered. “I guess I didn’t have any memories of her as a baby to hold me back. And then the fireworks went off and I’d won. Didn’t even realise we were the last.”
He was quiet. Nemeliah sat silently, not even wanting to touch her water lest the movement break the moment. Eventually, Raziel looked up, a slight expression of confusion clouding his face as if he’d just remembered where he was.
“You’re Boruc’s equal in combat Nemeliah,” he said, moving on as if nothing previous had been said. “In a fair fight, it would be very close between you.”
“So it comes down to luck then? That’s reassuring!” She tried to make it a light comment, but the rise in pitch gave her away.
“Well yes. That’s why I plan to make it unfair.” He leaned in. “It’s going to be the Island Game. Study it Nemeliah.”
Nemeliah was taken aback. “You’re…cheating…”
“Everybody cheats one way or another,” he said, dismissively. “You either win or you die. And I want Boruc dead.”
“He’s your eldest son.”
“And a monster.” His fist clenched. “I’m sorry, Nemeliah. I wish I could say this is out of love for you and Binjay, but I’m telling you because I think you’re best placed to ensure Boruc dies.” He focused his eyes on her, deadly serious for perhaps the first time in the conversation. “Don’t hesitate, because others may not; don’t listen to pleads or bargains, for they mean nothing; keep focused on your mission to keep Binjay alive; and remember that at the end of it, you won’t have to live long with the memories.” He sat back, head lowering into shadow. “Take some solace in that.”
#
Nemeliah left the room with the burning sensation working its way up her chest and she was just about to hurl when a laugh stopped her. She looked up and saw Boruc striding towards her, his sword strapped to his side.
“Ah, my father’s favourite child!” he said, cheerily. “Or maybe it was Merinda? Either way, you’re the two I’m most looking forward to killing.”
“Fuck off.”
“A cutting remark. I hope your spear work is better than your wit.” He grinned and looked down at her, Nemeliah rising to glare into his eyes. Their foreheads were almost touching, one grinning the other snarling.
“I will kill you…” Nemeliah hissed.
“That is the point of the exercise,” he replied. He slunk back and walked past her. She glared fire at his back and then turned to go.
“Oh by the way!” Boruc swung back and Nemeliah looked over her shoulder. “Did you ever find Selene?”
“No,” Nemeliah replied, gritting her teeth.
“Ah, a shame. You were both very close growing up. But I guess you can’t trust a sancon can you? I suppose we all have to learn that lesson at some point.”
“She’s an ungrateful bitch.”
“I can understand that sentiment.” He nodded at her. “Get a good night of rest Nemeliah. Anything can happen in the arena after all.”
He turned and stepped through the door.
Nemeliah shivered. What the hell was that about? More mind games? Or was he actually being genuinely sympathetic? She shook her head and walked down the corridor.
It didn’t matter. She needed to study. One thing was for sure though: heavy armour was out.
#
The Present…
Nemeliah looked down as Binjay shook her arm.
“Nemeliah,” he said. “They’re coming.”
She glanced across and saw one of the assistants approach. She smiled and gently took Binjay by the arm. Binjay clutched tighter at Nemeliah.
“Come this way,” she said kindly, prising him loose. “I’ll put you over here so you’re near your sister. Unlucky for you to have just come of age!”
“Yes…just my luck…”
“Hide Binjay,” Nemeliah said, keeping her place. “I’ll find you.”
He nodded and the woman led him to a spot a few metres away from her. Nemeliah looked around. All seven of them were evenly spaced, a few metres apart, looking into the centre. She inhaled through her nose to the diaphragm and then breathed out through her mouth, counting some seconds between each one, forcing her body to take on a natural rhythm and calm itself.
Grand Duke Keeron stood up. “Citizens,” his voice boomed. “Thank you all for attending today. We come together to witness the birth of a new Keeron.” He held out his hands to the combatants. “My children…niece and nephew…I ask your forgiveness for what I am putting you through.”
“Father!” Merinda wailed, as if in hope that he would reach out and spare her.
Raziel ignored her. “I hope that whoever triumphs will remember those who fall and bear the lessons they learn today. May it guide your spirit and bring you the wisdom of Aspect. To those that fall, do not fear. The Handmaiden of Destiny will guide you to your moment. The Handmaiden of Death will bring you to sleep. And the Handmaiden of Dreams…” He broke off, forced himself to swallow. “The Handmaiden of Dreams…will ensure your rest is beautiful,” he finished.
Nemeliah’s heart hammered in her ears and her gorge rose.
You know what’s happening… she thought, focusing her mind. It’s the Island Game. You’ve prepared for this. The others don’t know. You can swim, your armour is light. You can do this. You’ve studied it. You can do this.
“Now a moment of silence, please,” Raziel said. “To mourn those who we will lose. And celebrate the one who will be born.”
Silence dropped on the crowd as they bowed their heads. If there was any noise in the arena, Nemeliah couldn’t hear it over the thumping of her heart.
The atmosphere changed, from tension to anticipation. She looked up. Raziel was slowly bringing his hands up. Every eye fixed on him. Nemeliah gripped and un-gripped her spear, fingers tapping on the haft, hand sweating.
Grand Duke Keeron brought his hands up so they were either side of his head–
–he clapped–
–and the crowd roared as the ground burst apart and walls started to flood up from the ground. Boruc spun, pulled a knife and hurled it at Dandrion, catching him in the throat, and he continued his spin and hurled another knife at Nemeliah, who twisted her spear and knocked the knife away. Then the wall rose and covered over Boruc.
Her heart pounded as the walls stopped rising, creating a maze of separated partitions. The crowd was high enough up to see over it and down and they cheered again as someone–Merinda?–screamed and the scream suddenly cut off.
Nemeliah looked around her, panicked.
Where’s the water? Where the fuck is the water?!
Had she been tricked–no, no!–Uncle wouldn’t do that! Something must have changed, a last-minute change perhaps? But why–
It didn’t matter.
“Binjay!” she screamed, running to her exit. “I’m coming to find you! Stay hidden!”
#
Raziel’s eyes widened in surprise as he looked down. He’d seen Scala take Merinda’s head off and she now wove through the partitions, encountering a dead-end and then moving on. Eeyroo picked up his sword and cautiously approached the direction of Binjay, who cowered in his partition, unsure where to go. Nemeliah had panicked, and now raced out.
“I thought you said it would be the Island Game?” Raziel said, leaning back towards the Games Master.
The man looked apologetic. “Ah, I’m sorry your highness,” he said. “We found that the reservoirs did not have enough water to facilitate it. So a quick alternative was found.”
“Hmmm…” Raziel murmured sitting forward.
“Come now, Grand Duke Keeron!” Joshaman, the High Inquisitor, said brightly. “Surely the surprise factor makes it more entertaining for you as well?”
“I wouldn’t call watching my family kill one another ‘entertainment’.” Raziel glanced at Merinda’s corpse. He remembered picking her up and holding her after she’d skinned her knee. Her love of books…how she was still afraid of the dark…
He’d wanted to run down to her when she’d cried, and hug her and tell her it was all right, that she didn’t have to participate…
“What’s your betting on who is going to win?” Joshaman asked. “I haven’t seen the full running order, but I understand Boruc is a favourite?”
“Yes, I suppose in terms of the competition he is…” Raziel said absently, drawing his eyes away from Merinda’s body. Wait…where is Boruc…
He scanned the arena–
–his eyes widened–
#
Nemeliah swore and kicked the dead end and made her way back, noting the dusty marks of her footprints and turning the other way. Binjay! She wanted to scream his name but dared not in case his answer gave his position away.
“Nemeliah!” his cry pierced her ears. “Help!”
She ran, ran as fast as she could–
—please please Aspect guide me, guide me true—
–and rounded a corner into Binjay’s partition.
He cowered back against the wall, short sword held tightly but wobbling ineffectually. Eeyroo stood in front of him, sword down, trying to calm him.
“It’s okay Binjay,” he said, softly. “Just be calm. I promise I’ll make it quick.”
Nemeliah levelled her spear–
–Eeyroo heard and instantly whirled around, raising his sword.
“Get the fuck away from him…” Nemeliah growled.
Eeyroo did so, circling to the right as Nemeliah circled to the left.
“Nemeliah,” he said. “We don’t have to do this.”
“Yes we do,” Nemeliah replied. “I double-checked the rules and they’re quite clear.”
He gave a weak smile. “No, I mean we don’t have to exhaust each other. Let’s team up. We can fight Boruc together and then once he’s dead we can kill each other.”
Nemeliah looked at him. She licked her lips. The offer was tempting. She could use all the help she could get against Boruc, especially now her planning was thrown off.
Together…we could take him…
Her spear wavered and dipped–
–Eeyroo reached into a pouch and threw sand at her eyes–
–Nemeliah spun her body to protect her eyes and then ducked on instinct–
–Eeyroo’s sword whined just over her head–
–and she whirled along the ground, gaining distance and raising her spear again. Her heart pounded, her body shook. Eeyroo pointed his sword at her, their positions exchanged. The crowd exploded into cheers.
You idiot Nemeliah! You fucking idiot!
In the corner, Binjay wailed in terror.
“Well, that almost worked…” Eeyroo said with a lopsided smile, disappointment lacing his voice.
Nemeliah snarled and charged forward, Eeyroo crouching slightly, pulling back his sword with the point staring at Nemeliah.
Nemeliah threw her spear into the air, over Eeyroo’s head–
–his eyes flickered up to track it at the same time he swung, making his swipe wild–
–Nemeliah slid under the strike and raised her hand, catching her spear on its descent–
–and spun and slashed through Eeyroo’s spine.
He howled and crumpled to the ground, blood dribbling down his legs, sword spilling from his grip. He hissed in pain and tried to pull himself forward, reaching for his sword–
Nemeliah kicked it away.
Eeyroo sighed and moaned and rolled himself over, so he could look up at her. She planted her spear tip on his neck, keeping her distance, with her elbow bent so she could quickly and easily apply pressure.
“That was a dirty trick,” she said.
Eeyroo laughed. “You’re the much better fighter,” he said and coughed, blood bubbling from his lips. “Can’t blame me for trying.” He looked up at her and raised his hand. “Good luck Nemeliah.”
She stared down at him and didn’t move.
“Please Nemeliah, I’m finished. I’m not so spiteful that I’d try and kill you when I know it’s over.”
Nemeliah shook her head. It hurt, by Aspect’s Heart it hurt. “I’m sorry, but I can’t risk it.”
Eeyroo looked more pained than when she cut his spine. “That’s okay,” he said, dropping his arm. “I understand. Binjay!” he called. “I’m sorry. I hope you live.”
“I-it’s okay…” Binjay said.
Eeyroo looked at Nemeliah. “Whatever you do, make sure Boruc dies.”
Nemeliah nodded. Then she applied pressure and cut off Eeyroo’s head.
She looked at the blood pooling out from his neck and being absorbed into the earth. She ignored the cheering of the crowd.
She just stood.
Then she shook her head and grabbed Binjay’s arm and pulled him after her. He was crying and couldn’t take his eyes off Eeyroo’s body.
“Come on,” she said. “By my reckoning, there’s two left. Hopefully, Scala and Boruc have mortally wounded one another.”
And then I can get rid of these memories.
#
Cautiously they rounded the corner into Boruc’s partition.
Scala looked over at her in surprise.
“Nemeliah?” she said. “Did you kill Boruc? If not we can team–”
Nemeliah threw her spear at her. Panicked, Scala raised her chakram to block and the spear flew through the hole in the centre and split her skull. She dropped back onto the ground and Nemeliah walked over and tugged the spear out of her head.
Binjay shivered at the edge of the partition, breathing hard, cold sweat slacking his skin. He took his helm off and it dribbled off his fingers and he tried to breathe deeply.
“Boruc must be left…” Nemeliah mused. “Scala didn’t kill him then, more’s the pity…Neither had Eeyroo. So where is the bastard…?”
“Nemeliah…look…”
Binjay pointed at a wall and she frowned at it. A series of knives were planted into the wall, stuck in deep, running from the ground up to the top of the wall. The way they were placed made them look like…
…look like footholds…
Nemeliah’s breath caught, her eyes widened–
–Boruc wore heavy armour–
–Boruc brought knives but his favourite is the sword–
—“Anything can happen in the arena after all”—
–The Games Master winked–
–“There may be a few surprises in store for you!”–
Boruc…Boruc knew!
She spun around, face contorting in terror–
“Binjay! Run!” she screamed.
Binjay didn’t have time to register her words, only her expression before the knife split the air and smashed into his head.
He toppled to the side as Nemeliah ran to him, screaming, all sense of where she was forgotten–
A shadow fell on her and she turned in time to see a glint of steel and she instinctively raised her arm to block–
–and Boruc severed her left arm at the elbow.
Nemeliah screamed as she spun away, blood droplets arcing in the sky, as her arm tumbled to the ground. She roared with rage and spun back, lashing out at Boruc with her spear, but her strikes were wild and telegraphed and he blocked them easily with his long knives before sweeping past her guard and slashing precisely at her face, taking out her right eye.
She didn’t feel pain. Just shock and disorientation at the immediate loss of vision on her right side. She could feel blood leaking down her cheek and dribbling out of her severed arm. She dropped her spear, staggered forward a few steps towards Binjay, Binjay who wasn’t moving.
At least it was quick, she thought as she collapsed to her knees.
She heard a sigh behind her, as the crowd fell quiet in anticipation.
“Ah, Nemeliah…” Boruc said. “I’m…Six Tits of the Handmaidens I’m disappointed!” He shook his head and walked in front of her. She looked up, squinting into the light, just able to make out his face. “I’d been anticipating this for so long, Aspect’s Balls I was even nervous about it! The two best clashing. A fight for the ages! With the roars of the crowd! And then it’s just…it’s just over…” He gave a helpless shrug. “I can’t believe you let me down like this.”
“Just get it over with,” Nemeliah croaked, not caring that she was crying.
Boruc sighed. “All right.” He raised his knife. “Do you have a preference? Through the heart? Throat cut? I’d offer to take the head off but this thing isn’t really good for it.”
Nemeliah dropped her head. She was so tired.
“All right, throat cut it is.” Boruc moved over and stood behind her. He clasped her forehead and tilted it back, exposing her throat.
She’d done her best. But there was no point struggling now Binjay was dead. She’d join him soon. She’d done her best.
The knife whined as he flourished it down to her throat.
Boruc had an unfair advantage in the end. There wasn’t anything she could–
“Oh shit! Shit! I nearly forgot!” Boruc shouted, smacking himself on the leg and drawing the knife away.
Nemeliah let out a pained groan, her head slumping.
Why couldn’t he just kill her?
“You see I had this thing I wanted to tell you!” Boruc said, shaking his head and laughing at his own silliness. “But I almost forgot. I thought we were going to have this epic battle and then when we were both wounded and exhausted I was going to throw this at you and set up the finale. But you went down so easily it slipped my mind! But I remembered just in time!”
“I’m so happy for you…”
Boruc crouched in front of Nemeliah. He tilted up her head with a finger so she could see his grin.
“It’s about Selene, your best friend, the bitch. She never ran away; I kidnapped her.”
The world went quiet. It went dark. Nothing was left except Boruc’s gleaming eyes and gleaming smile.
“What…?” The word slurred as it left her lips.
“Yeah, I grabbed her and locked her in one of the abandoned dungeons. I told her you were looking for her. Man, the things she did for a bit more bread and water.” He chuckled.
The world started coming back into focus, Boruc became more than smile and eyes, he became a face, something she could hit–
“By Aspect, I was so annoyed that I hadn’t kept her alive when you gave me the bitch comment, it would have been great to see the expression on her face!”
–Nemeliah’s lips peeled back, strands of spittle connecting her teeth, her eyes narrowing–
“But I haven’t fed her in months so she’s definitely dead…I did once not feed her for two weeks and came back to discover she’d eaten her fingers! Imagine that! A herbivore!”
–her hand scrabbled in the sand, trying to find something, anything, and they alighted on some stiffening fingers–
“But she always believed that if she held on you would sweep in and save her.” He shook his head. “Tragic…anyway,” he continued brightly, flipping the knife, “I thought you should know that. Might ease your passage back to Aspect to know–”
Nemeliah screamed and swung her severed arm, smashing it into the side of Boruc’s head.
He crashed to the ground, knife spilling, and screamed, disorientated. “Fuck! You piece of shit!”
He heard a roar behind him and he turned to see Nemeliah leap onto him, holding his knife. She drove it down at his face and Boruc caught her arm and tried to hold the point away as it pushed towards his eye. Spit bubbled from Nemeliah’s lips as she howled and pushed, pushed the knife until the point inched into Boruc’s eye, which burst like a ripe grape.
Boruc screamed and pushed back, snarling, fighting–
–Nemeliah slammed her stump onto the pommel and drove the knife through Boruc’s skull.
He went still, brain split.
She stumbled back, panting, sweating and she collapsed to her knees and screamed at the sky in hatred and self-loathing as the crowd erupted and the fireworks exploded.
#
They watched the medics flood into the arena and grab Nemeliah as she screamed and kicked and flailed, the crowd chanting her name and applauding.
Joshaman looked stunned. The Games Master’s jaw had dropped in horror.
Raziel felt tired.
“Well…” Joshaman coughed. “That was unexpected.”
Raziel gripped his chair in cold fury.
“Games Master,” he said voice like a sea of sand.
The Games Master gulped.
“I suggest you run far and fast.”
The man didn’t bother trying to protest. He just stumbled to his feet and fled.
#
The crown of red and white was placed onto her head. She sat on the throne, a bandage wrapped around her right eye and another one wrapped around cut of her left arm. Raziel stepped back and smiled.
“All hail Nemeliah, The Champion, Grand Duke of Keeron and First Assistant to the Handmaidens,” he announced.
The Sabres, lining the throne’s hallway, slammed their spears into the ground three times.
Nemeliah stood. “Bring him forward,” she said.
Two guards brought Tomay forward, manacles clamped on his wrists. He stumbled, and fell to his knees before the throne, eyes wide and fur matted.
Nemeliah stepped down to him.
“G-Grand D-Duke N-Nemeliah,” Tomay bleated, white showing in his eyes. “I-I’m so sorry about Binjay. He was…he was a great friend. And I’m sorry a-about my sister, but I-I swear I will n-never–”
Nemeliah flourished a key and unlocked the manacles. They clattered to the floor. Tomay looked down at them in surprise and then back up. Nemeliah smiled at him and then she stood.
“Let this be a symbolic moment!” she declared. “From now on, all sancon in Keeron are to be freed. As Grand Duke, I will not suffer or tolerate the holding of slaves in this territory. Send the word.”
The Sabres bashed their spears on the ground, and they filed out of the room. Raziel walked over to Nemeliah and put a hand on her shoulder. “You will make a very fine Grand Duke,” he said.
Nemeliah snorted. “Yeah, for all of the five months the nobles and the Inquisition will let me sit in the seat,” she replied.
“Oh, their bark is worse than their bite. You’ll manage.” He looked at her and seemed on the verge of saying something else, then decided against it. “Right, I’m off to work on my Siege skills.” He left the room, humming a soft tune.
It was just Nemeliah and Tomay and she smiled down at him as he looked up confused. She reached down her hand. “Tomay. I hope you can forgive me for frightening you with that gesture?”
He took her hand and she helped him to his feet. “I-it was–”
“You can speak freely.”
“It was a s-shitty thing to do.”
Nemeliah laughed. “That it was.” She put her arm around his shoulder and they walked to the balcony. The cool breeze of the morning whispered over them with the haze of the newly risen sun and halo. The streets below were quiet.
“Binjay said you were good with sculpture?” Nemeliah said.
“Oh, well, I don’t know about ‘g-good’. I made some things out of clay but…”
“I want to build a statue of Binjay. A decent size, but not quite as large as the Handmaidens.”
“I-I think he would have hated that…” Tomay said. He quirked a slight smile. “But it would g-get him back for that time he stole my piece of cherub fruit…”
Nemeliah laughed. “Did he really? Little holier-than-thou bastard…” She stared into the distance. She swallowed and held back the tears. “But first…I need to talk to you about your sister…and tell you how very sorry I am. And how I’m going to make things up to her memory.”
Round and round you go. Where do you get off? You ought to know. From the lips slips a curse, the chaos predetermined. An engineered nightmare of comings and goings. Creeping closer, an instantaneous choice to be made. To the right? To the left? Beyond the linear threshold, the mind screams. No one hears. Who even cares? Beware the drifter who refuses to settle upon a course for their indiscriminate judgments misdirect traffic, corruption of a polite and steady flow. From one driver to the next, hitting the road day in and day out, please learn to drive–a roundabout.
Ciao from Italia. You can read C.F. Bernini’s work, both fiction and nonfiction (in English and Italian), online and in print. Follow her on Twitter: @FergusonBernini and Facebook: CFergusonBernini.
The origin of all which is seemingly constructed should be considered in its entirety, as should that out of which what is in question is made; therefore, a brief definition of the terms to be considered is required. Despite this preliminary requirement, it is necessary to recall the purpose before we engage ourselves in the prospective issue—being respectively, the composition of salsa and what can be considered a part of salsa before the additions change the basic formation of salsa (and therefore arrest the status of the dish in question). Salsa is a versatile creation that, despite needing to comply with certain unchangeable rules, is free to be experimented and tinkered with and could indeed contain meat.
To start: the definition. Salsa is, as defined by the Cambridge Dictionary, “a spicy sauce made esp. of tomatoes, onions, and chilies, that you put on Mexican foods.”[1] What is in question is not the composition itself, but what specifically is in and can be included in the composition. We are, with reference to the preceding quote, all in agreement with what salsa is, but not of what salsa can be made. Since there are salsas without tomatoes[2],[3], it is clear that tomatoes are not necessary. If we look back on the provided definition from the Cambridge dictionary, we see that the ingredients listed (tomatoes, onions, and chilis) are marked as “esp.”, meaning “especially”, or in other words, particularly. Yes, there are other possible translations of the word in question but let us first look at the implications. Other definitions of “especially” are focused on the necessity or the significance of the item in question. Now, since the necessity has been refuted (see footnote 2), we are left with second and last remaining option: the significance.
The significance of an item is difficult to prove, but I will nonetheless attempt to do so, as it is necessary to our argument. To begin we will re-examine the provided definition for salsa: “a spicy sauce made esp. of tomatoes, onions, and chilies, that you put on Mexican foods.”[4] Clearly, when examining the definition closely, we find that salsa, like salad, is quite versatile. We need to keep in mind that salsa means “sauce” in Spanish[5], along with other forms of the word “sauce” (such as gravy when combined with meat[6] and the salsa which we are discussing[7]). Since we are only discussing the composition of the last definition, we will discard the two former translations.
Given that the word in question is translated to mean what we associate to be salsa, we now can infer that our definition of salsa differs from the traditional Spanish definition of salsa, for if the two concepts were one and the same, there would be no differentiation between the two. In the interest of further explanation and clarification, allow me to go off on a tangent. A number (x) of concepts, when completely similar in every fashion, become one through their one-ness—their similarity. When there is even the slightest significant difference [excluding descriptors—adjectives, adverbs, and the like (and therefore bringing our x number of concepts about which this side-note concerns itself to the most basic ideas with some allowance for specificity and directness)—and other forms of designation including especially enumeration and related concepts] between x number of concepts, there is a need for differentiation and specification. When the difference is not necessary in any form, then the specification is not needed and not included. Imagine now that the concepts are the words salsa and its American adoption. By this logic, we know that the definitions for the Spanish word salsa and the adopted form of the same word are different. One refers to the original idea of the dish,
and the other refers to the adopted concept of the “original” idea. The difference lies in their significance—the intent or the minute details of each form and meaning of the word.
It has been proven that the words of the Mexican (being related to the Spanish language) and American dialects are significantly different, but we must now ask ourselves from where the divide originates. In the last paragraph, I claimed that what we are currently discussing was due to the minute details of each form and meaning of the word. This is a base fact and will be scrutinized in detail. To start, that which a word is can be clarified by its use. Granted, not simply anything would go in the salsa, for Mexican cuisine is specific (like many other, if not all, cuisines) and uses certain basic ingredients for the majority of its cooking. We see that the Mexican cuisine is largely based off maize with various vegetables and fruits[8]. This is certainly true and is applicable to both definitions of salsa. The majority of something does not need to be included in all that is considered to be part of that from which the majority obtains it status. This is to say that, of a group, the majority does not fully represent the group, nor can it be said that So that this fact may labeled as true, we will now consider figure 1 and figure 2 for a moment, which are respectively shown below.
Figure 1: Figure 2:
Figure 1[9] depicts a triple Venn diagram with items A, B, and C. Figure 2[10] depicts Venn diagrams A, B, and C with items A and B shown in different relationships. In figure 1, we see that items A, B, and C are a majority in their most pure form (meaning where they do not overlap with any other items), but the items in question are not exactly like their combined forms (i.e. the parts that overlap with other items). It is precisely the observable and variable difference and similarity in each group (when, of course, compared with another of the same diagram) that warrants the specification, for without the specification of , we would not be able to differentiate between item A, item B, and the conjoined item that is .
This is the logic behind the separation and distinction of the other items. In figure two, we observe just that being applied, albeit in a more complicated manner. The sections labeled as “Unique to [item]” are marked so to demonstrate their distinct nature and their differentiation from what is . This specific differentiation is similar to the detailing in figure 2, diagrams B and C. What is marked to be separate in diagram B of figure 2—specifically the area that is marked as is shown to be a different creation from , , and “unique to A and B”. This demonstrates the uniqueness of each section (with respect to what they owe their basic forms of A and B) in their nomenclature. In diagram C of the same figure, this principle of nomenclature is further explained by the use of a concrete difference between the two parts (represented by the dashed line). That which is is marked as similar to what is unique to item A, but is completely different in its A-ness and content of B-ness from what is and unique to item B. This last diagram C best emulates the principle of the difference between the majority of something and what is the entirety (all which has a share in a concept in any way, shape, or form) of the same thing. We can now say that the significance—the difference of something—is due to the minute details of each form and meaning of the word.
Let us now return to the idea of salsa—a traditionally spicy sauce made especially of tomatoes, onions, and chilis. The definition of “especially” as “significantly” is somewhat lacking in clarity here. It—being “especially”—has been proven to read “a major (common) component of which is”, if you will recall paragraphs 2 and 3. Given the proof that majority components are not always present in all that exists of a certain item, we can now infer that salsa being open to many different cuisines does exist. Indeed, this includes different ingredients of the same cuisine, since we have proven that salsa is not limited to even those most basic listed ingredients. We must now explore what makes salsa that which it is in an attempt to find the point at which it ceases to become salsa and becomes instead some foreign creation.
For the Americans, the salsa which we know is (in majority) pico de gallo or salsa cruda, which are both traditionally raw mixes of tomatoes, onions, cilantro, chilis, and occasionally lime juice or salt. These “off-brand” condiments are typically found in grocery stores or any given non-authentic Mexican restaurant. These salsas are only a small look into the entirely of salsa in Mexican cuisine. It is clear that any cuisine, when forced to contact another, adapts slightly to meet that new stimulation. This has been done with Mexican food and American food. For example, look at Taco Bell. This Americanized fast-food restaurant is surely not wholly Mexican in its food, nor is it entirely American. It is Mexican-American, like the salsa we find in our stores and in American culture today[11]. With this information, we can reasonably extrapolate that the Mexican-American salsa found in our stores and on our shelves are not authentic in their wholeness, nor can or should they be expected to speak for what makes true salsa be so great. This demonstrates that the Americanized form of salsa is not fully American, nor is it fully Mexican. It is, in other words, not “unique to B”, to reference the charts from earlier. We have answered one part of the previous question, but we are still left with, “What constitutes real salsa?” To answer this, we will start at the beginning and apply our recently gained knowledge.
Traditionally, salsa was a simple combination of tomatoes, chilis, and other spices that can be traced back to the Aztecs, the Mayans, and the Incas[12]. The dish was probably used as an aid in warding off or curing maladies, for, “[the chilies] stimulate the digestive organs, especially the liver."[13] Now, this is of no real value that directly concerns the answer to our question, but it does reveal that the origins were quite simple, which gives up some quite important information. This very first idea of the condiment cannot be expected to answer our question, for all modern salsas would be ruled out on the basis of differing ingredients alone (setting aside the intent and the formation of the more modern versions). We now know that the most ancient idea of salsa is not what it is today. We also know that this makes clear the point of origin of the idea of salsa.
The vast variety of salsas indicate that the idea of salsa is up for interpretation. Different people certainly have ideas on what does and what does not constitute a salsa. Perhaps salsa is definite and there is only one form of salsa. Perhaps salsa is a variation on Sorites’ Paradox. What’s clear is that salsa does have some basic rules that act as a guideline to creating and adding ingredients to a salsa. This is where we will answer our question, in an attempt to make explicit those rules. Firstly, it is clear that salsa must be fresh. The second rule, however, is more difficult. The cooking and subsequent canning or jarring of salsa that is cruda is not permissible. To clarify, the cooking of the entirety or of the ingredients of a salsa cruda defeats the purpose of such a salsa. It is, however, possible to grill the salsa or to bake it as part of another dish in the Mexican cuisine[14] (and so an amendment must be made). The second rule must then be that salsa may not be cooked or grilled independently, but only as a whole; though, the ingredients themselves may be cooked or grilled independently before assembly. Thirdly, the base must be of a fruit or vegetable, and so must the majority of the dish. Meat may be used as a base,but then the salsa becomes what English calls “gravy”, and the “salsa” would therefore become a sauce. As this does not form a distinct category from the salsa that is of a Spanish or Mexican definition, it is still technically a salsa (but not one that is recognized as so by the English language). The fourth rule is that “wet” or dried (but fresh) ingredients make no difference, as long as the salsa can serve its intended purpose. The fifth rule is that spices, herbs, and peppers are mandatory in at least some context or form of presence. For the sixth and final rule, the salsa may be chunky, but may not be too watery, as too much liquid defeats the purpose of calling the concoction a salsa and turns it into what is better recognized as a sauce or marinade. As long as these basic rules are followed, anything can be added into a salsa (such as a meat product or some invention on a grain) and the creation may be called such. Logically, once the rules have been breached, it cannot be designated as salsa.
Simply put, salsa is a complex creation with many centuries of development and experimentation behind it. Our ultimate question has been answered; we know that a salsa must adhere to a set of rules (which are ultimately more like guidelines) that govern the status of the dish. We have shown that the definition of salsa does not necessarily fit every form of salsa. We have shown that major sections or categories are not all-encompassing, especially in the realm of food and culture. We have shown that differing foods and cultures do have an impact on a dish, but do not completely re-invent it altogether. Finally, we have shown that salsa is versatile and has the capacity to be adapted to different cuisines and requirements; in other words, yes—salsa can indeed contain meat.
Works Cited
A Hyatt Verrill, Foods America Gave the World, p. 34-5; 37
Pilcher, Jeffrey M. "Tamales or Timbales: Cuisine and the Formation of Mexican National Identity, 1821-1911." The Americas53, no. 2 (1996): 193-216. doi:10.2307/1007616.
Smith, Andrew F., ed., Oxford Encyclopedia of Food and Drink in America vol. 2 (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004)
Word Reference, s.v “Salsa” accessed December 22, 2018,
[8]Pilcher, Jeffrey M. "Tamales or Timbales: Cuisine and the Formation of Mexican National Identity, 1821-1911." The Americas53, no. 2 (1996): 195-198 doi:10.2307/1007616.
Jack Snyder is a senior Philosophy and Creative Writing major at Susquehanna University. In his free time, he reads anything he can get his hands on, writes philosophical essays, and performs poetry.
All kinds of words, Big words, small words, Long words, short words. Words such as cantankerous, Which roll your tongue to a ball so fibrous, And others such as contumacious, Will mean that you’re not obsequious. I could say that Tom is confident, but where’s the fun? I’d rather say he has great aplomb—and a wonderful tan. Then there’s Mary who’s choleric, She’s always vexed if you’re not specific, But her sister’s generic, And it gives her a feeling oh so tragic. There’s also Jerry who’s slimy, creepy, and quite sycophantic, In other words, he’s effusive, grovelling, oleaginous – it makes him tick, And his unctuous attitude, I fear, will become a pandemic. Then right next to Jerry, there’s Julie, Who invited me for a repast and asked me to bring tulips, And Jane who’s a teacher who loves doing backflips. Lastly, there’s Fay who’s gone through many a vicissitude, And she conquered all, though with some turpitude.
Bio: Yvonne W is a writer/poet. Her work has been published in The Kalahari Review, Writers’ Space Magazine and Women’s Media Centre, among others.
Hawthorn bound his hostage in their chair, physically mimicking the bonds holding the dazed denizen of Pulp at the Pump Inc. in its corporate clutches. Earlier at the bar, St John’s Wort and Faerie tinctures leaked into libation had allowed the eco terrorist to use this hapless drone to gain entry to their wasp’s nest.
The workers knew they labored for evil. Why else seek a state of stupor after hours? Nudging the numbness sought for succor had been almost too simple. It reminded Hawthorn of himself, before he’d been Hawthorn.
Mind and soul chained to a desk grown cancerously from a bloated business body. Devoted through selfish apathy to stripping the Earth of its breath, so they could crush bark and branch into liquid engine movement. No leap without a fall, no progress without injury. Humans simply could not get the hang of harmony. It had taken a moment just like this to free him. Let him dance wild with the Good Folk, living for the first time.
Bert, name engraved on his plastic keycard, watched his hoodie wearing jailor with bleary contentedness, silent with the help of duct tape and sedative. Hawthorn had timed the dosage so any minute the woozy worker would return from Haze Mountain. He’d need the blind pawn aware shortly.
A ceramic shell filled to hold a sympathetically linked sample of the Earth was placed between captor and captive. The hiss of solid soil signaled the ritual had begun. Cubicles stretched hollow and empty around them, skulls in a field of manufactured bone. What better place to plant the next seed of resistance? He did so, a small man placing a small pip into a small pot in a massive hostile world.
His past self recalled the term hostile work environment, and he smiled under the scarf hiding his identity. Human Resources would have done well to branch out.
Words were needed. The Good Neighbors would hear, be drawn to the living tissue waiting to be birthed. They would feel the foe, revenge rushing their approach to eagerly enact threefold their traumas. Bert, still separate, was slowly sobering. Giddy bliss was sloughing off of the surface of his fear, it was nearly time to reveal what organism he occupied.
Crouching over the cauldron of loam, Hawthorn whispered,
“Come in the stillness,
Come in the night,
Come to bring wrath,
Come with delight”
The dark dust swirled as the seed passed on the poem. Tiny voices tinkled like broken glass laughing on the limits of his senses. He’d need to be swift, Bert would not have long.
Hawthorn approached his hostage, who had begun to struggle. Bert pulled against the zip ties holding him to the desk he’d once willingly fused himself to. The fight echoed in the air, and Hawthorn seized on it, fingers slipping around the ephemeral sensation as had been shown to him. As had been done to his past persona.
Knowing knots wove intricate webs, the struggle was tied to the seedling, and Bert was bound one more time. His fevered need to escape was redirected, as Hawthorn placed photo after photo on the desktop before him. The duct tape kept him from a reply as dignified as his suit, but enough words had been spoken aloud in Hawthorn’s opinion.
Green shoots pushed their way out of the surface of the altar-pot as Bert’s eyes took in the images of devastation before him. Each revelation took hold in his mind as roots spread in the sod. Sprite families fled metal mouths as their homes were chewed to chips. Pixies ground under treads and left lifeless as the land they’d loved. Centuries of tradition transformed into a trip to Cancun, or worse more machines to consume the natural world.
The pottery popped as Bert’s bubble burst, and Hawthorn could see in the man’s eyes that he was no longer bound to malice. He released his new ally fully as they watched with growing awe the tree that matched Hawthorn’s namesake take root in the office. It continued to grow, echoing the ire and resolve in the new recruit.
Within seconds it reached the ceiling, trunk tearing through filmy barriers. Partitions of the stagnant hive of industry were flung aside to make way for new life with gargantuan groans. Branches reached and scraped, defying the space and reclaiming it. The sound of joyous rebellion reverberated around them, and in their hearts.
The weight of wood became unbearable, the floor collapsing completely. Branches surged and the sharp nettles accompanying the massive plant swelled into swords.
Perhaps a few more words would be ok, Hawthorn conceded.
“Time to run.” he explained, and demonstrated the concept with celerity.
The two of them ran down halls designed by madmen determined to direct the course of humanity towards predictable compliance. Past the breakroom broken with snacks flying, down stairs uprooted from below, they sprinted through the lobby Hawthorn had entered so easily earlier.
Everywhere small shapes slipped and scurried along the tree, encouraging with words and pushing the growth by hand. Red hats and leafy clothes, slim bodies and sharp bloody teeth swarmed the growing maelstrom of bark and leaf. Mouths of magic and flesh wreaked revenge for their homes taken by metal monsters, happily ignoring the humans who had brought them.
Outside, Hawthorn slowed, and turned in the parking lot, tapping Bert and bringing him about. Before them the tree rose, shrugging off the trappings of big business. Roots churned the ground as a giant’s toes wriggling in sand. It reached fifty feet, then a hundred, only satisfied when not a brick or pinprick of plastic persisted.
Pulp at the Pump’s main headquarters was no more. Bert stood stunned, and Hawthorn hovered patiently.
“What happens now?” Bert finally ventured, eyes still stuck on the Good Folk celebrating in a dance circle at the base of the gigantic growth.
Hawthorn smiled, removing his scarf to reveal it fully. “Other organization branches will remove the remaining remnants, incinerating the insidious Internet infection to mirror their material dismantling”
He knew that wasn’t the answer anticipated, but Bert needed to ask the right questions.
“Other branches. Wow.” Bert shook his head and chuckled at Hawthorn. “I mean what happens to me. I’m pretty sure I can’t go back. Not after what I just saw.”
“Would you want to, knowing what you know?”
“No. I guess I wouldn’t. At least I know the rumors have been true. Nature really is sick of our shit.”
As police sirens swarmed, Hawthorn placed a bowl on the ground, completing the ritual with an offering of cream.
“Time to go, Calathea.” He said, straightening up, and making his way to a moving patch of midnight residing between roots. The Good Folk frolicked in the ruins, entirely ignoring the eco terrorist as he passed. Fae glutted on glee at Goliath felled and reborn as flora.
Calathea, as he was now known to nature, followed Hawthorn into Faerie. He noticed his thoughts had begun to mimic Hawthorn’s habits. It didn’t deter him, his new beginning beckoned. He passed into Faerie, and joined the fight.
Liam Burke is an independent spec fic writer. You can find his full body of work at ssjliam.square.site. Twitter: @ssjliamp
I am a multidisciplinary artist with background in classical piano, visual art & design, poetry, performance, fashion, herbalism and medical aesthetics.
You’d never know when you’re going to get hit by the artsy truck. I just got back from the gym. Slightly exhausted. I could feel the pulse ringing through my veins, as I stood there waiting for the truck, to get hit by it , amidst the road towards the soul. Is this a meditation or a rhythmic scribbling? Can I complete the story today? I need to go to the riverside shore walk leisurely, ponder over the varied experiences, that life brings you as a gift. Just then a distant blare is heard from the road end. ‘It must be the artsy truck!’. Knocking people off the road, that they never often rode. I walked into the road briskly, checking the time, waiting for my turn. Headlights from the truck engulfed the people standing beside the road. As the truck came by, it hit all the people that I know. It hit them so hard that people are tossed over, their skulls were broken, leaving them lying bleeding on the ground. They all bled but inks and colors, that littered the road. I saw the person driving the truck vaguely through the front glass. He had a hat and black shades, with a cigarette in his mouth. I waved at him cheerfully. With a screeching break, the truck halted before me. I didn’t wonder why. With words that lacked sincerity, I tried to mumble something to the driver. But the truck bypassed me with a blaring loud horn. It might never strike people, who don’t want to be real. If you ever find him today or tomorrow, please tell him, that I want to be run over by his truck. Peace!
Miscellaneous Jargon
No one really knows themselves, even though they say they clearly do. Of all the things that anyone ever said, there were things that no one entirely cared. When the words themselves tremble alone to stand out, the inability to express their face, a phenomenon that no president wants to talk about or discuss.
Beyond any sensory business, there is acclaimed to be something else, where we hear the sounds of our vibrating hands and see the sparkly fireflies emitting fire inside our heads. Is it something we know if our antennas are angled properly right? Unravel, unwrap the green blanket masking yourself for truth and jump down that valley, do you have the trust to plunge?
No not in you moron but some other self you immensely love. Misconceived concepts lead indeed to mad raves, which you regret in your hindsight. So, wave not save until you see that she could trade her soul and her hopeless dreams. You can cheat as well since this is not forbidden commerce after all. It is just a mere matter not for sale. Aren’t we all zombies living in bubbles, with varied colored skins, but similar aura and stink, waiting to pop out in thin air? But don’t shudder, don’t moan if you realize you are multifarious. You truly are and I couldn’t contain myself when life itself revealed itself one day.
Sense deep inward and outward until the senses fail to make sense. And when you think you need to escape this world just like semen wants to leave out a phallus, a baby wants to come out of the uterus, a pulp waits to burst out pustules, to come out of this boring reality, friend, you’re not alone as I too talk to my mirror every once in a while, how much I want to enter through them, globes inside weakly glaciers, pupils inside your crystal eyes.
Thanks for your fake concern. Just that I decided to reveal my thoughts, it doesn’t grant you any legal authority to judge, this pretentious intellectual fucker. If you think you know yourself a lot, should I trust you or suspiciously let you talk the talk until it’s over and see that it doesn’t satisfy my soul. But still, why do I think so much? Jesus, Buddha, Krishna, and Muhammad – often anticipate me.
Words
I never knew I had kin with the words. They were always there, waiting to call out for whatever endeavor that I’m in. They were always there when my friends ditched me behind that dark forest fire. I often wondered why? Why did it take so long to realize them? Why this camaraderie with this self-absorbed man, even when he pushed this world into a corner? Why still baring, when everybody stopped caring, about how I’m feeling?
Except for my mother, she thinks I’m one of her universes. Feeling magically blessed! When I hold my pen, I can feel their rejuvenation from within themselves. Almost thrilled as if to know who I’m calling to join, along with me, onto the world, through a blank dainty piece of paper. And I’m often excited too when I see them form a band together for me, anywhere, any day, anytime, to be a part of my mission to flip the world upside down.
They were there for me when the world chained me in my prison room. Now that I’m indebted to them.
And I visit them someday, try to meet their friends, invite them over to have a nice house party. Each one of them is special to me. And how mystically they form together, sometimes highly powerful that they embrace a glow within the paper, a fading glow that emanated from the ink that I bleed, from my pen, the bridge that they travel through the wildest worlds, from inner valleys to the tip of the nib.
They were there for me,when I was all alone, in those darkest dungeons of my life. And I hope they would be always there, quietly reminding me who I’m, when I ask the Universe ‘What’s conspiring ?’ Like a river that flows, let them flow incessantly.
Candy
‘Shoo away you Pixie Cupid! Why! you making havoc always ?’ Swirling in a revolving chair, my eyes met hers across the deck. Darts of electric fizz pierced the retinas blinding me, galvanizing the system down crashing, hanging, terminating my heart.exe Arrows were missed. ‘How in the wildest probability did this happen?’ wondered my wingman. The girl in the blue gown looked away gasping at my pervert gesture. ‘Do you feel the same ?’ With a choked mind, I deferred asking. The Introverted meek searched her number. Instagram, is the savior of lonely stalkers. Acceptance of my request rang merry bells. Lovely texts flew across the air. Halted my haughty interference by the adage “I’ve got a boyfriend!” Ships sunk deep, laboratories exploded Butterflies got drunk, beers and wines Earth tremored, losing in those echoes the fighter inside me refused to give up. Asked her out for a milkshake. Denied at once, affirmed seventeen days later. Chats filed up to lengthy textbooks. Hearing the owl’s hoots at night had good times laughing and fussing. She smelt like Candy, not a free spirit. ‘Should I try to win over her? Does she even feel the same ?’ Drenched in this desert rain, chasing all clueless mirages I know you’re lost just like anyone. Seven fishes in your vivarium know you better than you do, they whisper! Here I’m making the door stay open for you to come with me Come out to the real world for I am the oasis to your desert. Miles to go, behind on her ride, Untied hairs fall onto my face. She smelt like a Candy, not any free spirit I wished her to understand me ‘Do you even feel the same, Candy ?’ Hearts pounded, twisting my nerves. Guts failed to chase her. Hand-shook modestly cited out I “Let’s be newly found temporary friends” Candy nodded, beamed out widely I looked into her eyes for the last time. Crossed the road, walked the empty streets crying out loud inside, while she faded out. Have you felt anything, Candy?
Paracetamols
When I won a poetry competition my father drove all the way from his office to watch me receive the award. I refused to sit with him at first. I preferred a seat thousands of kilometers away.
He turned around and looked for me. His eyes were sad, unbelievable for his son refusing to sit despite an eternal seat he held for him. And I wished to ask him “Where were you dad when I most wanted you?”
My father circulated a photograph of the event, showing the neighborhood and his friends from work. I was embarrassed and asked him not to do it. He said, “At least you found yourself when others couldn’t”
The lady living in my neighborhood is worried, About my contagious poetic sickness. She warned her children, “Pop paracetamols instead of poetries, When you’re sick.”
And my girlfriend said she felt nothing after reading the poem. Although her tears weren’t fake. I said it’s not about you. She wanted the poem to be about her. It was about her.
Those who couldn’t feel any poetry, Unluckily popped paracetamols and sicked. Others found themselves in its spring. My father believed in its magic. I wish I had sat with him that day.
Aswin Melepatt is an aspiring Indian English writer from Kerala, India. He is a data engineer by profession and loves to travel, read, meditate and have a warm tea.
Murky windowsills of unfamiliar places exude melancholy with just about the perfect tinge of homesickness.
The kind of homesickness that is made up of all your broken crayons and missing playthings;
The kind of homesickness that simply makes you half smile and half sigh.
via Srestha Chakraborty
Lavender Haiku
Perfectionism blooms
Into a purple whimsy.
She knows her worth now.
Sunset Suburbia via Srestha Chakraborty
Srestha is a disabled neuroqueer artist from India & neuroscientist in-training. They view art as an agent of sociopolitical change. They’re also a singer & love academia aesthetics. Twt:Neurosresh
Unstamatic 