19. bohemia -- january 2014

January 2014• bohemia • 1

BohemiaBohemiaBohemia

Jim Henson’s Labyrinth Ron MueckAlice in Wonderland Monique MunozNew Year’s Resolutions Minotaurs

January 2014

Volume 4, Issue 1

BohemiaArt and Literary Journal

January 2014

Volume 4, Issue 1A New Year With A New Vision Welcome To Our Winding WorldA New Year With A New Vision Welcome To Our Winding World

2 • bohemia • january 2014

Masquerade 7 Elensgard 12

Once Upon a Dream 21The Hallway of Doors 26

A Crow's Choice 29String 32

Lost in Wonderland 40M.C. Escher 56

Heartfelt Words in Classic 62History of Goblins 65

Ron Mueck 71Behind Every Man 75

Minotaurs 78Writing Tools: Setting 80

A New Vision 82Olivia & the Star 88

New Year Resolutions 94Contributors 102


Masquerade 7 Elensgard 12

Once Upon a Dream 21The Hallway of Doors 26

A Crow's Choice 29String 32

Lost in Wonderland 40M.C. Escher 56

Heartfelt Words in Classic 62History of Goblins 65

Ron Mueck 71Behind Every Man 75

Minotaurs 78Writing Tools: Setting 80

A New Vision 82Olivia & the Star 88

New Year Resolutions 94Contributors 102

Contents


facebook.com/bohemiajournal

January 2014 Volume 4, Number 1ISSN No. 2162- 8653

Editor In Chief: Amanda HixsonAssist. Editor: Stephanie Rystrom

Fiction Acquisition: Gary Lee WebbLay-out designer: Amanda Hixson

Ad Sale Manager: Ty Hall

Writers: Pete Able, William Blackrose,

Ty Hall, April Henley, Jessica Purser, Sierra Sugar,

Jennifer Swartz, Gary Lee Webb

Photographers: CJ Hudgins,

Bonnie Neagle, Aoife Gorey

.

Bohemia

Cover credits:Photographer:

CJ Hudginswith Vember Photo

Models: Stephanie RystromLucidia Fera &

Jocelyn Fulbright

HMU:Alex WilliamsAddie Garcia

Shannan White

Bohemia is produced in Waco, TX. We take submissions from around

the world. Bohemia is a thematic submissions-based journal and

staff-produced magazine. Contrib-utors, please follow our submis-

sion guidelines

More information can be found at bohemia-journal.com

BohemiaJanuary 2014

Volume 4, Number 1ISSN No. 2162- 8653

Editor In Chief: Amanda HixsonAssist. Editor: Stephanie Rystrom

Fiction Acquisition: Gary Lee WebbLay-out designer: Amanda Hixson

Ad Sale Manager: Ty Hall

Writers: Pete Able, William Blackrose,

Ty Hall, April Henley, Jessica Purser, Sierra Sugar,

Jennifer Swartz, Gary Lee Webb

Photographers: CJ Hudgins,

Bonnie Neagle, Aoife Gorey

. Bohemia is produced in Waco, TX. We take submissions from around

the world. Bohemia is a thematic submissions-based journal and

staff-produced magazine. Contrib-utors, please follow our submis-

sion guidelines

More information can be found at bohemia-journal.com

Cover credits:Photographer:

CJ Hudginswith Vember Photo

Models: Stephanie RystromLucidia Fera &

Jocelyn Fulbright


Shannan White


Shannan White


Shannan White


Through dangers untold and hardships

unnumbered, I have fought my way here To the castle beyond the Goblin City, To take back the child that you have stolen, For my will is as strong as yours, And my kingdom is as great. Through dangers untold and hardships unnum-bered, I have fought my way here To the castle be-yond the Goblin City, To take back the child that you have stolen, For my will is as strong as yours, And my

k i n g -dom is as great.

You have no power over me.

You have no power over me. You have no power over me.

You have no power over me. You have no power over me.


Photography by CJ Hudgins with Vember Photo

Masquerade


The Whisper of Fingertips by Lewis Humphries

As one beneath the spill of moonlight, their essence braced against the cold, as slithered, silver seeping ignites the twilight’s mould; and hues the pale of winters drift, a deeper shade of old. No words are spoken in the moment, no trace of sound is made; Instead, her muse slow creeps, by whisper of fingertips, each hushed stroke a faithless promise, a temperate touch to coax his sin.


Makeup byAlex WilliamsHair byAddie Garcia &Shannan White

Shoot features(from left)Stephanie RystromLucidia Fera &Jocelyn Fulbright


Kaspar Wilder is a poet in spirit, with blue eyes and a love of mak-ing up words. She writes about small everyday moments, connect-ing them to larger concepts. Armed with a frank sense of humor, a sun-flower for everyone she meets, and laser eyes, she is happy, if often late.


It started with a wish,” whispered Tom, his fingers nervously grip-

ping the page. “And it ended with a –” “Lily, come back here. Someone, stop her!” “Bloody hell.” Tom’s fur-rowed brow rose above the pages of his book at the familiar shouting of Mrs. Flavorshum. “Now what’s got that woman’s knickers in a knot?” Peering through the dark, Tom noticed Lily running up the road toward him, her long brown hair free and wild, and her dress lifted above her knees. He blushed to see her pan-talets. Keeping a difficult pace be-hind her was Mrs. Flavorshum, yell-ing after every available man to stop her daughter. Several stable hands stumbled out of the barn with their

britches half on, hopping on single legs to assist. Lily was far ahead of them all. “Never a moment’s peace,” said Tom, tossing the book aside and jumping from his perch on the stone wall. He stepped directly in Lily’s path, arms out, and hollered, “Lily, stop!” “Tom, get out of my way,” she retaliated, not slowing her pace. “Boy, grab her,” yelled Mrs. Flavorshum, still a good distance off. Tom braced himself to catch Lily, when he caught sight of the wet gleam of her tear-stained face in the moonlight. His heart jumped into his throat. “Damn,” he mumbled, lower-ing his arms and stepping aside. Lily ran past him, frantically yelling, “Aero! Aero!”

Out of the darkness, a mighty whinny and thunderous hooves pre-ceded the arrival of a dapple-gray stallion in the field. Lily hoisted her-self onto the wall and leapt onto her horse’s back as he cantered up beside her. Then, with a swift kick, she sent the stallion charging ahead into the forest that bordered Flavorshum es-tate. Tom watched them disappear into the dense wood, just as Mrs. Fla-vorshum came to a heaving stop be-side him. “Boy, why didn’t you stop her? Do you want to lose your job?”

Faster, Aero.” Lily squeezed her horse’s sides in encouragement.

“I have to get away.” Try as hard as he might, the

The Labyrinth of Elensgard by April Henley


The Labyrinth of Elensgard by April Henley

close proximity of the trees and the nonexistence of a path made it dif-ficult for the horse to turn loose. Lily looked back over her shoulder, searching the dark. All she saw were trees. “They’ll be coming after us. I wish I could go somewhere beyond their reach.” Suddenly, as she looked ahead, a low-lying branch appeared and laid a powerful blow across Lily’s forehead, knocking her uncon-scious and off of Aero’s back.

My lady, do you live? Oh, please live,” exclaimed a roughly

panicked voice, which quickly fell into a whisper as it said, “He’ll have my head if she does not live.” Clinging to the strange, un-familiar voice, Lily pulled herself out of the darkness. Her amber eyes slowly began to open then grew wide as they saw an old man’s wrinkled face and beady little eyes staring into them. “Thank snow, you live, my lady,” he joyfully declared. “You had me worried there for a moment.” Lily let out a cry, causing the old man to cover his ears and fall away from her. “No need for that,” he ex-claimed. Lily sat up and backed away from him. She became aware of a cold sensation coursing throughout her body and frantically looked around to find the world covered in white. All around her there was snow, on the ground and falling from the sky, making her feel numb and senseless. The trees of the forest were gone, as was Aero, and anything else she re-called before hitting her head. She reached up a trembling hand, feeling the painful spot where she met the branch. “What hap-pened?” she whispered. “Where am I?” “You are in Elensgard, my lady,” answered the old man, busily

working on lighting a whitewood to-bacco pipe. Lily stared at him in bewil-derment. He was very short, unable to pass her knee without wearing his pointy red hat. He was dressed in a variety of animal pelts and colored leather, with an assortment of items dangling from his belt, including bottles, a telescope, and a compass. His long white beard draped over his belly and almost graced his toes. “Who are you?” asked Lily. The man blew a few smoke rings and then answered, “The name’s Fig. Fig Finnius Fig, royal gopher to his high lord, the King of Elensgard, to whom I am supposed to take you now. So, let us be on our way.” Putting his fingers to his lips, Fig blew a melodic whistle that echoed throughout the cold night air. At once, through the falling veil of flurries, Lily saw a shadow ap-proaching them, and there appeared a white fox wearing a small bridle on its head and a makeshift saddle on its back into which Fig hoisted himself. “Please, follow me,” he said, “My lord awaits.” Taking hold of the reins, Fig turned the fox’s head back the way it came from and nudged it with his heels to walk on. Watching them leave, Lily fi-nally summoned up enough strength within her to stand up and exclaim, “Stop!” The fox stopped in its track and the snow ceased to fall. “What is this?” Lily demand-ed. “How did I get here? Where is my horse?” Without looking back at her, Fig answered in a monotone, “Do not be afraid, my lady. The king him-self brought you here as a special guest. Therefore, no harm will come to you.” “Brought me here,” Lily whispered. She lifted her voice, “But why?” “You can ask him that your-

self. I am only his gopher. Howev-er, if you do not wish to meet with my king, if you truly wish to return home, all you have to do is cross the bridge.” With the end of his pipe, the old man pointed over his shoul-der in Lily’s direction, in response to which, a golden light illuminated behind her. Lily turned around to see two cast-iron lanterns heading a cobble-stone bridge. The bridge led across a vast frozen lake to an unknown des-tination lost in a veil of darkness on the other side of the ice. “If you cross that bridge, you will return to the woods from which you came, with your horse waiting for you,” said Fig. Longing for the familiar, Lily began to approach the bridge. “You should know though, my lady, that after you have met my king, he will allow you to return home. He will not force you to stay. He merely wishes to meet and speak with you, which quite frankly, is not a great deal for a king to ask of his guest. Don’t you agree?” Lily glanced over her shoul-der to see the fox and its rider mov-ing on, disappearing into the once-more falling snow. What do I do? She looked at the bridge, feeling the compelling force of good sense within her telling her to go home, but then, a grim look swept over her face, as a painful memory played out in her mind. Stomping her foot in the snow in frustration, Lily turned away from home and ran. “So, how far do we have to go?” she asked her guide as she caught up with him. Fig pulled the fox to a halt. “We are here.” The dark was suddenly illu-minated by two white lanterns hang-ing from the naked limbs of two small white trees. The trees stood outside a


great green hedge wall rising twenty feet high. Lily’s jaw slipped as her eyes climbed to the top. “What is this?” she asked. “The meeting place. My lord is inside,” said Fig, clapping his hands together. As he parted them, the hedge wall split down the mid-dle, producing an opening by which to enter. Lily nearly stumbled back in disbelief. “It- it moved,” she stam-mered. “The hedge moved.” “Things are not always what they seem here. This enchanted lab-yrinth does a lot of things you may find peculiar, but do not worry. It is perfectly safe. Try to keep up now.” Fig kicked the fox into a run, enter-ing the labyrinth and taking a sharp turn to the left. “Hey, wait,” shouted Lily, lifting her dress and chasing after them.

For some time, Lily kept the fox’s bobbing tail in her sights, watching it sway left and right with its respective turns. At the beginning of this little adventure, she feared a trap or an underlying scheme to do her harm as she traveled deeper into the labyrinth. Slowly though, her caution began to slip away, as she started to forget anything preceding this chase and thought it all a fan-tastic dream. At one moment, the fox’s back paws kicked up a bit of snow, pelting Lily with the cold pow-der, and she surprised herself when she heard a laugh escape from her mouth. Hearing herself exclaim such joy, she kept on laughing, unable to remember the last time she was able to do something spontaneous, even, dare she say it, fun. Yes, in a strange way, she found this chase fun, until around the next turn, she lost her guide.

The fox’s paw prints came to an abrupt halt in the snow, without turning left or right. There was no sign of Fig or his furry steed. “Hello?” cried Lily, spinning in circles. “Fig?” No answer came. Feeling nervous, Lily looked back the way she came, seeing her fresh footprints in the snow. Maybe I can retrace my steps. She rubbed her arms as she looked up at the green walls. They seemed ominously tall and close all of a sudden, and she wondered if they should move again. Perhaps they would close in on her and trap her within the labyrinth. And how should I escape then? How do you escape a labyrinth that moves? Tired and frustrated with her predicament, Lily collapsed to her


knees in the snow. “What am I to do?” she whimpered, tears collecting in her eyes. Suddenly, something snorted behind her, sending a warm wave of air over the back of Lily’s neck. The air curiously smelled of fresh spring grass. Lily slowly turned around then fell back in the snow as she looked up into the dark thoughtful eyes of a creature both mythical and fantasti-cal. Standing nobly proud, with its head held high and its horn point-ed towards heaven, was a unicorn, with a coat as white as the snow and long silver mane and tail shimmer-ing in the moonlight. It pawed at the snow with its silver hooves and nick-ered softly to Lily, who stared at the creature with unfathomed astonish-ment. She cautiously reached out a hand to touch the magical horse, her heart pounding. “I thought you only existed in the pages of books,” she whispered.The unicorn lowered its head for Lily to place her palm on its soft muzzle. He closed his eyes at her gentle touch and pushed into her hand, encourag-ing her to pet him. “You are real.” Tears traced Lily’s cold cheeks at the joyous dis-covery. The unicorn nuzzled Lily’s face, drying her tears. Then, he lay down beside her in the snow and

started curiously pulling at her sleeve with his teeth. Lily did not under-stand what he wanted. Suddenly, a voice fell on Lily’s ears. It was a man’s voice. “Climb on, Lily.” Lily tensed up at the sound of her name.Looking at the unicorn, she asked, “That was not you that spoke, was it?” The unicorn shook its head and pulled at her sleeve again. “Get on, Lily. He is here to take you the rest of the way, to bring you to me.” Lily felt her heart skip as she realized who she thought the speaker might be. The king. It has to be him. Lily did as she was told, for fear of being left alone in the alter-ing labyrinth and out of a sense of respect she felt she owed to a king that sent such a magnificent escort. She climbed onto the unicorn’s back, grabbing the mane as it got to its feet. “Hold tight, Lily.” The unicorn picked up a can-ter and Lily felt as though she were riding on the air itself. The unicorn’s strides were smooth and Lily thought how envious Aero should be if he could feel jealousy. She liked the feel of the unicorn’s silky mane thread-ed through her fingers, and she felt warm sitting atop of him. In time, the two broke free of the labyrinth and entered a garden graced with bloom-ing flowers in the winter season. “Oh my,” said Lucy, as she looked around her. Beautiful violet flowers clung to the hedge walls encompass-ing the garden and polished black marble fountains spouted in the corners. The snow continued to fall above, but an invisible force kept it from touching the garden grounds; the flurries simply dissolved away in mid-fall. “How odd,” said Lily, slip-

ping off of the unicorn’s back as he knelt down for her to dismount. The unicorn trotted off to graze a dewy patch of grass, while Lily followed a cobblestone path down the center of the garden. On ei-ther side of the path were white rose bushes in full bloom. She grasped one of the roses to pluck it from its stem. “How very odd,” she said, as she examined the flower, smelling it and brushing her cheeks with its soft petals. It was most certainly alive, and yet, the bush was frostbitten. The edges of the bush’s leaves were kissed with ice, as were the stems and the thorns, but not the petals. “It’s beautiful though,” said Lily, smelling the rose again. “And it’s for you, Lily,” said a deep voice that rolled throughout the garden. Lily dropped the rose, recog-nizing his voice. “Where are you?” she called, trying to sound brave. “I am right here, Lily.”Lily glanced ahead of the cobble-stone path and her eyes rested on a white gazebo that was not there be-fore. A figure stood beneath its shin-gled cover. Her heart stopped. It’s him. It has to be him. “Come to me, Lily,” he said. His voice ran over her like honey, feeling warm and inviting, yet the mystery that surrounded him made Lily feel uneasy. At first, she did not move at all, but then she felt a compelling, invisible force pull her forward, one rigid step at a time. In the pit of her stomach she felt a sense of urgency, as though she were approaching dan-ger. Her internal instincts told her to stop walking now, and she did, stop-ping only a few feet away from the gazebo and its occupant. It was hard though to keep her feet glued to the spot, to not walk towards him. It was as though her will power was being


challenged, yet Lily could not figure out what was wrong. She kept her eyes lowered to the ground, afraid to look ahead, afraid to look at him. Suddenly, a white gloved hand appeared beneath her face, open and waiting to receive her hand. She did not even hear him approach her. “I understand your fear, Lily. You are lost, but not alone. So long as I am with you, you have nothing to fear.” Curiosity got the best of her now, as Lily found herself wondering what the king looked like. Her gaze slowly drifted up, till she met a pair of winter blue eyes that penetrated her like ice. He was very handsome, with long golden hair and flawless white skin. He was tall and lean, perfect in every physical way, like a statue of a Grecian god. He wore an assortment of white robs dressed with white feathers. About his neck there hung an unknown creature’s claw grasping a crystal ball. Lily felt her defenses fall under his gaze. “Please,” he said, indicating his extended hand, which Lily took without a second thought. The king led her to the gaze-bo, which illuminated as he stepped onto the wooden platform. When Lily stepped on, an invisible source of music began to softly play, with violins and flutes. The king quickly pulled her in close to him, taking her right hand in his left, placing her left hand on his shoulder, and grasping her waist tightly with his right. At once, they began to dance. Lily was resistant and awk-ward in the king’s arms. For one thing, she did not know how to dance, but more importantly, she felt afraid of him. “Do not resist, Lily,” said the king, his voice still warm and com-pelling. “I will lead you.” “Why am I here?” she boldly asked, trying to break the spell. Her

mind reeled with questions and did not want to get caught up in the fan-tasy she was sure the king was trying to spin. She wanted answers, despite the unexplainable sense of happiness she felt sweeping over her. “You are here, because you wished to be.” “I do not remember making a wish to come here.” “You surely did. You wished to go somewhere beyond the reach of those that were chasing you. Those were your last words before you hit your head.” Her head! Lily felt a startling fear as she realized she had forgotten her accident. The pain in her fore-head returned and she winced as it swelled. “Do not think about it, Lily,” said the king, laying a warm kiss to her forehead where the tree limb had laid the blow. Lily gasped as the pain im-mediately faded. “What did you just do?” she asked, touching her forehead. “I made it go away. I can make anything go away.” Lily was bothered with the realization that she had forgotten her accident, that it was completely wiped away from her memory till the king mentioned it. What else had she forgotten? “Why did I wish that?” she asked. The king looked at Lily with a curious smile. “Who was chasing me? And why did I wish to get away from them?” Lily started to feel uneasy inside as she racked her brain for an-swers, but none came to her. Perhaps the blow to her head had caused am-nesia. “You were running away from home, away from your parents and the stable hands.” “But why?” exclaimed Lily.

“I cannot remember.” She pulled away from the king, looking out at the garden in disarray. The king sighed. “Rather than tell you, I can show you. Look.” Lily turned about and was surprised to notice for the first time a large silver mirror hanging on the gazebo’s post. The mirror reflected nothing, but contained a swirling fog in its glass. “Come, look into the mir-ror, Lily,” said the king, “And it will show you what you have lost.” Lily cautiously approached the mirror and gazed into the glass. The fog suddenly cleared and she saw herself standing in the living room of her house yelling at her par-ents. “How could you do this?” she heard herself shout. “It is for the betterment of your future, Lily,” said her mother, busy with her needlework. “He comes from a respect-able family and is to inherit a great deal of land,” said her father, flipping through letters. “I don’t care who he is. You cannot force me to marry someone.”Lily watched her father turn on her and yell unintelligible words. The fog returned and the last image Lily saw was of herself running out the front door. She staggered back, feel-ing nauseous, and the king caught her as she backed into him. “How could I forget that?” said Lily in a weak voice. “It is not your fault, Lily. In my world, you forget your troubles. They are wiped away forever.” “But, I don’t want to forget.” Lily started to pull away, but the king held her fast. “Why not forget? What good does it do you to remember anything that hurts you?” Lily did not answer. “That was not the only rea-son you ran though, Lily. There is


more to your story than meets the eye. Do you remember why your parents wanted you to marry a man of their choice? Or do you care to re-member?” He pointed to the mirror as the fog cleared once more. Lily’s eyes grew a little wid-er and her jaw slackened as an image of Tom appeared in the glass. “That’s right,” she whis-pered, as everything fell into place in her memory. “My parents did not like me being friends with Tom. They said he was beneath us and that being friends with him would ruin my reputation.” Lily moved away from the king and gripped the gazebo rail-ing for support. “They arranged my marriage to a man of our class so that they would not be embarrassed by their daughter being friends with a lower class man. That’s what they said, but I knew the truth. They were afraid I might fall for Tom.” “And, have you?” asked the king. Lily was surprised by the question. “I- I don’t know. I think of Tom more as an older brother than anything else. He taught me how to ride. I taught him how to read. He taught me how to fish. I taught how to sew. We do a lot of things together. We’re friends.” “But your parents did not see this as a good thing.” “Anything I do that is not their way, they see as a bad thing,” retorted Lily, her nails gripping the wood of the railing. “They make me so mad sometimes. Sometimes I wish I could get away from them, far away.” “And you have,” said the king, taking Lily’s hand and turning her head with his two fingers to look at him. “I granted your wish, and now it is up to you to decide.” Lily looked at the king pecu-liarly. “Decide what?” There was a brief moment of

silence before the king kissed Lily, his warm lips locking with her’s in a powerful embrace. Stunned and caught off guard, Lily pulled away and stared at the king in bewilderment. “What are you doing?” she exclaimed. “I am making you an offer,” said the king. “A once-in-a-lifetime offer.”Lily took a step back, but the king firmly held her left hand. “I can give you anything and everything, Lily. Anything you want, it shall be yours. This world and ev-erything in it can be yours.”Lily’s eyes grew wide. “And not just this,” the king continued. “If you want the sun or the moon, I can place it in your hands.” He demonstrated, holding two fingers up to the moon and pull-ing it down from the sky. Lily gasped as he surely did place the moon in her hands. It only sat there for a moment though. When she closed her fingers on it, the white orb returned to its spot in the sky. “I can give you the seasons. If you do not like this winter, I can give you the spring. If you do not de-sire summer, I will make it fall.” “Wait, wait –” started Lily, finding everything the king said overwhelming to take in at once. “I can make you whatever you want to be, Lily. In fact, I have already done so, my princess.” Gently grasping her arms, the king spun Lily around to face the mirror once more, and he smiled as she caught her breath at the image she saw looking back at her. “Is that really me?” asked Lily. “Yes. It is no illusion.” The king released Lily as she walked to-wards the mirror. In the glass, Lily saw a young maiden dressed in a beautiful white ball gown, with crystal shards embroidered into the fabric, so that

with every move she made, the dress shimmered. A crown of diamond barrettes fitted her head and her long dark hair fell in ringlets about her bare shoulders. There was a strange white glow about her, as though she was truly healthy and beyond mortal limits. Her nervous hands ran over her hair and her body, feeling the hard diamonds and the soft fabric of the dress. She then took a step back and looked down to see the dress lift as she twirled. “This is unbelievable,” she said, grasping her arms to hold herself. “This sort of thing only hap-pens in fairytales.” “Then consider this your fai-rytale, my sweet princess.” The king stepped forward and took Lily’s left hand once more. “It can be yours.” Holding out his other hand, he revealed a silver ring to Lily. “I have a proposal for you, Lily. If you wish to stay here and rule over everything you see before you, you need only tell me and ac-cept this ring. With this ring, you shall be bound to this world for-ever.” Lily looked up at the king with nervous eyes. “Forever? That’s a really long time.” “It’s only forever. Not long at all.” Lily looked at the king, then at the garden, and lastly at the ring.

What do I do?


Fire Ivy by Kaspar Wilder

I lay in darkness. Ivy grew on walls of regret, And the ivy grew up from fire. Fire ivy, burning its truth into my weak heart. Growing like fire, scorching the moon. I thought the sun would never rise again. I thought I was already dead, as I lay there, Not awake, not asleep, unsure of who I was, In a deadly twilight. Then flames sprouted like talons from ivy, Ivy that choked the tears and burned the water, Ivy that incinerated the regrets and forced me up. I stood and I grew tall, Born from fire and bitter ivy. The twilight will not frighten me again.

Fire Ivy by Kaspar Wilder

I lay in darkness. Ivy grew on walls of regret, And the ivy grew up from fire. Fire ivy, burning its truth into my weak heart. Growing like fire, scorching the moon. I thought the sun would never rise again. I thought I was already dead, as I lay there, Not awake, not asleep, unsure of who I was, In a deadly twilight. Then flames sprouted like talons from ivy, Ivy that choked the tears and burned the water, Ivy that incinerated the regrets and forced me up. I stood and I grew tall, Born from fire and bitter ivy. The twilight will not frighten me again.


Logline:

Three princesses trapped in a drea-ry world inhabited by goblins and a three-headed hydra must find a way to rescue Prince Ambien. FADE IN:

EXT. STEEP CLIFF - DAY

ASTORIA, pink gown torn to shreds, blonde hair sticking to her dirty, high cheekbones, clings to the edge of a precarious cliff face.

Wind and rain LASH the stone as her fingers strain to maintain hold. A lightning bolt STRIKES above, send-ing small rocks like shrapnel around her.

SKYLA (O.S.) Astoria! Are you sure this is right?

Astoria spits hair away from her mouth and turns to see SKYLA, blue and yel-low gown soaked and clinging to her sallow skin, jet black hair plastered to her skull. She is standing on better footing than Astoria, but her ruby red lips tremble in the cold.

Below them, BIANCA struggles to take a step as her heeled shoe gets caught in her green gown. Her brown hair falls in tight little curls around her ears and shoulders. Her WHIMPERS are audible even above the fury of the storm.

ASTORIAJust keep climbing! We’re almost to the top!

BIANCA I can’t do this!

Astoria levels a firm gaze on Bianca.

ASTORIAYou can, and you will.

BIANCANo, I really really really really cannot do this. I’ve got blisters!

SKYLAYou chose to wear the heels, sister,not us. Now shut your pie-hole!

SKYLA (TO ASTORIA)I swear I’ll push her off this cliff my-self if I have to listen to her whine for one more minute.

Once Upon A Dream by Pete Able


ASTORIAI can see the top. We’re almost there.

EXT. EDGE OF CLIFF – DAY

Astoria helps Skyla over the edge. They collapse on top of one another. From below…

BIANCA (O.S.)Hello? Don’t leave me! I promise Iwon’t complain any…

SKYLAWe’re not leaving you! Act like aprincess for once!

Skyla and Astoria peer over the edge together.

Bianca clings to a tree branch, shoes scraping rock as she tries to find a foot-hold. She SCREAMS.

ASTORIA Give me your hand!

SKYLAUse both hands, Bianca!

BIANCA What?

ASTORIADon’t listen to her. Give me your hand, I’ll pull you up.

Bianca, CRYING PITIFULLY, reach-es up with one hand. Astoria takes hold and pulls. As she does, part of cliff’s edge starts to crack and give way.

ASTORIASkyla!

Skyla grabs Astoria’s gown. It RIPS

and Skyla tumbles backwards. The cliff cracks more, shifting earth. Bian-ca SCREAMS. Far beneath her, sharp rocks loom like daggers. Skyla rushes forward once more and wraps her arms around Astoria’s waist. She looks over Astoria’s shoulder. A pack of gray-skinned, hairy-backed goblins scurries spider-like up the cliff.

SKYLA Oh dear. Astoria sees them as well. In seconds, the long-nosed creatures are within jumping distance of Bianca. T h e leader bares his fangs.

Bianca sees Astoria’s face, her eyes wide with fear.

BIANCAWhat is it what is it what is it?

The head goblin leaps and sinks his teeth into Bianca’s meaty calf. Bi-anca’s SCREECH echoes across the mountainside.

ASTORIA Hold on!

Astoria and Skyla strain against the weight of Bianca and the hobgoblin. Bianca tries kicking him free, but his grip holds fast, blood streaming from her leg and down the monster’s face.

The other goblins prepare to pounce just as the edge of the cliff RUMBLES and gives way.

The three princesses tumble back-wards. The goblin snacking on Bianca flies overhead and lands in a wicked looking thorn bush.

The crumbling cliff wall takes out the remaining goblins, who HOWL like wild animals to their deaths.

Astoria, Skyla, and Bianca lay on each other in a heap, breathing great gasps of air as the rain pelts their bodies.

Bianca opens her eyes to see the gob-lin detangle itself and hurl it’s body forward in a rage, teeth bared. S h e closes her eyes and screams as it leaps.

Skyla’s fist lands squarely on the goblin’s jaw, jolting it backward. It recovers, lunges with a bloodthirsty BELLOW, and buries its teeth into As-toria’s shoulder.

She rolls on top of the goblin and grabs the hair on its head, pounding it into the unforgiving stone. Bianca scram-bles away, left leg trailing gingerly. Skyla picks up a large rock and smash-es it across the goblin’s forehead. The beast’s eyes lock open, then close slowly as green blood oozes from be-hind its head.

Astoria stands, clutching her injured shoulder.

ASTORIA Hate those things.

BIANCAI hate this place. It’s a nightmare. I want to go home. (screaming like a maniac) I want to go HOME!

ASTORIAThe quickest way home is throughthere.

She points toward a cavern opening. A stone gargoyle perches on a pedestal


above the cave. Beyond and above, a ruinous castle is etched into the moun-tainside. The lightning eluminates sev-eral ominous spires.

ASTORIAPrince Ambien is up there somewhere. Waiting for one of us to rescue him with love’s true kiss. That’s the only way we ever get out of here.

BIANCASo many others have tried. They all disappear. And I can’t walk. Look what the beastly thing did to my beau-tiful leg.

Bianca lifts her hurt leg. Half a dozen deep puncture wounds ooze blood.

SKYLAWhat about the hydra?

ASTORIAThat’s why we climbed this way. The hydra guards the entrance far below. This way we avoid the horrid thingaltogether.

BIANCA Hybra or no hybra…

SKYLA Hy-DRA.

BIANCA Whatever. I’m telling you I can’t walk.

SKYLA Can you hop?

BIANCA No.

SKYLALimp?

BIANCA

No.

Skyla grabs Bianca under her arms and begins dragging her toward the cliff.

SKYLAThen back down you go.

ASTORIA Skyla.

BIANCA Let me go you witch! You are no prin-cess!

Skyla drops her rudely.

ASTORIAWe’ll take turns carrying her. Come on.

INT. CASTLE

Bianca rides piggy-back on Skyla. Astoria leads the way, torch in hand flicking shadows on the walls. Hiero-glyphics adorn the walls. They depict women being eaten by a three- headed dragon and a man lying behind a gold-en curtain.

Soon the princesses enter an open area with two corridors leading in opposite directions. A fountain with a demon- like creature holding two broad swords sits in the middle of the stone walkway. Water rushes from the demon’s mouth into the pool underneath.

Skyla sets Bianca down on the edge of the fountain.

SKYLA Now what?

ASTORIA I don’t know.

BIANCAI’m getting a drink, that’s what.

She dips her hand into the cool water, SLURPS, and splashes her grimy face.

SKYLA All better sweetie?

Bianca sticks her tongue out at Skyla. She steps all the way into the fountain and begins scrubbing her arms and legs.

SKYLA Please don’t do that.

Bianca WINCES.

BIANCAOoh. It stings my owee.

She steps back quickly, bumping into the demon statue’s arm. The sword-arm drops, snagging Bianca’s dress.

The GRINDING of stone on stone pierces the room as two more corridors open up. Down one hallway, a prince lies stomach down on a gold-en bed covered by a golden canopy. His arm dangles off the edge, and he SNORE-WHISTLES softly.

The other corridor reveals the hydra, heads and necks twisting like serpents. It ROARS, prehistoric and savage, and lumbers forward.

ASTORIA It’s Prince Ambien!

SKYLA It’s the hydra!


up hurriedly and embraces him.

ASTORIA You’ve saved me!

PRINCETrue love’s kiss. Dream well did you?

ASTORIA You have no idea.

The prince stands and extends his hand. She accepts and lights grace-fully from the bed.

They embrace and kiss once more, passionately.

ASTORIAShall we?

The prince smiles sheepishly.

PRINCE There is one thing. Astoria offers a confused look, then hears a low, unearthly GROWL from the doorway.

A nasty ogre’s head appears, scaly, monstrous, dripping steaming sa-liva, and most definitely hungry.

CUT TO BLACK

THE END

BIANCA(struggling to free herself) Help! Somebody! I can’t…

One of the hydra’s heads appears next to Bianca. It SNIFFS her wounded leg before closing its jaws around it.

The hydra lifts her high into the air, and with a flick of its neck it flings her, SCREAMING, before snatching her right out of the air in a single gulp.

Astoria and Skyla gape, open-mouthed.

SKYLAWow. I actually didn’t think that would happen.

ASTORIARun! There’s still time.

Astoria and Skyla sprint for the golden bed.

The hydra licks its lips. Six eyes nar-rowing, it SMASHES through the fountain in pursuit.

INT. GOLDEN BEDROOM

Skyla arrives first. She lunges for the bed and struggles to turn Prince Am-bien onto his back. A strand of drool stretches from the mattress to his mouth. His beard is stubbly, hair unkempt, and as he collapses onto his back he releases a sleep belch.

SKYLADisgusting. But I want out of this accursed place, whatever it takes.

She leans in to kiss him, but just as her lips are about to touch she is shoved aside by Astoria.

ASTORIAI don’t think so. I got us here, and I’m the one getting out.

Astoria turns to kiss Prince Ambi-en but hesitates when she sees his ghastly appearance. Behind them, the hydra ROARS as it closes on its prey. Skyla grabs Astoria by the hair and yanks her way. She moves to Ambien but Astoria kicks her feet out from under her. Skyla’s head strikes the edge of the bed, stunning her briefly.

She shakes off the cobwebs and sits up in time to see Astoria’s lips touch Ambien’s in a chaste kiss.

Astoria disappears!

Ambien sits up and GROANS, rubs his temple. He looks at Skyla in confusion, then smiles at her pleas-ant face and appropriately propor-tioned figure. He looks beyond her and his face fades into a cynical smirk.

The hydra is upon them, necks dancing through the air, ready to strike.

Skyla looks at Ambien, shrugs and smiles apologetically.

AMBIENWell don’t that beat all.

INT. ASTORIA’S CASTLE Asto-ria’s eyes flutter open. Sitting at her side, a handsome prince. She sits


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Emily shot up from the bed, scream-ing. She fell silent as she looked

around. She did not recognize where she was but every wall was decorat-ed with treasured memories, some of which she never knew there were pic-tures of; her first medal in gymnastics, her first bike. She blushed when she saw a snapshot of her first real kiss. As she looked around, she tried to make sense of things. The last memory she had was her head snapping around to stare at the driver of the truck that hit her, and then waking in this strange room. She pulled back the blankets, surprised that there were no bandages. She gingerly lowered her feet to the floor, bracing for the cold tile, only to find the floor warm. She saw a robe hanging from a hook on the bedpost. Pulling it on, she wondered why she had not noticed the robe at first. She tied the belt and continued to look around the room. She called out for a nurse or anyone and heard only an echo. As she circled the room the sec-ond time, she saw a recessed door to one side of the first picture. How had she missed that before? She tried the door and it opened easily. She felt a slight tremor in the floor, chalking it up to her imagination as the door swung open revealing a broad curved hall-way. As she walked along, this place became even more curious. Every door she opened was filled with pictures, paintings and such. All of it was from different parts of her life. She saw one door different from the others. It was locked from the outside. Curiosity got the best of her and she unlocked the door, slowly tug-ging the door open to peek inside. The lighting in the room was dim, but she could make out a life size photo of her uncle, the mean one, and quickly shut the door. She locked it with a shudder. She had blocked out much of that sum-mer, and did not want to revisit it. She moved on, leaving the locked doors

closed. The hall seemed to go on for-ever, or circled in on itself. She was not sure which. She finally came back around to the door she originally came through. She had left it open, but now it was closed. She pulled on the door in frustration but it would not open. Someone must have locked it behind her. Emily turned, leaning against the door and looked up to see that the door across the hallway was ajar. She sighed and opened it. It opened to a garden of some kind. Everything was bright and familiar. She felt at peace here, but it somehow seemed strange at the same time. It was like some-thing she remembered, but it was not quite there. Then she saw it. Out in the middle of the lake was a doorway, half submerged in the water. She could see the doorway but not beyond it. What was going on? She saw there was a small raft at the edge of the dock and climbed aboard. There was no poles so she tried to use her hands to row her-self closer. About halfway across, the raft collapsed, dumping her in the wa-ter. She came spluttering to the surface, spitting water as her mind was jumbled with disjointed visions. She could feel a current pulling her to-ward the door and did not fight it. She wanted to go there anyway. Every few feet, she would sink beneath the water and get flashes of images. Bright lights and people dressed in masks. Then she would surface and see the door again. She began swimming towards it, and then panicked when the current began to get stronger. She wanted to slow down but now she couldn’t. There was only darkness beyond the doorway and for some reason that terrified her. She remembered seeing her uncle in that dark room and did not want to know what awaited her in that watery room anymore. She was swimming as hard as she could but losing ground. Her head submerged again. Bright lights

and murmuring, then her head broke the surface again. Her feet were scrap-ing the edge of the doorway and there was a flood of darkness. She felt herself dry and prone on a bed again. Familiar voices filled the room. She tentatively opened her eyes, feeling waves of pain wash over her as her eyes focused on her mother’s face hovering over her. She could not speak, there was something blocking her mouth. She darted her eyes around, seeing white walls, plants, and a win-dow revealing a blue sky. She heard her mother yelling for someone but her mind was groggy. Why couldn’t she move? She let her eyes trail down her own body, seeing plaster casts and bandages with a green gown draped across her. What was going on? Her mother was back, and speaking to her. What was she saying? “Welcome back, baby girl. We thought we’d lost you for a while.” She wanted to ask why had happened, then the memories flooded back to her. The truck slamming into her driver side door, the shooting pain through her body, then nothing. She glanced around, seeing the nurse come in and smile. She spoke, but not to Emily. “I’m glad to see this. After this long, many do not wake from this deep a coma. Your daughter is a fighter. Her breathing is steady. I’ll tell the doctor so they can remove the breathing tube” The nurse smiled at Emily and patted her harm before leaving the room. Her mother held her hand and spoke softly. “We’ll get through this, baby girl. It’ll be hard, but we’ll get through this like we have everything else. I’m just glad you came back to me.” She felt the darkness pull at her mind, but fought it long enough to hear her mother say, “I love you.”

The End

The Hallway of Doors by William Blackrose


“Take this key. Enter, and find your destiny.”

I must have heard those words a hundred times, ever since I was

old enough to slip away from the household chores and climb the hill, to watch the Highborn come of age. You could buy toy laby-rinths in the market place but we never had the money to get one, so we made our own. We laid out a path in the meadows with small stones, pebbles really, in place of the megaliths. Henrietta wrote us our fortunes in charcoal on willow bark and we watched, a gaggle of girls so solemn and quiet, as each one walked the path in turn. I only did it once. When Henrietta died, crushed by a runaway wagon on the road, it wasn’t the same. But I kept what she had giv-

en me, folded in a pouch about my neck: When crow and seagull roost beside, your destiny you must decide.

The Highborn standing in front of the great wall that surround-

ed the labyrinth was the sickliest I had ever seen. She wavered in the cold air on thin twisted legs that looked like broken reeds. Without her sticks, I thought she would al-ready have fallen. I breathed on my hands to warm them and crouched down in the shelter of the ditch. At least it was out of the wind. Not many peo-ple had come out to watch. Sum-mer walkers usually had a crowd to cheer them on, a crowd that bought ale and pies from the merchants,

threw petals and whistled and cheered, especially for the young men that might pay for later night-time pleasures with a bag of coin. But this slip of a girl was walking near mid-winter and she was almost alone. As I watched, the Guardian hauled the heavy door open. The black stones of the path gleamed wet and hungry as a shag’s gullet. She won’t come back. The thought was as cold and as clear as ice, as if it came from outside of me, from the stream or the wood or the world itself. I shiv-ered and drew my cloak closer, not that there was much warmth left in the fabric. The labyrinth is huge. That too I knew to be true, and that too came as a thought from about me. I turned my head as a

A Crow’s Choice by Cassandra Arnold


crow swooped low and settled in the oak that leant over the stream, and then, I saw a gull wheel against the disk of the sun and call and dive behind the girl and in one breath I was up and running, my cloak left trampled in the mud behind me, the frost searing my lungs, but I had to be there. I had to get there before the Guardian handed her the key. I had to help. “Proxy,” I shouted, fling-ing myself at their feet, startling the gull into another wheeling flight that took it away over the hill and toward the sea. “I will run proxy for you.” The Guardian stood frozen, his hand clenched on the key as if it were melded to his palm. No one had uttered those words before. The girl gazed at me with unblinking lavender eyes. For a moment, I wondered if she was blind as well as lame, but seem-ingly not, for she nodded slowly as understanding dawned. No one could enter the labyrinth more than once, and who would give up their birth right for another? Only a com-moner with no birth right to lose.

Walking the path was both easier and harder than I had

imagined. Small creatures skittered into damp crevices as I passed. I pushed aside curtains of ivy and spider web, watching my breath hang like tiny ghosts in the still air that was scented with the whiff of decay and the weight of centuries. I knew the way. My feet took me, one step at a time, to the centre of the maze, where my heart skipped beats and fluttered like a caged bird that sees the cat. A wooden chest sat alone

on a dusty plinth under the pale sun. The key stuck to my sweat soaked hands as I tried to slide it into the lock. Would I steal her dreams? What if opening it gave me her des-tiny? I trembled violently as desires raged within me. Hope for some-thing different. Hope for escape. And the wish to see a smile touch those lavender eyes. I swallowed and a whimper escaped my lips as I slid the key into my pocket and lifted the chest and scurried back the way I had come, slipping and sliding in the shadows of the twists and turns. The chest grew heavier as I ran. Seemed to grow a mill stone within it, to turn from ash to oak, to marble, to the weight of death it-self. It might have been magic. It might have been fear. I knew not. But when I finally reached the gate and fell across the threshold back into the day, I dropped it with a gasp and it shattered into a thou-sand fragments at their feet. The Guardian sank to his knees with a groan, his staff for-gotten at his side. He scrabbled in the ruins of the thing, searching, searching… I too bent to help, be-lieving there would be a paper, a to-ken, something of her destiny hid-den beneath. But there was nothing. I looked up at the girl. Her eyes were closed. A tear ran from under her lids and shone bright as a dew drop in the silent sun. Her words drifted down to me, gentle as snow. “I am free.” I shook my head in doubt at what she said, and she whispered again, leaning perilously over to be sure that I heard.

“No destiny... No dream woven for me by another, no words to rule my life.” She smiled, straightening herself above her sticks and staring out across the village to the ocean and the ships and the distant, rose-coloured sky where gulls swooped and called. “I will leave this place,” she said. “I will find my path, make my path, seek out all that calls me and only I need know the reasons why.” I stood straight beside her, and took her hand in mine. “I will go with you,” I said. “For I also have dreams to find.” And we turned and depart-ed that place, leaving the Guardian crouching alone above the rem-nants of the past, like a mournful crow.

The End


In the corner of a dusty workshop, a cat manipulates a ball of yarn

just before going in for the kill as Icarus approaches, trailing his toy dog behind himself by a string around its neck. The figurine was carved from oak by his father with free-moving legs connected by balls in joints and hinges. The life-like toy sends the cat scampering away and the ball of string rolls be-neath the carpenter’s bench where Daedalus leans looking down at his boy. His offspring. Strands of du-plicate recognition. Lines that, if drawn on a page, hang down like the tentacles of a man o’ war fac-ing land, floating just below the surface in every cell. The branches tangle down plotting out life, a se-ries of decisions and choices mak-ing paths. A single misstep can cost another’s life; not their death, even, but their never having been. Blood, or more its lines, ran thin with Dae-dalus. His sister killed herself when he killed her son. Pride comes be-fore a fall, and Daedalus threw his nephew over a cliff. Hubris de-stroys the things you love; engulfed by waves, as all men ultimately are. And more blood would be on Dae-dalus’ hands. His son’s, in fact. But Daedalus didn’t know that yet. It was already written, though still to be read. So Daedalus, wanted for murder, hides away in a dusty shop where he draws lines at the request of a king, as all men ultimately do, whether they know it or not. It was here, in Crete, where he built Ariadne’s dance floor: Ariadne of the spiral moon, the white and ut-terly pure Dancing Goddess of the

Labyrinth. But she wasn’t a god-dess yet. Someday her lover would string her along and abandon her on an island, and the god of hedonism would make her his bride. Though she didn’t know it yet, her story was already woven in the tapestry of history in double-crisscrossed threads. Tonight she is only a mis-tress dancing at the grand opening of Daedalus’ dancehall as the band plucks lyra strings in two-four time, the vibrations of which set bodies in motion, all spinning intertwined in the controlled and measured chaos of harmony and tempo. It was said there are some three arts concerned with everything: the user’s, the maker’s, and the imitator’s. And Daedalus is the architect. Meanwhile Minos sought a sacrifice, and he prayed for one. Even kings must pay penance, though perhaps not pay as paupers do. Perhaps to kings all things are given, while those below work for those things. Maybe the gods, too, should pay propitiation for taunting men with perfection, as they grant-ed Minos a bull. White and utterly pure. Too perfect, it seemed, to re-invest in the gods who provided it. For every cause there is effect. For every action there is consequence. And the gods punish with irony. The things you love are taken by love, and sometimes, when mis-takes are made, love is mistaken for lust. It was said Daedalus’ sculp-tures were so lifelike, they were bound at night lest they awake. So Pasiphea, the queen, went to Dae-dalus in secret. She commissioned a cow coequal to the consecrated,

colorless creature, in which to con-summate her carnal cravings. So she slipped inside the duplicate, and its duplicate spiral strands slipped into her. And the Minotaur was born—that cruel and hungry joke of the gods. An accident, per-haps, but no mistake. The king could not face the facts of his faithlessness. So Minos went to Daedalus in secret and com-missioned a prison to contain this abomination, and Daedalus built his labyrinth to contain the conse-quence of his carving. It began as an inception, spiraling out through the pathways of his mind and mani-festing itself in ribbons of sprawl-ing byzantine logic. So innumera-ble were the paths and possibilities of deception, even the creator could not easily find his way back. The Minotaur roamed the maze and the mind of Minos; beast and man cir-cling with rage, building with feed-back—existing in two parts where each affects the other. And Minos, like all men do, blamed the blame-less and demanded innocents to pay for his wife’s transgression, born of his own vanity. Every cause has an effect, and of fury was born a pala-din. Theseus stood as a solitary sacrifice to satiate the stomach of the sum; sanctified son of sin not surrendered. Standing in the cen-ter of the throne room wearing his white and thread-bare smock, smugly staring into the eyes of both the jealous king and mother of that error of insatiable eros. So how could she not fall in love? Time is a circle and fate is an architect. Ar-chitects draw lines, and duplicate

String by Ty Hall


strands repeat: taunting tautologi-cal tautomers teach and trap in a spiraling and sodding double-helix. Ariadne, like her mother, fell in love with the sacrifice. So Ariadne went to Daeda-lus in secret and he gave her a clue: a wound, red ball of string. “Go for-ward, always down, and never left or right,” he said, and Ariadne re-peated these words to her beloved. It was with this centrist view that Theseus tied one end of his lifeline to the door and descended as his yarn unraveled. Theseus stumbled—as all men do—drawing closer to the bull’s eye, waking the monster at his core. They struggled, and The-seus severed the sinew between the skull and sternum, removing the beast and not the man. All men are human, though some only appar-ently, and each with a strand of the divine. As thanks for Ariadne’s red thread he will leave her his own, and abandon her on an island to be tied with the gods. He really only loved her for what she could give him. As a consequence of his cre-ativity, Daedalus was imprisoned with his son in the labyrinth birthed of his mind. And like all men, he thought he could escape the com-plex network of his thoughts by some grand design—no mere string tied to his finger would do. “I had a dream,” Icarus will say on their seventieth night of wandering his father’s system. “I dreamt we were on the beach. It was night and I looked up to see the moon. But it wasn’t the moon, it was a shell. I wanted to touch it so I flew, just like a bird, up into the dark, cold, sky. I grasped the moon in my hands, but it was a shell, and I put it to my ear and heard

the ocean. It was like the ocean was calling me. As I held it to my ear, the aperture opened wide and swallowed me head-first. I spun through the helix and came out the other side. I woke up just before I splashed into the water. What do you think it means?” Daedalus will only be half listening to his son, because getting to the center of your mind’s work and coming out the other side un-scathed are two entirely different matters. Go forward, always down, and never left or right. Walking out the front door is out of the question, as his previous discretion made all the wiser his captor. Nonetheless he answers his son. “The moon and the ocean are connected, that’s why you con-cocted it as a shell, and heard the tide when you put it to your ear. The moon and the ocean are connected by strings, like a marionette. Like your toy dog. When the moon rises, so does the tide.” Though he didn’t know the word for it, he knew there were invisible forces; strings that manipulate the universe. “As for the getting there,” but Daedalus trails off, thinking of a way to rise above his work. Daedalus constructed four wooden lattices—two smaller—fastening to them feathers with wax at their base and string at their center. He knew the string would not hold forever, so he placed his faith in the wax and instructed his son not to fly too high. The sun will melt the wax, and the string will come undone. With wings affixed, father and son take flight, as the maelstrom of dust bids them fare-well in a swirling demonstration. Like Noah’s dove and raven they flew above the rolling waves. “Re-member son,” he called after Ica-

rus, “the binding is unstable. If the wax melts, there’s nothing holding you aloft but string.” And like all fathers, he leads his son farther from the twisted prison his mind created; like all sons, Icarus disregards—or gives too much credit to—his fa-ther. With reckless abandon Icarus writes in the sky with flourished cursive his prideful valediction let-ter. His tail feathers waver, flutter-ing like baseball cards in bicycle spokes, drowning out his father’s calls. The ties that bind came un-done, and Daedalus could not—or would not—go back for his son. Icarus plunged—forwards, down—into the ocean. Engulfed in waves, as all ultimately are. So Daedalus will take shel-ter in a workshop on Sicily, building constructions for another king who grants him asylum. But there will never be a joist capable of bearing the weight of guilt that weighs on a hunted father’s heavy mind. Minos sought an escapee, so he de-vised a plan that was sure to draw Daedalus out. To whichever king could solve a puzzle, unimaginable riches would be given. The task: string a thread through a conch shell. Greed, it seems, often goes unpunished. The problem was sent down the line to Daedalus who, looking it over, supplied his solu-tion. The few that gathered round looked on in bewilderment as Dae-dalus pierced the tip of the shell, smearing it with honey. Daedalus delicately trussed the string to an ant, which pursued the prize at the end of the coil. Daedalus pulls the string taut between his fingertips as the ant reaches the finish line, and the shell oscillates in the air as the few that gathered applaud. Daedalus knew it was a


trick. He hoped, at least, it was. Daedalus was tired. His mind was heavy. There are too many possi-ble outcomes, too many variables, and a mind like his sees every one of them. Every action has a con-sequence. Go forwards, always down, and never left or right. But lefts and rights are inevitable. Per-haps he never left the labyrinth at all. Time itself does not move downwards only, nor strait; time is a wave. And if every action has a consequence, and there are infi-nite paths, each variable is its own thread, potential or otherwise. And with infinite consequences each is rendered equally inconsequential. And if everything is inconsequen-tial, why not simply dangle from a string like a carrot before a horse, seemingly stationary while moving forward? ‘Why not dangle from a string?’ he thought, looking out over the waves from his bedroom window. So that’s what he did. And the world moved for-ward.

When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a

child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. Though now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I am also known. My mother used to cross-stitch. I would sit on the ground, drawing or cutting paper, and look up at the incoherent tangle of strings dangling below the canvass. It never made any sense until I sat

up in her lap and looked down at the threads overlapping each other; crisscrossed patterns telling the story, drawing the curtains of the window to a moment. God once asked: “Where were you when I laid the foun-dations of the earth? Tell me if you have understanding. Surely you know!” He taunts. “Or who stretched the line upon it? To what were its foundations fastened? Or who laid its cornerstone, when the morning stars sang together?” A mistake, perhaps, but no accident. It all hangs upon a string. Reality is flexible because time is flexible. It ties itself up into knots like an anxious child. It’s a conver-sation; a dance, with the strings vi-brating like mandolins creating in-finite harmonies weaving together to make infinite universes. Lower the submediant of the Mixolydian and converse with the Creator, who sits up in the sky and knows real-ity itself is contingent upon where one stands in the universe; each of us walking that tightrope He strings taut between His fingertips. So the observed demands of the observer ‘See things as I see them.’ And maybe Atropos looks down with her abhorred shears at the sheer audacity of it all, and is displeased with the tapestry she’s woven. Maybe she decides to cut the thread. Maybe with a razor edge I am Atropos. Maybe the story isn’t finished yet. The future looms, warped and weft. If I look up I might see the selvedge and salvage what’s left by grabbing at the dan-gling threads that keeps it all from unraveling. Maybe I can pull my-self up, following the string. Maybe I can find my way back home. But for now, my coffee is getting cold as I look out the win-

dow of another truck-stop diner situated someplace between Point A and Point B. Headlights speed by in the early morning fog like a parade of ghosts on the highway, north or south. I’m the only one here, save the waitress who looks no older than twenty-two. God, save the waitress. Her teeth are bad from years of boredom but the rest of her is pretty. The nametag on her bleached white apron reads ‘Anna,’ and it suits her. A palindrome. She paces ellipses between her post and the jukebox, feeding it nick-els. She’s making her way down a fairly comprehensive list of Elton John’s greatest hits, and pulls a re-mote control from behind a stack of menus to raise the volume. The bass notes make circles in my cup and I see myself dissolve away, as I am also known. Anna picks at the loose string on the hem of her apron. Disinterested, she looks up and freshens my drink on the way to the jukebox. The universe is a melody, and the stars sing.

The End


Hello!My name is Monique Munoz. I’m just a simple girl from Toronto, Canada. I day dream too much and I love to laugh.

My art is a way for me to express inner emotions that I simply cannot communicate verbally. I always use personal experiences and my feelings associated to that moment as inspiration for most of my art. Since colour choices are nearly in-finite on computers, my favourite medium is digital. I’m very fond of bright colours since I feel it reflects my optimistic personality. I enjoy making people smile or feeling any kind of emotions through my art.

My goals as an artist would be to travel to many different countries and expose my pieces to the world. I also want to create art that anyone can connect with, regardless what your interest, background or even age are.

I’m still growing as a person and

an artist. I know I have such a long way ahead of me…but I’m ready for the challenges along the way if it means maturing and grasping a better understanding of life.

about the artist

I’m just a simple girl from Toronto, Canada. I day dream too much and I love to laugh.

My art is a way for me to express inner emotions that I simply cannot commu-nicate verbally. I always use personal experiences and my feelings associ-ated to that moment as inspiration for most of my art. Since colour choices are nearly infinite on computers, my favourite medium is digital. I’m very fond of bright colours since I feel it re-flects my optimistic personality. I en-joy making people smile or feeling any kind of emotions through my art.

My goals as an artist would be to travel to many different countries and expose my pieces to the world. I also want to create art that anyone can connect with, regardless what your interest, back-ground or even age are.

I’m still growing as a person and an artist. I know I have such a long way ahead of me…but I’m ready for the challenges along the way if it means maturing and grasping a better under-standing of life.

Monique Munoz

“

”


Land lost in wonderBonnie Neagle Photography

Makeup by Alex Williams


AliceologyA girl as simple, as rich as last night’s boiled lamb stew. A kittenish girl, Alice - school age, pigtails, knobby knees -- and her infatuation with one who hardly knows or cares if she persists: bad boy, leporine, reserved, lately late. Oh how she pesters, loopy-hand notes, moony-eyes, stalkings through mirrors and wells, through tortuous hedges. Alice waiting at his door, knocking, mewing, threatening with girlie mischief, until he opens a crack to whisper Go away, Alice, go but she will not go but throws herself against his door with such a lovely crack that buck is bruised, begot-ten, is be-fallen nonetheless.

by C. R. Resetarits

44 • bohemia • january 2014Models Christopher Hale & Stephanie Rystrom


A maiden sweet did declare to seek a beast so rare, her heart’s desire e’en despite: “Beware the Sphynx, my dear, his mouth and tongue do fear, lest riddles thee deep smite. His teeth and mighty jaws, not just his wings and claws, do more than gnaw and bite!” Her resolve didn’t falter, she took a large halter, for when the foe she caught. “No vorpal sword will I need to make this foe a steed, now on my way I ought.” She took her wordy book, her quill and ink besides, fine sand the words to blot. Above, she saw a grin, then furry, striped skin, could he the true path show? The cat said to the girl, his eyes spinning a whirl, “Why matters where you go? In life, you have no plan; either path be taken can: new sights you’ll see and know.” She came to a field, where flamingos were wield, as clubs to play croquet. Loudly “Off with her head!” the Red Queen fiercely said, but Alice wouldn’t stay. She toppled each card, with blows very hard, and ran quickly away. Then came to grassy maze, a field covered in haze; it seemed a likely place. Easy to get quite lost, no one would count the cost, if sphynx this land did grace And hunt this foggy path, the lost would meet his wrath, for them he’d quickly erase. His riddles she turned around, his words did she confound, rhyming like Homeros. She parried with clever verse, he yielded with a curse, and bowed to her prowess: Conquered with mighty word, pen mightier than sword, helped by her Thesaurus.

alice’s hunt by Gary Lee Webb

A maiden sweet did declare to seek a beast so rare, her heart’s desire e’en despite: “Beware the Sphynx, my dear, his mouth and tongue do fear, lest riddles thee deep smite. His teeth and mighty jaws, not just his wings and claws, do more than gnaw and bite!” Her resolve didn’t falter, she took a large halter, for when the foe she caught. “No vorpal sword will I need to make this foe a steed, now on my way I ought.” She took her wordy book, her quill and ink besides, fine sand the words to blot. Above, she saw a grin, then furry, striped skin, could he the true path show? The cat said to the girl, his eyes spinning a whirl, “Why matters where you go? In life, you have no plan; either path be taken can: new sights you’ll see and know.” She came to a field, where flamingos were wield, as clubs to play croquet. Loudly “Off with her head!” the Red Queen fiercely said, but Alice wouldn’t stay. She toppled each card, with blows very hard, and ran quickly away. Then came to grassy maze, a field covered in haze; it seemed a likely place. Easy to get quite lost, no one would count the cost, if sphynx this land did grace And hunt this foggy path, the lost would meet his wrath, for them he’d quickly erase. His riddles she turned around, his words did she confound, rhyming like Homeros. She parried with clever verse, he yielded with a curse, and bowed to her prowess: Conquered with mighty word, pen mightier than sword, helped by her Thesaurus.

“We're all mad here.”


“Why is a raven like a writing-desk?” the Hatter said, turning to Alice.

“I give up,” Alice replied.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said the Hatter.”

48 • bohemia • january 2014Que

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Model Jocelyn FulbrightQue

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QQ


Who’s been painting my roses red?

Who dares to taint

With vulgar paint

The royal flower bed?


Who dares to taint

With vulgar paint

The royal flower bed?

Who’s been painting my roses red?For painting my roses red Someone will lose his head.


“I can’t go back to yesterday I was a different person then.”


“Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”


If you remember the scene in In-ception where Arthur is explain-

ing how to build a dream to Ari-adne, you’ve seen work inspired by M. C. Escher - the Penrose Steps, first described and published in 1958. The steps themselves are an impossible object built by Lionel Penrose and his son, Roger, but the idea came from Escher’s work on continuous steps. Escher eventually created his own model of the impossible object two years later in Ascend-ing and Descending and further developed it in Waterfall in 1961. Ascending and Descending is more than just the creation of an impossi-ble object though; Escher intended it as a commentary on people who toil endlessly and uselessly. Escher was born in the Netherlands in 1898 and was often sick and a poor student as a child; it was at the Haarlem School of Architecture and Decorative Arts

where he learned to draw and make woodcuts. He met his wife while traveling in Italy and had intended to stay there; however, when Fas-cism began to develop in force, the family then moved to Switzerland and Belgium before setting back in the Netherlands where he stayed until he died in 1972. Although Escher did not have formal mathematical training, his most well-known work is heavi-ly mathematical. Tessalation was of particular interest to Escher, it be-ing a technique he picked up from Moors on a trip in the Mediterra-nean Sea. Tesselation is simply the tiling of an object in a plane with no gaps or overlapping and now com-monly taught in primary schools. Escher used the technique first in 1936 with China Boy. Smaller & Smaller, made in 1956, is incred-ibly intricate. His sense and use of space is unparalleled. Escher’s work can be easily

dismissed at first glance because it can look cluttered and grotesque, but hidden inside pieces like Draw-ing Hands, Reptiles, and Path of Life III are fascinating treasures: each time you see them, you dis-cover something new.

M.C. Escherby Jessica Purser


Labyrinthby A.J. Huffman Wind whips through man-made tunnels, alleys acting as accelerators. The onslaught is debilitating, scrapes at my skin like sand. Moving between silver sentinels, I am reduced to migrant ant, scurrying to avoid cracks and clomping heels. I know there is no cheese to be found, yet I hurry around another corner, then another. My feet unsteady as a newborn’s, trip over shadows that feel like holes. I know they will consume me at first touch, and I am tempted to close my eyes and let them.

Maze by Samuel Piccone

For the longest time, the latch on your bedroom door had a maze for a lock, and I had long since given up on trying to get in. But today, there was a shortcut etched in the bronze, a straight line to release. No curves, no hurdles, no squeaking of brass on brass. Inside I went, and found you naked, eating bubbles in the bathtub, cooing for me to enter and splash warm water on your back. And I did, and it was everything that it should be—the soap and skin and their collision. But the maze left a void, and as I droned ahead at the yellow porcelain, the squeak of a curve entered my ear— brass on brass, and the bathtub could no longer hold me. You saw my wince, and turned the knob for warmer water.


Maze by Samuel Piccone

For the longest time, the latch on your bedroom door had a maze for a lock, and I had long since given up on trying to get in. But today, there was a shortcut etched in the bronze, a straight line to release. No curves, no hurdles, no squeaking of brass on brass. Inside I went, and found you naked, eating bubbles in the bathtub, cooing for me to enter and splash warm water on your back. And I did, and it was everything that it should be—the soap and skin and their collision. But the maze left a void, and as I droned ahead at the yellow porcelain, the squeak of a curve entered my ear— brass on brass, and the bathtub could no longer hold me. You saw my wince, and turned the knob for warmer water.


Relativity - A state of dependence in which the existence or significance of one entity is solely dependent on that of another.

Children’s stories have a way of disguising life lessons within

a cleverly written adventure. The classic film “Labyrinth” by Jim Henson, with its plethora of mup-pets, fantasy imagery, and pop musical scenes sneaks in a hard-learned lesson of growing up. Young Sarah transforms from be-ing a frustrated teen feeling she has no control in a world that is against her, to a budding young woman who realizes while the world may not always be fair, she does have choices if she only stops to think rather than simply react. Much like Dorothy in L. Frank Baum’s “The Wizard of Oz” to which Henson gives acknowledgement visually in the movie, Sarah travels along a road of discovery and growth. She collects friends along the way; friends that oddly resemble people from her real life and many of her childhood toys tucked away on the shelves of her bedroom. The child-like Sarah, frus-trated with her life is obsessed with all things fantasy. She is shown dressed in pseudo-fantasy garb. Her dog’s name is “Merlin”. Her beloved teddy bear, when placed in her baby brother’s crib angers

her and sets off the start of the ad-venture, is named “Lancelot”. Her bedroom is filled with stuffed ani-mals. On her vanity sits a music box with a beautiful ballerina wear-ing a dress that resembles the dress Jareth has her wear in the ballroom scene later in the film. Stuck to her vanity mirror there is a picture of her mother standing with a gentle-men who looks remarkably like Jar-eth. And on her shelves are books with such titles as “Where the Wild Things Are” written by Maurice Sendak which Henson gives thanks to in the movie credits, “The Wiz-ard of Oz”, “Outside Overthere”, and “Alice’s Adventures in Won-derland”. Many similarities from these books can been seen through-out the story and imagery of “Laby-rinth”.

In the first few minutes of the movie Sarah is seen rehears-ing a fictitious play “Labyrinth”. The lines she has so much trouble remembering are actually key in the climatic scene at the end of the movie, and resound the over-all theme of the entire film - life is relative, dynamically changing as we grow, and learn that we have the power over our own lives instead of allowing others to control it.

Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here To the castle beyond the Goblin City, To take back the child that you have stolen, For my will is as strong as yours, And my kingdom is as great.

Heartfelt Words Resound in Classic Fantasy Tale

You have no power over

me.

by Sierra Sugar

“

”


Life is a matter of perspec-tive. Through the choices we make we allow others and the world around us to have power over us making things seem “unfair”, much as young Sarah proclaims through-out the early half of the film. When she finally steps outside of her self-centered little world to consider the feelings and value of others, she begins to grow up and realize that not everything is about or against her personally. Her perspective changes. The power that Jareth has over her diminishes.

During the final encounter between Sarah and Jareth she re-members the one line she always struggles with when she was re-hearsing, “You have no power over me”. It is more than a mere remembrance of line and verse, but a turning point in young Sarah her-self, where she crosses that thresh-old of child into womanhood. A tentative early step as she realizes that she does have control over her world simply in the choices she makes and the outlook she chooses to have. She learns the value of friendship, the power of choosing her words carefully, the impor-tance of the happiness of others, and the love she truly has for her little brother buried underneath the resentment of losing her mother. Power is relative, and by the end of the movie Sarah’s journey reveals the power within herself to ac-cept life instead of hiding from it, or blaming others for misfortunes. “You have no power over me”, she confidently proclaims. With those heart-felt words she strips Jareth of his magical power she had incor-rectly perceived him to have over her, which returns baby Toby to Sarah, and transports her and Toby home where all seems normal and unchanged – save for Sarah herself.


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Quotes cometo life!


As a child I had three recurring nightmares.

In the first, I balanced a giant boulder over my head on the tip of a needle. Move but a little and the stone crushed my body, pinning me to the floor. This dream was often accompanied by the feeling that my body shrank, or the room expanded, or both. I imagine modern psychia-try would link these imaginings to fears over being grounded by my parents and being confined to my room as punishment. In the second, I’m tied to a con-veyor belt along with many oth-er strangers. The conveyor belt bounces us along a vast chamber, at the end of which is a furnace burn-ing so brightly it is difficult to look at it directly. There’s no use try-ing to escape. Our bonds hold us fast. The inevitable, all-consuming blaze looms near. I see others fall into the fiery pit, nary a sound be-fore ignition, but I never seem to ar-


A History of Goblins by Pete Able

As a child I had three recurring nightmares.

In the first, I balanced a giant boulder over my head on the tip of a needle. Move but a little and the stone crushed my body, pinning me to the floor. This dream was often accompanied by the feeling that my body shrank, or the room expanded, or both. I imagine modern psychia-try would link these imaginings to fears over being grounded by my parents and being confined to my room as punishment. In the second, I’m tied to a con-veyor belt along with many oth-er strangers. The conveyor belt bounces us along a vast chamber, at the end of which is a furnace burn-ing so brightly it is difficult to look at it directly. There’s no use try-ing to escape. Our bonds hold us

fast. The inevitable, all-consuming blaze looms near. I see others fall into the fiery pit, nary a sound be-fore ignition, but I never seem to ar-rive. Heavy stuff for a six-year old. I suppose modern psychiatry would link it to a growing understanding of my mortality. Or something. The third nightmare is pretty straight-forward. A creature sits in the doorway to my bedroom. Gray-colored and emaciated. Horns and red eyes. I can’t always see the eyes. Sometimes I only see the creature’s back and tail, and when I think I might escape unnoticed, the head slowly appears, eyes nar-rowed menacingly. It never at-tacks. It doesn’t have to. It knows I’m too scared to act. And it’s right. Those same psychiatrists would likely dismiss this third dream

as the makings of an over-active imagination fueled by inappro-priate TV. They wouldn’t bother trying to define the creature – just another demon conjured up dur-ing REM sleep. But I know what it was. A goblin.

What is a goblin?

The answer depends somewhat on who you ask, and just as im-

portantly, where you ask. There is no real consensus on the origin of goblin myths. Most likely, the idea originated in Europe, but whether from France, Germany, or England, it is difficult to say. By most ac-counts, goblins are grotesque ver-sions of fairies, whose charms vary from plain mischief (upsetting


furniture) to downright evil (eat-ing children). Usually smaller than humans, often nomadic, and as often as not, difficult or impossible to see with the human eye – which explains why their physical descriptions have such rich variety. Sometimes stout, or as in my dream, very thin, they typically sport thick, matted hair covering the brow, and their teeth are regularly yellow, putrid, and razor sharp. Often they are depicted with green skin, but this is a very modern tradition, compara-tively. Classically, goblins are clever creatures, often using their cunning to lure foolish travelers into traps where they might be robbed, beaten, or kidnapped (be especially careful if you are travelling with your chil-dren, especially daughters). On their best behavior, goblins are greedy and churlish. On their worst, they are malevolent, bloodthirsty ghouls of the most vindictive mindset.

Where did they come from?

One popular origin story holds that the first goblins came out

of the Pyrenees mountains between France and Spain, hiding in caves and scaring children, before even-tually spreading to other parts of the continent. But these foundation stories are wide-based and fluctuate greatly depending on the country. In Great Britain, a Redcap is a kind of murderous fairy that inhabited ru-ined castles and murdered travelers who strayed too close, usually dy-ing their hats with the blood of their victims – hence the name. The most famous, Robin Redcap, was actually an assistant to a lord practicing dark arts in Hermitage Castle in Scotland. In Germany, the word for gob-lin is Kobold. Haunting mines and other underground places, they ven-ture toward mischievousness rather

than outright murder. I’ve made a mental note to start here for further research. There are Germanic stories from the 18th century that reference “Erlking” – a king of the elves who has a daughter that ensnares humans. Even in Greece there are tales of short, ugly creatures that live un-derground and only come out dur-ing the winter to terrorize mortals. They only appear at night, and are apparently fond of counting, as the way to dissuade them from entering your household is to put a colander on your doorstep so the goblin can count the holes. By the time he’s fin-ished, the sun will have risen. Not the best at math, these Greek goblins. In Korean folklore, goblins – known as Dokkaebi – play an impor-tant role of transformative justice. While they are often frightening and grotesque and enjoy mischief, they usually employ their tricks on the an-tagonist of the story while rewarding the good people with wealth or other blessings. But my favorite origin sto-ry is Welsh. Gwyn ap Nudd is a mythological figure depicted as king of the “fair folk”, and ruler of Annwn, the Welsh Otherworld. In the earliest texts he is even associated with the Arthur legend as a great warrior with a blackened face, eventually banished to Annwn to rule over the devils lest they destroy humanity. The femi-nine form of Gwyn in Gwen, whose root is Gwenhwyfar. Sound famil-iar? It’s the original Welsh form of Guinevere. Over time his roles changed. Most notably, he guarded the woods, and Welsh travelers often invoked his name, asking for permission to enter the forest. In the English county of Somerset, there is a conical hill called the Glastonbury Tor of mysterious origins, and also linked to the Arthur legend, since supposedly Arthur and Guinevere’s coffins were found here

in AD 1191. As late as the 19th cen-tury, the Tor became known as the entryway to Annwn, whose original Lord we have learned, is Gwyn ap Nudd.

Modern film and literature have all taken a turn depicting gob-

lins. Prior to the 20th century, the most famous references begin with John Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” which makes reference to hobgob-lins, on to the Brother’s Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen whose fairy tales are widely regarded as the stan-dard for modern literature. George MacDonald’s “The Princess and the Goblin” drew wide praise in the 19th century. J.R.R. Tolkien’s used the terms orc and goblin interchangeably in “The Hobbit”, though it seems goblins ap-plied primarily to the smaller breed of orcs. J.K. Rowling’s goblins worked as overseers of the wizard bank Gringotts. Ridley Scott’s film “Legend” depicts goblins doing the bidding of a greater evil spirit known as Darkness, and as the astute Bo-hemian reader has probably figured out, they play a prominent role in the film “Labyrinth” by Jim Henson, where the Goblin King Jareth has kidnapped a girl’s younger brother, whom she must rescue.

No doubt my dreams would mean something different as an adult.

The Boulder – the weight of respon-sibility as a father, husband, and su-pervisor. The Furnace – the Eccle-siastical Solomon that sees all of us striving after dust in the wind. And the Goblin? I haven’t seen him for many years. But I know he’s there, red eyes piercing, wait-ing for me to take that step across the threshold of my deepest desire. The only question, and maybe it is a question for all of us, is whether I’ll have the courage to face him again when the time comes.


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Ron Mueck (born 1958) is an Australian hyperrealist sculp-

tor working in Great Britain.

Mueck’s early career was as a mod-el maker and puppeteer for chil-dren’s television and films, notably

the film Labyrinth for which he also contributed the voice of Ludo, and the Jim Henson series The Sto-ryteller.

Mueck moved on to establish his own company in London, making

photo-realistic props and anima-tronics for the advertising indus-try. Although highly detailed, these props were usually designed to be photographed from one specific an-gle hiding the mess of construction seen from the other side. Mueck

Faithful Human ReproductionS, Hyperrealist


Where will you be singing Home Sweet Home

Find a forever home with Natalie MorphewWaco, Texas is a beautiful place to live, founded in 1849 by the Huaco Indians that lived on the land in the present-day downtown area. Waco offers some ma-jor attractions, five historic homes, seven recreational venues, and nine arts organizations staging theatrical and musical productions, as well as art exhibitions. Waco is also brimming with Texas history, economic opportunity, and a rich variety of cultural experiences. With three college facilities including: Baylor Universi-ty, McLennan Community College, and Texas State Technical Institute. The city boasts one of the of the biggest and best municipal parks in Texas, Cameron Park. The 416-acre park is located in the heart of Waco, next to downtown, situated on the Brazos and Bosque Rivers. It hosts numerous races, triathlons, boat races and more.

Find a forever home with Natalie MorphewFind a forever home with Natalie Morphew

Natalie MorphewNatalie Morphew, [email protected] c | 254.399.7024 wwww.nataliemorphew.com


Find a forever home with Natalie MorphewFind a forever home with Natalie Morphew

increasingly wanted to produce re-alistic sculptures which looked per-fect from all angles.

In 1996 Mueck transitioned to fine art, collaborating with his mother-in-law, Paula Rego, to produce small figures as part of a tableau she was showing at the Hayward Gallery. Rego introduced him to Charles Saatchi who was immedi-ately impressed and started to col-lect and commission work. This led to the piece which made Mueck’s name, Dead Dad, being included in the Sensation show at the Royal Academy the following year. Dead

Dad is a rather haunting silicone and mixed media sculpture of the corpse of Mueck’s father reduced to about two thirds of its natural scale. It is the only work of Mueck’s that uses his own hair for the finished product.

Mueck’s sculptures faithfully re-produce the minute detail of the human body, but play with scale to produce disconcertingly jarring visual images. In 1999 Mueck was appointed as Associate Artist at the National Gallery, London. In 2002 his sculpture Pregnant Woman was purchased by the National Gallery

of Australia for AU$800,000.

The Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth, Texas showed an exhibition of thirteen of Mueck’s pieces from June 24, 2007 through October 21, 2007. The works in the show include Untitled (Seated Woman) (1999), Dead Dad (1996-97), In Bed (2005), Untitled (Big Man) (2000), Two Women (2005), Crouching Boy in Mirror (1999-2000), Spoon-ing Couple (2005), Mask II (2001-02), Mask III (2005), Wild Man (2005), and A Girl (2006).

Mueck’s character Ludo in Jim Henson’s film Labyrinth (large pup-pet, top right). The concept of Ludo

was influenced by creatures in Maurice Sendak’s children’s book

Where The Wild Things Are, a copy of which can be seen in primary

character Sarah’s bedroom.


Valley MillsPhotography by David Irvin

Featuring Aoife Gorey

www.valleymillsvineyards.comWinery

In the spring of 2007, Valley Mills Winery planted its first two grapevine varietals on a rocky hillside

in Valley Mills, Texas. The land, which is embedded with fossils, is harsh but their grapes have flourished there. In late 2010, they opened the Winery and Tast-ing room (halfway between Valley Mills and Waco). Valley Mills Winery takes great pride in assisting their grapes’ journey from vineyard to winery and into your bottle of wine. They are growing world class grapes and producing great Texas wines.


www.valleymillsvineyards.com

Behind Every Manby Gary Lee Webb

“

”

Behind Every Manby Gary Lee Webb

Had she done the correct thing? Atalanta had seen Theseus talking his father, King Ægeus, into including the hero

among the 14 nobles to be sent to King Minos for sacrifice to the half-bull, Asterion. Theseus promised slay the beast and rescue the young sacrifices. So she quietly volunteered go to … in case Theseus needed help. Like many, she wore an elaborate coif, but hers hid a sling.

Had she done the correct thing? Atalanta had seen Theseus

talking his father, King Ægeus, into including the hero among the 14 nobles to be sent to King Minos for sacrifice to the half-bull, Asterion. Theseus promised slay the beast and rescue the young sacrifices. So she quietly volunteered go to … in case Theseus needed help. Like many, she wore an elaborate coif, but hers hid a sling. At Minos’s royal palace, a pret-ty, young woman, wearing a rich robe of rainbow hues open to the naval and a skirt with many lay-ers of diversely-patterned flounces, “welcomed” the sacrifices with a radiant smile. “I am Ariadne, daughter of

Pasiphaë and Minos the King. I hope we can make your time with us pleasant. There is a pool with-in the atrium, should you wish to bathe. I am having a feast pre-pared: we would not want you hungry! We’ll dine in the main hall when the gong sounds. You may explore the palace as you wish, but please do not attempt to leave. My father would not like it.” Kilted guards blocked the exit; their 3-foot-long Minoan swords were known for their sharpness. She noticed Theseus staring – typ-ical besotted male! Theseus looked up from Ari-adne’s bare bosom and moved

forward. “Is it true that Asterion is your brother ?” “Only half-brother. My father refused to sacrifice a white bull to Poseidon, so Aphrodite had my mother fall in love with the bull. Asterion was the result. Never an-ger the Gods!” “Those horns must have hurt!” “Oh no, have you never seen a calf be born? The horns grew in with manhood.” Theseus shrugged. “My home is too rocky; we only had goats nearby. But I did hear how large and mighty Asterion was; I did not expect him to have such a pretty sister. What was it like growing up with such a half-brother ?”


The princess blushed as they walked off, chatting. Maybe the hero wasn’t such a beauty-struck fool, just coyly ingenious with words: For the feast, Theseus was seated to Ariadne’s right. They dis-appeared afterwards. Atalanta searched the palace, looking for to improve their chanc-es, but only found some rounded stones in the bottom of a fishpond. Cinching her clothes tighter, she hid several stones inside a pleat of her tunic. In the morning, they were escort-ed to a low entrance and stairs lead-ing down. At the stairs’ bottom, the ceiling height doubled and was periodically pierced with a light-giving shaft, capped with a grating. Theseus seemed to be in amaz-ingly good spirits. “What? Come! Prove to these Cretans we are Hel-lenes, not afraid of anything!” After two turns, the corridor split three ways. Theseus pulled a large ball of flaxen twine and a scabbarded Minoan sword out of his tunic. He handed one end of the twine to a fellow sacrifice: “Hold this, I should be back soon. Guard the junction.” He headed down the rightmost corridor, playing out the twine. The thirteen remaining looked at each other in surprise. “Where did he get the sword?” Atalanta shrugged her shoul-ders. “I guess he persuaded the princess. Do what he said and stay here. I’ll follow quietly in case he needs help.” She loosened her coif and pulled out the sling she had woven into her hair and followed the twine and hero. She could hear his footfalls as Theseus strode confidently ahead. The twine showed he turned first left then right, alternating as he tra-

versed the maze. A simple pattern, if one only knew it. Occasionally she ran up a side corridor and back, getting a quick look. Suddenly she heard him yell: “Wake up! Don’t make me kill you in your sleep!” and the bellow of a bull. Shaking her head in disbelief, Atalanta quickly snuck up to where she could see. Why did he not kill the monster asleep? Asterion was huge: the high corridors were for his benefit. He laughed, lowered his head, and charged Theseus. The hero ran for-ward, sheathing sword. Dodging the wicked horns, he lept forward, grabbing them, and somersaulted over. Theseus twisted in mid-air, drew sword, and scored a glancing blow down Asterion’s back, draw-ing blood. With a snarl, the half-bull turned, and charged again. Theseus once again dodged the sharp horns and vaulted. But this time as the hero drew sword, Asterion’s hand, quick as a viper, grabbed the sword. Asterion spun around, throwing Theseus like a discus, and then tossed the sword in a corner. Aste-rion spread his arms wide: “Come get me!” Theseus charged into the half-bull’s grasp and wrapped his mighty hands around Asterion’s neck, squeezing. Asterion wrapped his muscled arms around the hero’s torso, and started to crush the air out of Theseus’s lungs. Neither could breathe, as they sought to strangle the other. This was not good. Son of Zeus or not, the hero did not have the lung capacity to match the half-bull’s. Atalanta stepped out of hiding and whirled her sling. The stone hit Asterion in the temple; the blow would have crushed a nor-

mal man’s skull. It got his atten-tion, as it bounced off of his head. She quickly shot him with another stone. Asterion threw Theseus aside and charged. Atalanta turned and ran for her life, following the twine. No man could catch her, but could the half-bull? Half-way through the maze she looked over her shoulder, she was almost a full turn ahead. Good! There were a number of options: the next time she came to one she knew, she ran into the side corridor. It had mul-tiple sharp turns. Asterion roared; he knew she was trapped. Hidden by the turn, she sprang for one of the light vents, pulled herself up, and pressed her-self against the chimney wall. The half-bull charged past. Waiting for him to round the next bend, she climbed down, and dropped to the floor, her bare feet making little sound. Catching her breath, she backed up to the turn, pulling out her sling. She heard him bellow, reaching the end of the passage, and then the thunder of his approaching hooves. She shot him again as he came into view, and then took off running, following the twine back deeper into the labyrinth. Still wheezing, Theseus had re-covered his sword. She ran past: “Your turn!” Moving well behind the hero, Atalanta showered the rushing half-bull with sling stones. Theseus centered himself in the corridor, braced the sword with both hands, and waited for the mad-dened Asterion. The impact was horrendous, but Theseus guided the sword true, slicing into the mighty throat. Asterion’s body slammed into Theseus, bowling him over, but he kept his grip on the sword’s


Behind every great man is a woman. But

don’t tell him that!

Theseus and the Minotaur, bronze by Antoine-Louis Barye (1840)

haft, nearly decapitating the half-bull. Theseus picked himself up and with a mighty stroke, cleft Asteri-on’s head off. “Ariadne wants to come with us.”

“We need her help to leave. Tell her of your victory. I shall not men-tion my part – glory is all yours, o Hero. Let’s go home.”


Not Just for Minotaursby Gary Lee Webb

Most of us know the story of the Labyrinth and the Minotaur (literally, “the Bull of Minos”) which inhabited it. It is the most famous of the labyrinths. But did you know that the ancients,

world-wide, had a fascination with labyrinths? Or that the Minoan labyrinth may not have been a maze at all, but a double-headed axe?

Currently the oldest evidence for labyrinth mazes comes from

western India. Before the ancient Eu-ropeans were painting bulls on their caves (e.g., in the Lascaux caves, 17,300 years ago), the ancient peo-ples around Goa, India were carving bulls into the Usgalimal caves, along with images of labyrinths (between 20,000 and 30,000 years ago). Did they associate bulls with labyrinths? Nobody knows, but they are some of the oldest cave carvings anywhere in the world! Of course, that is not a building, you might argue. The oldest known labyrinth edifice was reported by the historian Herodotus, when he visited the City of Crocodiles, Lake Moeris, in Egypt. He reported that it con-tained 3000 rooms, of which 1500 were underground. The geographer Strabon visited it five centuries lat-er, giving a similar report. Archeo-

logical excavations have shown that such a complex existed, and parts of it are more than 3900 years old, built by Pharaoh Amenemhat III (1860 – 1814 BC). The Labyrinth of the Minotaur, if it existed, was probably constructed a century later, possibly around 1700 BC. The Palace of Knossos (Crete) was destroyed and rebuilt at that time, and some of the features match descriptions in the minotaur legend. There was a dancing hall matching the one allegedly used by Ariadne (Minos’s daughter), other than being inside the Palace, not outside. There was a large pit, where bulls could have easily been kept, with gigantic stairs. Moreover, there are a large number of frescos showing Cre-tan acrobats leaping over bulls, and chambers adorned with double-head-ed axes (called “labrys”). These indi-cators of “Minoan” or ancient Cretan

civilization are not just at Knossos, but appear in Minoan colonies across the eastern Mediterranean. The double-headed axe is an in-teresting object. It was apparently a religious symbol, not just for the Minoans, but also for a number of surrounding areas. The Minoans had statues for a large number of deities, usually female. The labrys is pre-sumed to be a symbol of the goddess of creation, and inscriptions in the Palace of Knossos identify the God-dess of the Labrys as their patron deity. Large versions of the double-headed axe have been found and are assumed to have been used when sacrificing bulls. Thus, the Labyrinth of Minos may have been an arena in which bulls were sacrificed, and not a maze at all. But there is at least one other op-tion for a Cretan labyrinth, the cav-erns of Gortyna. Mount Ida is Crete’s


tallest peak. The entrance to Gortyna is a natural cavern, low on the side of the mountain. Carved into the back of the entrance are a series of wind-ing passages. The main hallway runs 1200 paces into the mountain, reaching some large rooms. But the remaining passages form a true laby-rinth – in the words of 18th Century French explorer, G. P. de Tournefort: “If a Man strikes into any other Path, after he has gone a good way, he is so bewildered among a thousand Twist-ings, Twinings, Sinuosities, Crinkle-Crankles and Turn-again Lanes, that he could scarce ever get out again without the utmost danger of being lost.” A number of Roman poets be-lieved Gortyna to be the true Cre-tan labyrinth. The truth is anyone’s guess. Roman writers knew of some other labyrinths. In the first century AD, Pliny the Elder recorded one

(Right) The labrys is presumed to be a sym-bol of the goddess of cre-ation, and inscriptions in the Pal-ace of Knossos identify the Goddess of the Labrys as their patron deity. Large versions of the double-headed axe have been found and are as-sumed to have been used when sac-rificing bulls.

labyrinths which have not survived 2000 years. The Swedes also built stone labyrinths during the Middle Ages: over 500 are still in existence along the Baltic Sea. Yet farther to the west, there are still several mazes built from cut sod in the British Isles. In relatively modern times, the British aristocracy started to grow hedge labyrinths for their entertain-ment value. That idea has spread, and you can find plant mazes throughout the world. A very recent addition is an enormous cactus maze grown by a Belgian woman in Costa Rica. Nothing pointless about that laby-rinth! In short, labyrinths have been with us in some form for tens of thousands of years, and it looks like labyrinths will be growing on us for the foreseeable future.

built on the island of Lemnos and an-other build on Samos. He also quot-ed a report by Varro (from the second century BC) that the Etruscan gen-eral, Lars Porsena, was said to have been buried in a large labyrinth un-der the city of Clusium, Italy. While these particular labyrinths have not been found, the Etruscans were well known for using labyrinthine tombs. Another possible underground labyrinth might have existed in the American Southwest. The O’odham culture, better known to most of us as the Papago Indians, widely used depictions of a labyrinth with a god, I’itoi, standing in the entrance. Many other cultures built sur-face labyrinths. The ancient inhabit-ants of northern Russia created stone labyrinths out of boulders. Over 30 still exist on islands of the White Sea, dating from the first millennium BC, along with hundreds of probable


Writing Tools:Rewriting Reality Part 1: World Building By William Blackrose

We all love reading and writ-ing but I think we also

equally hate when the book or sto-ry we are reading does something that rips us out of our enjoyment by not making any sense. That sense of possibility is what makes reading a story enjoyable. World building can take time, but in the long run can be an intensively re-warding experience. You might be wondering what I mean when I say ‘world building’. It’s easy to think this means “setting,” but that’s way too simple; world building cov-ers everything and anything in-side that world. Money, clothing, building materials, imports and exports, transportation, whether the world does or does not contain magic and other distinct details. World building supports story,

mood, theme, conflict, character, culture, and setting as well as the basic plot. The details of the world you’ve created can and should en-gage with the whole narrative, not just an action or event. It’s easy to get wrapped up in all the large aspects of world like religion and politics and many other topics that can alter a story’s reality. But a lot of world build-ing lives in little details. What they drink at different meals, wash their hands, treat their ani-mals. What materials they use to construct their homes. These little details can reflect a larger cultural aspect without beating readers over the head with weighty expla-nation. World building is not a compendium for lifeless cultures and forgotten bloodlines. That element can be in there, sure, but this world is one that features ac-tual characters doing actual things and affecting the world. World building has a tendency to feel staid and massive: “This is how everyone must be because it is their culture.” But that’s never really that simple in our world, is it? Not everyone falls in line with the ‘mainstream’. This is due to the simple fact that your charac-ters are alive. They have free will and the ability to conform or re-

We all love reading and writ-ing but I think we also

equally hate when the book or sto-ry we are reading does something that rips us out of our enjoyment by not making any sense. That sense of possibility is what makes reading a story enjoyable. World building can take time, but in the long run can be an intensively re-warding experience. You might be wondering what I mean when I say ‘world building’. It’s easy to think this means “setting,” but that’s way too simple; world building cov-ers everything and anything in-side that world. Money, clothing, building materials, imports and exports, transportation, whether the world does or does not contain magic and other distinct details. World building supports story,


Everything pushes and pulls on everything else, often in unan-ticipated ways. Think of how a scientific advance can change the world in a relatively short amount of time. Think of what happens when a critical resource dries up. Small changes in an economic system can have huge results. A new farming practice can fix or wreak havoc upon the environ-ment. Everything is bound to ev-erything else, and in this, you can find compelling twists as well as thought-provoking stories that de-velop out of it.

Where are we? Are we on Earth or another

planet? Is it this or another solar system? Are we in the past, present or future? If we’re on an-other world, what does it look like? Are there continents and oceans? How about rivers, moun-tains, volcanoes? How’s the grav-ity compared to Earth? Does it have a moon or even more than one? Are the races of that world human-like? If not, what are they like?

What’s the natural environment like?

Have there been any natural disasters that might have

wiped out a continent or two? Has there been any major plan-etary trauma? If so, was it natural or did mankind cause it? If we’re on another planet or moon, espe-cially one that is outside of our so-lar system that we already know plenty about, what is the eco-sys-tem based on? Is there vegetation? What do they do for food?

ject aspects of their culture. Let us look at the complex-ity inherent to world building. Everything pushes and pulls on everything else, often in unan-ticipated ways. Think of how a scientific advance can change the world in a relatively short amount of time. Think of what happens when a critical resource dries up. Small changes in an economic system can have huge results. A new farming practice can fix or wreak havoc upon the environ-ment. Everything is bound to ev-erything else, and in this, you can find compelling twists as well as thought-provoking stories that de-velop out of it.

Are we on Earth or another planet? Is it this or another

solar system? Are we in the past, present or future? If we’re on an-other world, what does it look like? Are there continents and oceans? How about rivers, moun-tains, volcanoes? How’s the grav-ity compared to Earth? Does it have a moon or even more than one? Are the races of that world human-like? If not, what are they like?

Have there been any natural disasters that might have

wiped out a continent or two? Has there been any major plan-etary trauma? If so, was it natural or did mankind cause it? If we’re on another planet or moon, espe-cially one that is outside of our so-lar system that we already know

plenty about, what is the eco-sys-tem based on? Is there vegetation? What do they do for food?

Every place has a history, even if there’s no intelligent life

living on it. But history is even more important when you have an alien society, a human colony or something completely different? What are a few major events in the history of the place that affect the present? They can be politi-cal, religious, natural or alien in nature?

How has the social order changed because of the

events in its past? If it was at-tacked by an outer force, how has its attitude toward strangers and its defense methods adapted to that? If it was a natural occurrence, how has it affected the housing and transportation? Any atrocities in the distant past that people are still ashamed of? How about a big turn in religious beliefs, based on some key occurrence?

And with culture I am referring

the excess of features that af-fect culture: method of govern-ment, social classes, religion, rac-es, sexes, professions, education, sciences, etc. At least you need to know whether the society’s focus

is on warfare, scientific progres-sion, religion, consumerism, slav-ery and so on, and how does that affect everyday life and the pos-bilities your characters have.

Do people care about basic hu-man rights and freedom of

speech? Do they value competi-tiveness or conformity? Do they value artistic accomplishments, or scientific achievement? Are they interested in other cultures or spe-cies, or are they xenophobic? Do they value tradition over progress or the other way around?

As you can see, World Build-ing is not a simple process

but it can go so far in helping your writing and your progress that the effort is by all means worth it. Once you have laid out the basic structure of your world, you will find that plot holes will often fill themselves in and creative walls will crumble. So far we have looked at the basics of creat-ing a believable world, but what of those who live in this world? We would not want a vibrant set-ting and flat cardboard cutouts to populate it. In the next article on Rewriting Realty, I will focus ex-clusively on the characters them-selves and how to make them into living breathing creations rather than puppets on a stage.

Background is “Setting Sun” by Frederic Edwin ChurchBackground is “Setting Sun” by Frederic Edwin Church


If our attention has been on something

immediate, we cannot see clearly afar. Of-ten what is dearest to our hearts remains elu-sively distant. Lifting our eyes from current problems is essential. Focusing on “what can be” will bring things into focus.

What do you fo-cus on? Faults? Fail-ures? Fulfillment? The answer to this question

can determine wheth-er we face a new year with anticipation or dread. At the allure of novelty, of a fresh page unwritten, of possibili-ties without limitations, the spirit leaps and ris-es to the occasion, soar-ing on wings of hope and faith. Still, a cer-tain bleakness accom-panies this process, as we remember previous pilot flights ending in disastrous wreckage or merely remaining inert

A New Vision For the Futureby Jennifer Swartz

As we contemplate a vision for newness & the image of ourselves, I see the word “resolution” in a new light, something akin to photog-raphy and increasing your focus. Like the lens on a manual camera, sometimes our vision blurs. Minute adjustments restore clarity.

Photography by Aoife GoreyMakeup by Alex Williams


A New Vision For the FuturePhotography by Aoife GoreyMakeup by Alex Williams

Model Abby Eades

84 • bohemia • january 2014Model Stella Jane


because actio\new beginnings due to less than glamor-ous endings-- would be tragedy indeed. We cannot survive with-out hope. We need the promise that all could be different, that more can be achieved.

Release the dead weight of unattained purposes. A baby bird would never fly if it re-membered every time it fell or thought only of how flopping its initial flight was. And remind yourself that intentions are necessary but in-complete without ac-tions.

Though we may be unclear on the ac-tions necessary to ac-complish what we see

& feel, the very process of dreaming holds merit in itself. For, by simply envisioning what we desire, we are taking the first & most impor-tant step. Whether we become it fully or not, just seeing it changes us. The vital element of hope is injected into our beliefs. Reaching for the ideal, we may fall short but will be in-finitely closer than we would have been had we never reached at all.

One component is imperative to making our dreams reality, and it lies hidden in another definition of the word resolution, entailing expression of intention with determination and resolve. Let us resolve

Model Stella Jane


to determine a course of action & pursue it purposefully with de-termination. When the struggle feels most dif-ficult, remember that the sense of accom-plishment will be more satisfying if the chal-lenge is greater.

As the year pro-gresses, put one foot in front of the other in the arduous march to-ward your future. Little things, like baby steps, bring us closer to de-sired goals. Visionary inspiration is the easy part; enjoy it, yet also embrace the plodding that produces patience. We are not just trans-

ported directly to the view but must trek the trail on our hike to the heights. En route to a friend’s house, do you turn back because you tripped over a branch & fell on the trail? Of course not. You pick yourself up & proceed. The joy awaiting at the destination makes any mishap along the way seem inconsequential.

What do you see? So much magic is inher-ent within your spiritu-al DNA. Agree with the impossible and watch what happens. Beyond the unknown lies what will be & choice can al-ter everything.

January 2014• bohemia • 87Model Miriam Hitsel


Olivia still believed in fairy stories. All the boys at school

made fun of her for it. One day, they even stood in the doorway of the classroom and would not let her in. “Sorry,” sneered Byron, “but this is the fourth grade. Only kids in touch with reality are al-lowed in here.” “Yeah!” chuckled George, “day care is down the hall!” Olivia pushed through them and put her backpack away in her cubby. “Aw, come on Olivia-Make-Believe,” Byron’s voice echoed.

“Don’t be so pouty. You can always use pixie dust to cheer you up.” She slumped into her as-signed seat with her journal and looked at the board for Mr. Holly’s morning writing prompt: What is one thing that excites you and why? She squinted, as if the letters would dance into the form of an answer just from peering at them. Then she chewed the metal part of her pencil as if to gnaw an insightful response from it. Of course neither of these worked. But she liked the feeling of the tin bending beneath her jaws, even though Dad said it was bad for her teeth.

“Hey Olive,” Startled, Oliv-ia didn’t even notice her best friend sitting next to her. “Oh, hi Maggie. How are you?” “I’m fine,” Maggie pushed her plastic-framed glasses up to the bridge of her nose. Her long black hair was a little unkempt today, and fell to either side of her face like two big, tangly brooms. “The pow-er went off at my house last night. Daniel tripped over his hamster cage and then, when he was trying to find the hamster, he stepped on it.” “Gizmo? Is he okay?” Oliv-

by Adam K. Amberg

Olivia and the Star“Olivia still believed in fairy stories. All the boys at school made fun of her for it. One day, they even stood in the doorway of the classroom and would not let her in.”

Olivia still believed in fairy stories. All the boys at school

made fun of her for it. One day, they even stood in the doorway of the classroom and would not let her in. “Sorry,” sneered Byron, “but this is the fourth grade. Only kids in touch with reality are al-lowed in here.” “Yeah!” chuckled George, “day care is down the hall!” Olivia pushed through them and put her backpack away in her cubby. “Aw, come on Olivia-Make-

“Don’t be so pouty. You can always use pixie dust to cheer you up.” She slumped into her as-signed seat with her journal and looked at the board for Mr. Holly’s morning writing prompt: What is one thing that excites you and why? She squinted, as if the letters would dance into the form of an answer just from peering at them. Then she chewed the metal part of her pencil as if to gnaw an insightful response from it. Of course neither of these worked. But she liked the feeling of the tin bending beneath her jaws, even though Dad said it was bad for her teeth.

“Hey Olive,” Startled, Oliv-ia didn’t even notice her best friend sitting next to her. “Oh, hi Maggie. How are you?” “I’mfine,”Maggie pushedherplastic-framedglassesuptothebridge of her nose. Her long black hairwasalittleunkempttoday,andfell to either side of her face like twobig,tanglybrooms.“Thepow-er went off at my house last night. Daniel tripped over his hamstercage and then, when he was trying tofind thehamster,he steppedonit.”

“Olivia still believed in fairy stories. All the boys at school made fun of her for it. One day, they even stood in the doorway of the classroom and would not let her in.”


ia clasped her hand over her mouth, not sure if she should be concerned or laugh. “I don’t know. Mom said he just needed to rest for the day and that when we get back from school he’ll be fine but you know what I think? I think she’s just going to go to the pet store again and buy a new one before we get home.” “I think so too!” Olivia gig-gled as she swept her brown hair behind her ear and fastened it with her green barrette. “Yeah. Daniel said he wanted to stay home from school because he was too worried about Gizmo, but it didn’t work.” “My dad says the power could go out again tonight. You bet-ter watch the new one if it does!” “I know!” chuckled Mag-gie. “Girls?” boomed Mr. Holly from his desk. “We’re about to get started, so make sure you get those journal entries done, okay?” “Yes sir.” With a huff, Olivia picked up her pencil, scrunched her nose and wrote:

That afternoon, Olivia and Mag-gie walked home like they

always did. The bright sunlight bounced off the pavement like a mirror and into Olivia’s eyes. Try-ing to take her mind off the con-stant glare in her face, she searched for something to talk about. “I hope the lights do go off

again tonight,” Olivia submitted. Her hazel eyes were lifted up in a state of wonder. The afternoon light made them look like a whimsical mix of green and yellow.

“I really wanted the lights to go off during school. Maybe we could’ve gone home early,” reported Maggie, as she inspect-ed the sidewalk making sure to step over each crack. “I don’t think they would do that, Maggie. There’s windows in all the classrooms.” “You never know,” Mag-gie shrugged her small-framed shoulders. “Why do you want the power to go off tonight so much anyway?”

“Because you can see the stars when it’s dark!” Olivia’s en-thusiasm got the best of her, and she realized her sudden outburst could seem a little strange to her friend. “You know it’s just nice, is all.” “You going try and find a

falling star again?” Maggie’s eyes grew a little. “Maybe,” Olivia swept her hair behind her ear and tucked it into her barrette, trying to look nonchalant about it. “You’re going to get in so much trouble!” “Only if I get caught.” “I don’t get why you do that, anyway.” “I’m just... Looking is all.” “Olive…” “What?” “Do you really think you’re going to find a real star lying on the ground?” “Maybe. If I follow it to where it lands.” “Olive, I don’t think that’s how it works.” “Of course it is!” Olivia threw her hands out open wide. “That’s what all the books say!” “Which books?” Maggie stopped walking and looked hard at her friend with concern. Olivia

A lot of things excite me. When Dad says it is ice cream day. When Grandma bakes bread. Slumber parties. Green jelly beans. But today, what excites me the most is the lights going out...

Olivia and the Star


for the falling stars.

grandfather and I were your age,” her grandmother piped in from the other end of the dinner table. “When we were little there was a blackout every other day. We used to play marbles by firelight.” “Did they ever do it two nights in a row?” Olivia leaned in. “Honestly, they taste mushy and cold,” her father sniffed his plate. “Can a vegetable be under-done and overdone at the same time? “I’m sure they did nightly blackouts every now and then. Don’t know why they wouldn’t do it again, Little Olive,” The crow’s feet around Grandma’s eyes curved around as she smiled. “Sweetheart, why are you so intent on the lights going out again?” her father inquired as he stood at the other end of the kitchen placing his food in the microwave. “It’s because she wants to see a shooting star!” called her grandfather from the next room.

hesitated for a moment before placing her hands on her hips and tossing back her hair. “My books.” “But Olive, Mr. Holly says they’re meteorites that come from space.” “Well my books say they’re something more special than that and you get a wish if you find one.” “But Mr. Holly says—” “Oh Maggie, I know what Mr. Holly says!” “Well they can’t both be true,” retorted Maggie. Olivia withdrew shyly. “But why not?” she squeaked, picking at her finger-nails. “I don’t know, Olive. But this is my house. See you tomor-row?” “Yeah.” “Hey. It’s okay if you want to look for the stars.” “Promise?” “Promise. Just be careful is all.” “Okay,” Olivia grinned. “But you’re the one who could lose another hamster tonight.”

Olivia nearly choked on her peas, because she ate dinner

so fast. “Daddy, didn’t you say the lights would go out?” “Are you talking about the rolling blackouts?” Her father was a kind man with a handsome and serious face. When she was young-er, Olivia used to say that his face is what it looked like when a hap-py man sat on sadness’ shoulders. “I don’t remember, honey. They don’t do those very often. Did you give your peas to Grandpa again?”

“No, I ate them. You said yesterday they were doing it to-night.” “Well, yes. But then they went ahead and turned off the pow-er last night.” “But they could do it again, right?” “I don’t know how all that works Honey,” he loosened the top button of his shirt and poked at his food with a grimace on his face. “You know I really didn’t do a good job cooking these peas. You usually don’t eat them when I ruin them like this.” “You know when your

I make sure to watch

...I’m not excited about lights out because of candles or my dad making s’mores. I’m excit-ed about it because when it’s most dark is when the stars come out real bright. Every night that is good for stars, I make sure to watch for the falling stars. Sometimes I go looking for them. I have not found one yet, but when I do, I will get to make a wish. I know I will get to make a wish...


falling stars.

“I thought you were asleep Dad,” answered Olivia’s father. “Feh! I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” the old man grumbled through yellow teeth. “Well, I think tonight’s the night for my Little Olive,” chirped Grandma. “Just be sure you don’t blink. They can be gone in an in-stant, you know!” “So can my cooking appar-ently,” her father was looking dis-heartedly at the shriveled remains of his peas after zapping them in the microwave. “Why don’t you cook again?” he furrowed his brow in Grandma’s direction. “Arthritis,” the old lady wiggled her fingers. “We cooked for you for twenty years, don’t you know it!?” cried Grandpa from his arm chair in the next room, while brandishing a dramatic finger in the air. “Who’s we?” laughed Dad. “You couldn’t cook a bag of pop-corn without burning it.” “The lady and I are two

halves of one whole, my boy,” Grandpa winked. “Besides, you used to cook popcorn on the stove. It was much harder before they started dousing it with ra-diation.” Olivia chuckled a bit at her family’s bickering. She loved it when everyone was in a good mood at the table and thought it was espe-cially fun when Dad and Grandpa teased each other. Even though it was a good night, she found an anx-iety rising inside her. Her mind was drifting away into the night sky, already looking about for a falling star—her falling star. “I’m done eating. May I be excused?” It was no use, her father and grandfather were too far gone hurtling jabs at one another from across the room. Grandma was of course the one who finally leaned over. “I think it’s best you clear out, Little Olive. They might bust the lights themselves if they keep at it much longer,” Olivia kissed her grandmother on the cheek and scur-ried off to her bedroom in a matter of seconds.

That night, Olivia sat by her windowsill quietly thumbing

through her old book. It was a thick tome with a cover that was once red but had since faded to a light salmon color. The words Classic Tales from Childhood were printed in big block let-ters on the front with etchings of beanstalk vines creeping around it. She brushed her fingers down the frayed yellow pages, slipping them inside and peeled a few back to read familiar titles and favor-ite lines. She sat with her jumper from school still on and her dad’s old binoculars around her neck. Every few minutes she would climb up to the window’s edge and peer over. The orange glow of streetlights hovered around her large and disappointed eyes.

She finally rose to her feet, having decided to change into her pajamas and get to bed. She took one last glance out the window and saw a tiny flicker of dying light down her street. A thrill of excitement swelled within her and she pressed her binoculars to her eyes. Through them she could see one street-light stammering and turning off. Before she knew it, all the lights in the neighborhood fell dark. Olivia let out a squeal and threw open the window. As her eyes adjusted and the fog of artificial light dissolved, the stars came out. Olivia imagined them as old friends, yawning and waking up to greet her. She watched them for nearly half an hour, hoping and searching. It is said that if you watch the night sky long enough you will always find a falling star, and that is just what Olivia did.

...My mom died a long time ago. She was very sick. I never knew her. But my Dad did (duh!). He said that her most favorite thing ever was stories. When I was just a little baby in her tummy, she used to read a big book of fairy stories to me ev-ery night. I still have the book and me and Dad read it a lot and do you know what? There are three stories in it about falling stars! I can not wait to find my own...


With binoculars fixed firmly to her eyes, she tracked the path of a flickering star as it plum-meted to the earth. Much to her delight, it appeared to disappear into the wooded area of the city park just a few blocks from her house. With a smile and a sparkle of yellow light in her eye, she gathered up her book and binocu-lars, climbed out the window and shimmied down the storm drain. With one glance back towards the unlit house, she grinned and dis-appeared into the night.

Because of the thick blan-ket of darkness, she had to find her way to the park by memory. When she made it there, she slipped into the trees. At first the enchantment of the whole adventure bubbled up into a gush of excitement, but after wondering through the trees with nothing but moonlight to guide her, a sense of smallness and confusion overtook her. Just as she began to wonder if she had made a mistake, the voices rang out in the night. “No, you’re doing it wrong!” “Shut it, I am not!” Olivia knew before she saw: Byron and George. When she peered through the bushes she saw the two boys, bicycles parked neat-ly, huddled around a pile of sticks. She could hear the croaking of a frog coming from George’s hand and the flashes of sparks coming from Byron. “My dad says they blow up when you throw them in the fire!” George snickered. “That doesn’t really hap-pen! It’s their eyes. They get all gooey and melt.” “Shows how much you know, you can’t even get the lighter to work.” “Can too.”

“Can not! Let me see!” As the boys bickered, Olivia felt pity for the poor frog. She hated how much boys liked to do mean things to little animals. Suddenly, she had an idea. Just as Byron and George were discussing whether or not they should skewer the frog on a stick before roasting it, Olivia si-lently picked up a nearby rock and flung it with all her might at the bicycles. It wasn’t the most well-aimed shot, but luckily the stone hit the ground and rolled into one of the bikes just hard enough to tip it over and knock down the other one in a heap. “Who’s there?” cried George. “Let’s go.” Olivia turned and fled. She did not properly think this decision through, for the boys were soon on their bikes, which meant they were much faster than she was. Her only choice was to stick to the unpaved patches of trees, but this was fraught with unseen obstacles obscured in the darkness. With a hop and a stumble, she was thrown off balance by a tree root and soon found herself tumbling into the path facing down two school-yard bullies on bikes. “It’s a girl!” “Who!?” “I can’t tell. Get her!” Olivia turned and ran with her stomach lurching into her throat, but it was no use. Just as Byron stretched out his hand to grab hold of her, she threw herself back into the thicket, but misplaced her foot-ing. She tumbled down a small hill and felt as if time slowed for a moment as she fell and fell. When she landed with a thud in a patch of leaves, the

first thing she noticed was that the boys’ voices were fading in the distance. The second thing she noticed was the warm glow before her. Her eyes grew to the size of saucers, and her heart skipped a beat. The little star lying before her was brilliant. It looked almost as if it was made of porcelain, but it was clear like glass. Within it she could see an otherworldly yel-low light fluttering about like a firefly. The tiny curl on the side of her temple that was so fond of com-ing unclipped blew in the wind. Ol-ivia swallowed hard and swept it back into her barrette never taking her eyes off the little trinket she had so longed for. Slowly, she reached forward to pick it up. Her very own star.

...I know it seems silly for me to still believe in fairy tales, like wishing on a star. I am ten after all, so I am almost grown up. But I still think that maybe it is true. At least it is true maybe for me. In all the fairy stories, the kids are just like me. They do not have one of their parents or they do not have any parents. But it is almost okay because the sad kids are always the ones who get to have the adventure. Sometimes I am so sad, that I think it is very close to be-ing time for my adventure. That will be what I wish for when I find my star. Olivia Simmons. Mr. Holly’s class. November 12, 2012.


Model Abby Eades

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Even though the new year can be exciting and full of possibil-

ity, it can also be pretty stressful. You might be saying things like, “Why don’t any of my pants fit?!” or “How am I still in this horrible job?!”

Enter the New Year’s reso-lution. About 45 percent of Ameri-cans make them. We imagine our-selves in that new job or smaller pants size. It’s exhilarating.

The good news: A Journal of Clinical Psychology study found

that people who make resolutions are 10 times more likely to change their behavior than those who don’t.

The bad news: Short-term urges can trump long-term plans. Another Journal of Clinical Psy-chology study reports that 54 per-cent give up on their resolutions within six months -- and only 8 per-cent ultimately succeed by the end of the year.

So each year, why are we writing proverbial checks we can’t cash? A few answers have emerged

from scientific research on the top-ic.

Two Types of Resolutions That Will Always Fail

“Pie In the Sky” Resolutions

Even though making a res-olution is thrilling, keeping it isn’t easy. Many people aren’t ready to make the serious commitment needed to succeed.

Successful New Year’s ResolutionsModel Abby Eades

Photography by Aoife Gorey, Makeup by Alex Williams feauturing Boho Model Crewby Dr. Tasha Eurich

The Science Behind:


ThSo in 2014, keep things focused. Pick one resolution at a time. Make it specific and real. Practice it every day. And every day, you’ll be one step closer to making your resolution a reality. Good luck, and here’s to a prosperous 2014!

In my new book, Happy People, Bottom-Line Results and the Power to Deliver Both, I talk about a workplace phenomenon that I call Delusional Development. Delusional Development is the fu-

tile hope that you will get better at something just because you want to. For example, a manager might say she wants to improve her lis-tening skills, not do anything sub-stantive to change that, and then be

surprised or disappointed when she isn’t a better listener.

The same applies to your New Year’s resolutions. When you say, “This year, I will lose 30


pounds,” but have no real strat-egy to make it happen, the number on the scale simply isn’t going to change. As the saying goes, hope is not a plan.

“All Over the Place” Resolutions

Many people toss out a laundry list of resolutions every year. In 2014, you might decide, you’re going to fix your finances, stop drinking beer and run a mara-thon! Hot dog!

Unfortunately, when we take on too much at once, our brain chemistry works against us. Suc-cessful resolutions require self-control -- say, the self-control to

wake up early and run five miles -- and self-control is an exhaustible resource.

In one study, Baumeister and his colleagues divided partici-pants into two groups -- one com-pleted a series of tasks requiring self-control, and the other com-pleted tasks that didn’t. Then, the researchers measured their blood glucose levels. Glucose is best thought of as fuel for the brain -- when it metabolizes in the blood-stream, the brain can carry out its major functions. In Baumeister’s study, not only did the self-control group show lower glucose levels, low glucose levels led to poorer self-control.

So, in a nutshell, having too many New Year’s resolutions is a prescription for not keeping any of them.

Three Ways to Keep Your 2014 New Year’s Resolutions

1. Work on One Thing at a Time

We live in a society where more is better. But when it comes to goals, less is usually more. Another example: In business, even though 64 percent of executives believe they have too many priorities, com-panies with fewer priorities show more growth.

So take a page from the late,

Model Stella Jane


great Stephen Covey and put first things first. Instead of picking four resolutions that you’ll abandon, choose one that will give you the biggest payoff. This doesn’t mean you can’t work on more than one resolution per year, it just means you shouldn’t focus on more than one at a time.

2. Translate Your Resolution Into Specific Behaviors

Keeping resolutions usually means replacing old, bad habits with new, better ones. People who successfully change their habits achieve something called “habitu-al automaticity” -- performing the new habit without having to think about it.

In one study, researchers tried to improve participants’ dental habits. All participants were told to floss more, given floss, and shown how to use it. Participants who

planned exactly when and where they would floss were more suc-cessful at changing their habits than those who didn’t.

So, break your resolution into specific behaviors and put them on a timetable. For example, to get to the gym on weekends instead of lounging around drinking mimosas in your pajamas, join a gym and schedule time on your calendar. Before you know it, you’ll be go-ing without even thinking about it.

Practice Every Day

As shown by K. Anders Er-icsson, daily practice allows people with average talent to achieve ex-traordinary things. The best mara-thon runners, for example, don’t show physiological differences in lung capacity or muscle. The differ-ence lies in how much each runner

trains in the weeks leading up to the marathon.

For your resolutions, the amount and quality of daily practice you choose will be proportionate to the level of improvement you will see. Period. So if you’re not work-ing every day to, for example, curb your smoking habit, you won’t get long-term traction.

So in 2014, keep things fo-cused. Pick one resolution at a time. Make it specific and real. Practice it every day. And every day, you’ll be one step closer to making your resolution a reality. Good luck, and here’s to a prosperous 2014!

Model Miriam Hitsel


A proud leadership geek, executive coach, speaker, con-tributor to Huffington Post, and author, Dr. Eurich is the author of the new book, Bankable Leadership: Happy Peo-ple, Bottom Line Results, and the Power to Deliver Both. She also helps organizations succeed by improving the effectiveness of their leaders and teams. Dr. Eurich pas-sionately pairs her scientific grounding in human behavior with a practical approach to solving some of today’s most common leadership challenges. Her decade-long career has spanned roles as an external consultant and a direct report to both CEOs and human resources executives. The majority of Dr. Eurich’s work has been with executives in large Fortune 500 organizations, including CH2M HILL, Xcel Energy, Western Union, IHS, Destination Hotels and Resorts, Newmont Mining, Centura Health, CoBiz Finan-cial, the City of Cincinnati, and HCA.

With an M.S. and Ph.D. in Industrial-Organizational Psy-chology from Colorado State University and B.A.s in The-ater and Psychology from Middlebury College, she serves on the faculty at the Center for Creative Leadership. She has served as an adjunct faculty member in Colorado State University’s Psychology and Business Schools. She is also a popular guest speaker at the University of Denver and Colorado State University’s Executive MBA programs.

She has been featured in The New York Times and Forbes and she has published articles in Chief Learning Officer Magazine, The Journal of Business and Psychology among many others. In 2013, Dr. Eurich was honored as one of Denver Business Journal’s “40 under 40” rising stars in business.

A true renaissance woman, Dr. Eurich enjoys cycling, trav-eling, theater, and fashion. A resident of Denver, Colorado, she is married to a wonderful man, and has three dogs.

Books can be ordered at BankableLeadership.com. To connect with Dr. Eurich, please visit Twitter.com and Linkedin.com.

Dr. Tasha Eurich


Models Abby Eades & Kenyai O’Neal

Dr. Tasha Eurich


Pete Able has been writing stories and poetry since college, or almost 20 years. His screenplays have been finalists with Scriptapalooza, PAGE International, and the New York Television Festival, among others. He lives in Woodway with his wife, Melissa, and daughters Jo-anna and Lila. He is currently the director of Financial and HR sys-tems for Baylor University.

A. K. Amberg moved to Waco six years ago and hasn’t looked back since. Born in Nashville and raised in Houston, he finds the quirkiness of Central Texas far more poetic than any of his previous surround-ings. He has published poems in both the UK and the US, including his own book of original poetry and prose, The Least of These.

Cassandra Arnold has been a sto-ryteller since Primary School. She lives in Canada and works as a doc-tor for Doctors Without Borders.

William Blackrose is an Egyptian born writer and photographer that is dedicated to using unusual per-spectives in all his projects. Con-stantly flipping gender as well as style to craft new perspectives, he is working on his novel. His cur-rent works include “Twin Minds”, “Tears of Kharon”, and his newest project “Bloodfire”.

Aoife Gorey is a native Irish wom-an and moved to Texas 3 years ago to pursue her Marketing career. She is an International Marketing & PR Associate for a global busi-ness based in Waco. A creative at

heart, she loves zumba, the out-doors, animals, cooking, time with friends, and a nice glass of wine with a great book. She enjoys ex-ploring her new home of Texas and the US. She contributes to Bohemia by modeling and assisting photog-raphers.

Ty Hall lives in Texas, makes up stories, and tries to be good.

April Henley “God set two pas-sions in my heart: A love of horses and a love for writing. The first in-spired the second, and now, every-thing around me adds to my trea-sure trove of inspiration. My desire to write led me to Baylor Univer-sity, to major in Professional Writ-ing, and now, I work as a technical writer for Pinnacle, a Halliburton

Contributors


service. The most wonderful thing about writing, to me, is the feel-ing of release, like falling down the rabbit hole into my own perfect Wonderland.”

CJ Hudgins is a born and raised Wacoan. He is what you may call a jack of all trades in the creative sphere. Photography is simply one of his loves and passions. CJ runs and operates Vember Photo, a pho-tography business.

A.J. Huffman’s poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, and Offerta Speci-ale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com

Lewis Humphries is a freelance writer and blogger based in Bir-mingham, UK. He also has a pas-sion for creative writing, and has featured in magazines throughout the UK, U.S. and Oceania.

Bonnie Neagle is a native Texan who is married with 3 children; Al-ley, Isaac and Parker. Her love for photography started during middle school and has grown ever since. She was recently featured on Se-nior Style Guide’s blog. She also co-owns First Sight Photography with Marcel Van Es.

C. R. Resetarits’ poetry has re-cently appeared in New Writing, SLAB, Stoneboat, dirtcake, Weber Studies: The Contemporary West and in the new anthologies Lines Underwater and The Four Cham-bered Heart: In Tribute to Anais Nin.

Stephanie Rystrom is a photog-rapher, model, fashionista, and momma in Central Texas. She’s a bohemian at heart, currently work-ing on her BA in horticulture, and enjoying life day by day.

Samuel Piccone is a recent gradu-ate from the M.A. Writing and Publishing program at DePaul Uni-versity in Chicago. His work has appeared in publications including: Silverthought Press, Threshold, Leveler, and, Forge. He currently resides in Colorado.

Jessica Purser has been writing and traveling since she was a little girl. Currently, she lives in Tennes-see and spends most of her time talking to people about STDs. You can find her online usually under the name jesspurse.

Sierra Sugar is a Florida-native as-piring writer having two children’s short stories ready for publishing, and two novels in various stages of completion. Her passion for books, movies, and music has given her a vast knowledge of random “use-less” pop-culture trivia, as well as a large eclectic collection of mp3s.

Gary Lee Webb is a 16-year resident of Waco. He has lived on three continents, visited four, and speaks many languages … badly. His credits include over 240 public speeches, four decades of confer-ences and contests, assisting the Waco Cultural Arts Fest, and over two dozen publications. He is 58, married 36 years, and has 4 daugh-ters.

Kaspar Wilder is a poet in spirit, with blue eyes and a love of mak-ing up words. She writes about small everyday moments, connect-ing them to larger concepts. Armed with a frank sense of humor, a sunflower for everyone she meets, and laser eyes, she is happy, if often late.

Contributors


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Waco, TX254-813-8547


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