contest winners The Chaos Theory that is my life Rose E. Grier As the sunlight hours reveal bright facets of light through the hazy gauze sheer, I try to retrieve a little bit more of my soul as it reveals itself to me at a pace of one spectrum a day...or more if I’m sharp enough. I pray to sty in this moment that is now and ever changing. An ebb and flow of things that appear real and just may not be. To question it all is to waste that instant. A disorderly order. No premise. A life so filled with Diametrically opposed input. Confusion coupled with presumption. Anarchy married to speculation. Surmised conjecture whipping turmoil out of the guessing every one of us do to make sense of “it all”. Why? The biggest question becomes moot when I look at the big picture as the objective observer. It is so easy to get swept into the vortex that is life. She is so madly filled with the loud commotion of pandemonium. Assumptions and unruliness beckon me forcing me to query my direction. Love stands up for her rights without assumption, casting no doubt, my soul moves on. Zodiac Abstractions, Love Satisfactions Mark Passero Capricorn is very Horney and pointy, but never shy, always a sly guy. Pisces is sometimes moody, singing the baby blues or surfing the happily ever after waving watery hues. Aries ramming hard, behind its back yard, slamming head to head, never getting ahead, aching corns go to bed. Sagittarius flirting flaming arrows, running wild for scorching tomorrows. Gemini smiling like sunshine or pouring down like bitter rain. Aquarius sleeping upon soft pillows with weeping willows by their bedside. Taurus is big bronco bully, loud rodeo rowdy and silly cloudy. Scorpio stings for flings, ouch it hurts, dirty shorts and flirty skirts. Cancer clawing here and there, thawing from a fall, yawing a call, from its sandy stall. Libra weighing in and out, heavy or light, debating unknown delight. Leo roaring thunder, a big pussycat full of blunder and wonderment plunder. Virgo circling circus, vertigo beware, farewell from a falling romantic spiraling stairwell. Zodiac spellbound, Lovers blinded by clandestine fate, Dating stellar chaos, Choosing that pulsating Milky Way mate. SUBURBANIZATION Shaun Millard The wayward consumer constructed a strip mall on every block, packed to the brim with everyday needs. I wonder if downtown misses her gravel banks by the marshy swamp. Ducks soon became fountains and picnic benches. Now the water glistens like a hallmark card. The reef spray painted silver, sports memorabilia, and I pulled teeth semiannually. Ample parking concerns Dominick’s more. Mom and pop tombstones found in frozen food’s aisle. Starbuck’s sponsored the township library, please read corporate ethics with a mocha cappuccino. A lack of hills exist in the Midwest, but we had our own, expending burnt horizons, tumbling down the grassy knoll, collapsing each dandelion, one at a time, face first into man-made forestry. The architect must have roped off the root and planted. Snakefly trails measured one hundred yards, and a conduit edifice hums incessantly. Why does business shake hands with gardens? They are not meant to negotiate. Damita Kristi Petersen The smell of sour meat is everywhere. It is like a fur coat in her nostrils, thick and tickling her nose, when she goes out to the garage. It billows from her shirt when she comes back inside, as faint as this morning’s post-shower bath spray, but there. It emanates from the tips of her fingers beneath cigarette smoke, no matter how many times she washes her hands. She is on the highway on a cold February morning and she turns on the car heat and out it comes. She panics and thinks she should go to the police station, say, ‘I’m sure a mouse crawled up into my tailpipe or my engine to keep warm that night when I left the garage door open,’ but then they will notice that her registration expired two months ago, tow the car, and make her go to court. That is the last place she wants to go, ever since she’d screamed at that child in the supermarket and they had locked her away even though she had insisted that children were devils, they were out to get her. She insists her boyfriend still ring the doorbell when he comes to see her; he does not go into the garage unless she asks him to take out the trash, because the only reason she wants to go out there is to get in her car and escape as fast as possible. She tells him she feels guilty for making him do her chores, but the smell makes her nauseous now that she is pregnant. “I’m really sorry to ask you to do this for me,” she says, admiring his tall, broad-chested form under a black ribbed sweater that reminds her of the turtlenecks the Beatles wore on T.V. “Honey, I grew up on a farm,” he says. “Smells don’t bother me.” She hopes the smell will go away, and that her boyfriend will not offer to start looking for it, because she is certain that it resides among the piles of pizza boxes and garbage bags, empty soda cans tacky to touch, bottles of 10W-30 oil and glass cleaner. It has stayed in the garage so far, has not permeated the inner sanctum of her house, her bedroom, her guest bathroom. But one day she thinks it hovers by the door, begins to creep its tendrils under the crack. She worries about the upholstery in her car, if it’s absorbed the odor or not, if it’s begun to tincture the heavy wool coat she bought at the Salvation Army two years ago that is in dire need of a dry-cleaning. “Well, I honestly don’t smell it,” her boyfriend says, lighting up his cigarette and waving the match around in the air to snuff it out. He teases the neck of his green beer bottle, and his wide blue eyes are those of a fetal pig she had to dissect once in high school, glazed over and foggy. “But if it is a dead animal, there are three reasons it crawled in there. It was either chased by another animal and was wounded, in which case it would be hidden pretty well, or, it went in there to keep warm and froze to death anyway, which would mean it’s huddled somewhere, or, it ate something that didn’t agree with it and got sick and crawled in there without knowing it was going to die, in which case it would be the easiest to find.” She thinks animals are lucky because their bodies can be found. There had been no body to find after her last miscarriage. Nothing to bring her to justice, to make her stop. She sips her wine and considers taking a shower before she makes love to him because the smell is in her skin, seeping from her pores like garlic, and her armpits are damp and sweaty. The next day, she tells her therapist that she hadn’t meant to kill it, sometimes she just likes the needles and the knives for that is her religion, and he comforts her, saying that it was natural, her body’s answer to catharsis. When she comes home, her boyfriend has his jeans on, ones that he’s had for three years now but still look crisp and new and flatter his form, slightly tapering at the ankle. He cuts up boxes with a knife he found in the kitchen, because he does not carry knives or tools like some men do. “I just decided to start cutting one box at a time,” he says. “I can’t really smell it, so it’s really hard for me to pinpoint where it’s strongest. Since you smell it all the time, could you point it out?” She doesn’t want to, because she’s afraid of what they’ll both see when he pulls up the boxes and finds it, splayed and innards spilling, maybe even under the big shelf where she keeps her flashlights, laying on a mat of crispy dead leaves from three autumns ago. “You know, the smell just makes me sick,” she says. “I need to lie down.” She goes into the house, and she can feel his eyes on her all the way, watching her back. She knows he wonders if the baby is going to survive past the second month this time. She feels like he watches her, to see if she is doing something that leads to the same death, over and over again. She knows she isn’t supposed to smoke cigarettes, but she only has one in the evening, with the half glass of red wine the doctor told her to drink. She can explain that away and make him accept it, but she feels him still looking at her. She knows he is on to her, that she doesn’t want to have his child and keeps trying to kill it. She lays down on the threadbare cranberry-colored velvet couch and puts her feet up. She wants to put music on, but wants to keep an ear attuned to the garage, and now, she can smell it in her clothes. Strong, this time, strong enough to overtake her and make her vomit. Saliva, she starts to have too much saliva in her mouth, and she burps once, acidic, that taste of salt -- He comes inside. “I can’t find it,” he says. “But, you know, I did find this. Wasn’t this your childhood doll? Lazy-Eyed Susan?” She struggles to sit up, but it is hard because there is a lead ball pressing on her belly, maybe even a cramp, and the smell is overwhelming, oh my God| he’d brought it in with him, on his clothes, it had finally found a free ride, had seized his arms with its smeary fingers and hitched a ride on his white T-shirt. And she beholds the doll, its glass eyes smashed out, her clothes tattered like a cat-clawed roll of toilet paper, the kitchen knife that her boyfriend claims has been missing for seven months thrust up out of its heart. Carry Out The Oath Brandi S. Henderson Carry out the oath as they do, not as you believe. Your remote truth can only confer with itself. There is a feasible virtue in the clinical stark will of reticent words. A room spotless of bombshells. Learning to endure in this airless machine that imperils nothing. Desert comfort. Pace this singular side, where your outlying cosmos suspends whispers, unfurling. THE BIG MAN A. McIntyre I read the telegram. Marshall dead. Proceed Port Campbell immediately. So Marshall was dead. One of our best men. I lit a cigarette, wondering how he might have died. There had been an outbreak of cholera recently. I knew he hadn’t been well. Poor old Marshall. I remembered a large fellow, clipped mustache, very English. My wife brought whisky. I have to go to Port Campbell, I said, Marshall’s dead, I’ve got to close the negotiations. She paused for a few seconds, Oh dear, how awful. How long will it take? I don’t know, I replied, A couple of days perhaps. I stared into the dark, the oil lamp flickering in the slight breeze. Marshall had been very close to concluding the business. A matter of formalities. The consortium was about to control a quarter of the region’s gold. We were going to mine an area bigger than London. Negotiations to resolve, apparently some of the natives’ demands were still creating problems. I leaned towards the window. Below, jungle as far as I could see. The plane rocked and jolted, falling a few hundred feet. The pilot leaned round grinning, Sorry mate, storm ahead, we should make it, if not we’ll put down in Zindawa. I nodded. Parts of the land were still unexplored, there was so much potential. In the distance, beyond the Jirian range, heavy black clouds seethed with the light of a vast storm. The plane banked and we flew in the opposite direction. The pilot shouted, Slight diversion mate, we don’t want to be over there. I nodded again. Leaning back in the seat, I felt the sweat dripping down my face. I took two mouthfuls of whisky from the flask, followed by a long drink from the water bottle. Twilight came fast, the sky flaming red then dark blue. I dozed. A shout interrupted a dream of fly fishing in Scotland, Nearly there. I rubbed my eyes. We were circling. Port Campbell below, capital of the northern region, just a few shacks and a hotel. Towns meant nothing here. Three dirt roads to nowhere, a vast blackness beyond, and the river, its source in the western highlands. Far to the south, the sky periodically lit up like a huge theater. We landed, bumping heavily a couple of times. I thanked the pilot and staggered out of the plane. A huge figure was walking towards me. Caruthers? Yes, I replied. Name’s Brodrick, Moss Brodrick. We shook hands. You’re lucky to be here. The storm, he added, Should arrive tonight. We climbed into the jeep. We sat in my room, the fan creaking above us, outside a torrent of rain. Be like this for a few hours, said Brodrick, Nothing else to do but down more of these. He pointed at the beer. Well, I suppose we’ll have to make the best of it, I said. We sat in silence, the heat rendering all movement absurd. So Marshall, how did he die? I asked. Brodrick exhaled smoke, handing me another bottle, It was a game. A game? Yes, he continued, Christmas Day, they were playing a game. Who? I interrupted. Oh, some planters and Harry Morgan, he’s a local trader, well, he drinks a bit you know, and they like to rib him now and then. That night they were putting a dead snake on his car roof, and when old Harry left the bar to drive home of course he saw the snake. So he dashed back into the bar yelling about a snake on his car. Everyone laughed and said, You’re drunk old man, seeing things again. Marshall nipped outside and removed the snake, so when everyone went to see what Harry was on about naturally there was no snake. Harry had one more for the road, Marshall put the snake back, and the same thing happened, Harry came running in again scared out of his wits. They repeated the joke several times until Harry was frantic. The last time Marshall went out to remove the dead snake to give Harry a rest, there was a real snake, it bit him. Northern Taipan, must’ve fallen from a tree. He was dead within minutes. They thought it was his heart till they saw the fang marks, unmistakable. Poor old Marshall. And it finished off Harry, he left for England. Good God, I said. Brodrick turned and stared through the window at the rain, Yes, most unfortunate. By the way, this might slow us down, but things should clear. I suggest we get some rest, you must be exhausted. Good idea, I agreed. Stay in the room, he added, Keep the door locked, and here, take this. He handed me a .45. Haven’t seen one of these since the war, I said. Where were you? he asked. North Africa mainly, how about you? Sweat dripping down his face, he stared, Burma, then here. He waved and closed the door. I washed, climbed onto the rickety bed, and fell asleep lulled by the crashing of the rain, the .45 on the floor. A knock on the door. I touched the gun, Who’s there? A deep voice, Big Man him wanna you eat breakfast. Footsteps down the corridor. The rain had stopped. I opened the blinds. Dawn, the end of the storm, retreating clouds penetrated by daggers of light. The air reeking of hot soggy vegetation. I could see the blue lines of the highlands a hundred miles to the north. A rooster pecked at the mud. Brodrick was seated in the dining room, drinking tea. I hope you’ll forgive me, I already ate, hope you slept well. Thank you, I said, Like a log. Master Number One ready now, Brodrick shouted suddenly. A hulking native emerged from the kitchen. He placed a plate on the table and served a four inch Witches Grub, fried to perfection. Looks good, I said. This wallah fine man, said Brodrick. The native grinned and bowed. Well, dig in old chap, then I’ll fill you in on what’s happening. Good idea, I mumbled. I chewed the soft meat, relishing the smoky aftertaste. Brodrick lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. It’s very simple. Every member of the tribe wants a bungalow, a lawn, some gardening equipment, especially lawnmowers, and money to invest. I want the best for them, I hate to see them lose out, they helped us in the war you know. I recommended five hundred pounds each. Should see them through, they’re all dead by forty anyway. Marshall was very against it for some reason. Is that all? I asked. Yes, Brodrick replied, You need to drive up country with me and sign with the chief. I’ll be there, of course, you wouldn’t make it alone. The missionaries send volunteers but they eat them. Nice fat missionary roasting on a fire. Have you ever seen that? No, I replied, Never. You get used to it, said Brodrick, First ate human in the war, thought it was monkey till they told me it was Jap, liver’s the best part. Why do they leave you alone? I asked. Brodrick laughed softly, I’m the beer man, Imperial Breweries. I bring their beer, manna from heaven. We brew extra strong lager especially for them, sold nowhere else. Keeps them happy. It’s currency, they treat it like gold. You know what they say? No, I said. He watched me, searching for signs of unease, Strong man strong beer. Come on let’s get going, we must be back before night. The village was a three hour drive through an emerald landscape, the grass lush with the recent rains. Trees laden with fruit, insects, brightly colored butterflies the size of dinner plates. Birds of Paradise. Brodrick was right, I could not have done the journey alone. We passed tribesmen carrying spears, naked except for penis horns, bones through their noses, their bodies muscled like Greek statues. Very few whites had ever been this far. They watched suspiciously until they saw Brodrick, then they cheered, running alongside the jeep mile after mile. We were towing a trailer crammed with beer. By the time we reached the village, sixty or seventy warriors surrounded us. Brodrick stopped the jeep and yelled, Where is Big Man One Talk? Take me to One Talk Big Man. The tribe sighed as one, a vast exhalation, as a very old man was lifted towards us on a chair, carried by six men their hard bodies caked in gray ash. One Talk Big Man me lug beer, Brodrick ranted, Strong man beer for big men. The old man gestured towards me, What name belong him? This man Master Number One, him Big Man too, friend of King. Pressed by the tribe, we followed the old chief to the long house, the interior lit by a single animal fat candle that sputtered in the breeze, the yellow light flickering over hundreds of skulls lining the walls. For a long time Brodrick lapsed into pidgin, the old man nodding occasionally, then he produced a document with the King’s seal. All in order, he whispered, You just sign. I duly scrawled the quill over the parchment. Now we give them the beer and we leave. We want to be well away before nightfall. I smoked a cigarette while warriors unloaded the beer. Brodrick stood while other warriors presented him with gifts, a twelve foot dead cobra, piglets, young girls, mirrors, a pack of cards. I stared across the countryside imagining the mine in a few years, the biggest in the world, and it would be ours. Poor old Marshall would be have been pleased. Pity about the view, but there was plenty more land, heavens, we’d only just started exploring the place. The Japs had tried to take it and now it was ours, we’d got there before the Americans. Who knows what lay beyond? If they wanted bungalows, lawns, lawnmowers, a few hundred pounds, they’d bloody well have them. I watched a group of monkeys in some nearby trees. A dominant male was pursuing younger members of the troop. Fitzroy’s Macaques, said Brodrick, following my gaze, That one’s the Big Man. Sometimes, I wonder what the hell we’re doing, he continued, Damn pity how it’s all going to change, with the mine, I was really quite attached. There’s bags more land, I replied, You can always move up country if you want. But the monkey’s aren’t giving up their trees for bungalows and lawnmowers, are they? he interrupted, And they couldn’t care less about gold. I stared at him, Don’t be absurd man, of course not, they’re dumb animals. Six months later they filmed the opening of the mine, the excavations a gaping red hole in the earth. The gold was already starting to flow. The company’s stock quadrupled, and I was promoted to head office. And the natives have tasted the fruits of their success, droned the narrator’s BBC voice, Only a year ago these people were living in tribal poverty but today they enjoy a wealth which is the envy of anyone, all thanks to the Imperial Consolidated Mining Company. We saw a man naked except for his penis horn mowing a lawn by a bungalow. One of his wives was grinning at the camera, wearing nothing more than an apron. The narrator continued, It’s a lovely day, and Mrs. Bangalooloo’s off to do the shopping, the first supermarkets are on their way. LIONS A. McIntyre We docked in Southampton, on April 6th, after a horrendous voyage. I’d been recommended for leave after a bout of fever which had nearly done me in. I didn’t want to go but the Governor insisted, Come on old man, he said, It’s the only hope, you’ll come back right as rain. He meant, after all, that I might not make it otherwise. I was to spend six months recuperating in England, then I would return to the colony where I was Commissioner for the Ndola region, an area roughly the size of Wales. Colonel Mackenzie had taken over my duties. A thoroughly good chap, very tough. Owing to the heavy seas, I failed to rest adequately, and my condition worsened. By the time we reached England, I was too ill to stand so they carried me off the ship on a stretcher. Through eyes dimmed by illness and drizzle, I saw my brother and his wife. They hadn’t aged a bit. Good to see you Charles, I mumbled, Hello Marjorie. Charles tipped the porters, looming over me, He’s ours now Marjorie. Come on Jack, we’ll have you up on your feet in no time, nothing good Dorset air can’t cure. They loaded me into the Bentley. I had been away from England for ten years. Ten years in a land either parched or a quagmire of mud. A location so remote there were only six other Europeans in six hundred square miles. Sometimes, I wondered what on earth we were doing there. Ten years quelling tribal feuds, shooting the occasional rabid dog, playing golf, drinking heavily. If you didn’t want to catch malaria or sleeping sickness, they said, Drink plenty of gin and tonic. Ten years pampering Chief Lolumgulu and his wives with gifts of umbrellas and silk dresses, and the occasional bottle of single malt scotch whisky. Blended whisky wouldn’t do any more. Lolumgulu, without whose approval all the mines would shut down, Lolumgulu without whose welcome we would be dead. I already missed the old rogue. I’d been pressing the Crown to ban the hunting of Bushmen in South West, it really wasn’t on. You had to stay that long to understand. And why, after all the years of success, something went wrong in the mission, and the convent girls ate the Mother Superior. I was the one who found the remains, and shortly after the fevers began. The drums every night till dawn, the occasional roar of lions lounging near the water hole. No doubt that was why I couldn’t sleep on the boat. No drums, no lions. I stared through the car window at the emerald countryside speeding past like a film, the beauty like an hallucination. Charles saw that I was awake, You all right back there Jack? Yes, I replied, It’s good to be home. Apparently, I slept for days. I remember being woken every ten minutes by my brother’s wife and the maid bringing me soup and water, but later I found out they did this twice a day. Now and then I would see Charles standing in the room. Sometimes I slept so deeply they thought I was dead. I was able to sleep because of the drums. They started every evening at dusk and continued till dawn, a monotonous thudding like a carpet carrying my spirit into the other world, lulling me towards a cure. It was awfully good of Charles to see to it that there were drums, and I wondered who he was employing. Jolly thoughtful of you to see to it that there are drums, I said one evening when Charles came into the room. Drums? he inquired. Yes, I continued, The drums, without which I wouldn’t have a wink of sleep. The main reason I couldn’t sleep on the boat. Ten years hearing them in the night, rather need them after all, got rather too used to it, it takes time you know. Which men are you employing? Charles stared at me. Is there something wrong? I added. Nnno, no, not at all, he stammered, Nothing at all, rest Jack, you need to sleep. So you’ve been hearing drums? said Dr. Phelan, the Harley Street specialist. Yes, I replied, Can’t sleep without them, thought my brother Charles had Africans on the farm. He stared at me for a long time, And I’m told you witnessed something ghastly, quite recently? The Mother Superior, I explained, I found her. Quite, Dr. Phelan interrupted, Quite, I don’t need the details, we had a description in the papers several months back. Well, I’m sorry to tell you this, I’m sure you have an idea by now, you’re experiencing a complete nervous breakdown, the fevers were totally psychosomatic. If you want your sanity back you’ll have to rest. I’m prescribing prolonged rest in hospital, and heavy sedation. I was not the first member of the family to be done in by Africa. Just over a century before, great great uncle Horatio owned ships running slaves from the West Coast to the Caribbean. Inspired by the codes of the day, he stole vast amounts of treasure from the King of Benin. Told that he would be dead within six months if he didn’t return the treasure, Horatio pulled out a couple of pistols and shot the King. Horatio returned to Bristol with his treasure, and several large parrots. Almost immediately, he began to sicken. Soon he was confined to his bed, nursed by his seven sisters. The doctors were at a loss. He lay in the vast gray room, gradually worsening, mourned over by the women, teaching the parrots obscenities while his life ebbed away. He died at noon, on April 6th, 1825, exactly six months after he had stolen the treasures. Several weeks later, a letter arrived from the West Coast. An old friend and business associate, the writer was worried because the Africans were celebrating Horatio’s death with a huge feast. The day of the feast was April 6th, 1825, and the celebrations had started at noon. As I lay in the sunlit ward, doped to the eyeballs with whatever it was they were giving me, I began to panic. The drums receded over the days and weeks, until I was able to sleep naturally, and now I didn’t hear drums at all. Instead, I was hearing lions. Soaked in terror, I told no-one, but the doctors could see that something was wrong because when the lions started roaring around ten o’clock in the morning, and again about four in the afternoon, I shook with fear. Every day I prayed that I would not hear lions, yet every day around the same time, the lions roared. My condition began to worsen. Charles and Marjorie began to visit more frequently, they even rented a flat in Mayfair to be on the spot should anything happen. He must have got me, I mumbled to Charles one day, I must have done something to anger him, like Uncle Horatio. Horrified, I remembered that I had arrived in England on the same day as my uncle died all those years before. Surely it was more than coincidence. Who? quizzed Charles. Lolumgulu, I explained, It must be Lolumgulu. What on earth are you talking about? Charles shouted. The drums have gone, but it’s lions, I murmured, Lions. I’m hearing lions now, lions roaring, always in the morning and again in the afternoon, always the same time. Charles jumped up and started to dance. He ran out of the room. This is it, I thought, It’s over for me. The doctors arrived. Tell him, said Charles. So you’re hearing lions, old chap? asked one of the doctors, And at precise times, I’m told? Yes, I replied, Around ten a.m. and four in the afternoon every day, for some time now. I don’t know how long I can go on like this. And no drums? continued the other doctor. No, not for a long time now. Wonderful, said doctor number one, You’re cured. Cured? I inquired. Cured, he laughed, Totally, utterly, completely cured. You’re hearing lions because that’s the time they feed the creatures, we’re right next to Regent’s Zoo you know. I dressed and left the hospital within the hour. My first duty was to the lions. I gave a check for one hundred guineas to a stunned keeper, with express instructions to buy the finest meat for his lions in token of my gratitude. Then, after cabling the Governor that I was cured and ready for duty, I booked a cabin on the next mail boat to Cape Town. So it’s back to Africa, said Charles as we sat in a pub celebrating. Absolutely, old chap, I replied, Absolutely, back to drums and lions. THE SCENE BEHIND Inspired by a film by Eve Heller Bob Rashkow Rose-petal teardrops collide with rain-soaked ruminations in a delicate square-dance Dim glare from nearby trees and slight ripple of ponds help to spotlight it. A horse pauses to drink from a mud-puddle. There are hundreds of mud-puddles He can choose from There was much rain, but not now A stray dog eyes the horse, from a distance Everything seems to stand perfectly still, then re-arranges itself. Forest recedes into background. Clouds part, revealing hazy evening sun. Blackbirds fly haphazardly, in half-circles, They know how to come down but when to come down, they know not. Rain-soaked ruminations dance with rose-petal teardrops The ponds eye the mud-puddles The horse has wandered off The dog ponders and reflects The sun evades the closing clouds. Damp upon damp, overlapping under lap thing like a natural wake, or an ominous overture ? Shimmery surface haze golden dewy tell-tale wash dry pool ripple descend arise amend again, again... not wanting it to ever begin, Yet knowing I must turn for home, I stand, perfectly still, then re-arrange myself.