64 lit issue #1

Letterfrom theEditorXander Ragnauth

To say that the last few months were hectic would be an understatement.You see, about two months ago an idea was placed in my lap. It was simple; create a student organized, faculty advised, l i terary magazine. And now, knowing what I know, if I could go back and do things different, all things considered…I wouldn’t change a thing.

64 Lit is ECPI’s first l i terary magazine. It represents the talent, hard work, creativity and dedication that this school embodies. And for this issue, our first (of many more hopefully) we’ve decided to explore the theme of the macabre. And for this issue, our first (of many more hopefully) we’ve decided to explore the theme of the macabre. Student, faculty, staff and alumni have joined forces to bring to you, the reader, a series of grizzly, spine chil l ing tales, as well as a variety of artwork that truly embrace the subject matter.

Now, I could go on but in all honesty, this magazine, the staff and everyone who contributed in this endeavor has left me utterly speechless. So, without any more a due, sit back, and get ready to enjoy your work ECPI. That’s right, your work. None of this could have been possible without you and all your hard work.

photographed by + Lucas Barnes modeled by + Xander Ragnauthphotographed by + Lucas Barnes modeled by + Xander Ragnauth

Letterfrom

Mr.PopeSchool President

Since the college’s early beginnings in 1966, ECPI has stood for a quality collegiate education. As our mission statement declares, we “are committed to being a premier institution of higher education with an innovative, student-centered learning environment.” In other words, we prepare students for success in their chosen career field. Whereas we know that in this modern age technology drives economic, governmental and scientif ic forces, we also know that ult imately humans are the true force behind technological innovations as well as the end-users of such development. It may seem like stating the obvious, but our students are human. It may seem like stating the obvious, but our students are human. They want to grow not only their career skil ls and knowledge base, but who they are as people. I ’m proud to be a part of this endeavor to create a student-run publication. The students working on this dedicate their own time and resources to provide a place for other students, faculty, staff, and alumni to share their voices and visions. They uti l ize what their classes have taught them about collaboration, communication, project management, and so much more. They uti l ize their technical skil ls by employing various media and software. But most importantly, in celebrating l iterature, poetry, and art we speak to the heart of being human.But most importantly, in celebrating l iterature, poetry, and art we speak to the heart of being human.

Letterfrom

Mr.PopeSchool President

Since the college’s early beginnings in 1966, ECPI has stood for a quality collegiate education. As our mission statement declares, we “are committed to being a premier institution of higher education with an innovative, student-centered learning environment.” In other words, we prepare students for success in their chosen career field. Whereas we know that in this modern age technology drives economic, governmental and scientif ic forces, we also know that ult imately humans are the true force behind technological innovations as well as the end-users of such development. It may seem like stating the obvious, but our students are human. It may seem like stating the obvious, but our students are human. They want to grow not only their career skil ls and knowledge base, but who they are as people. I ’m proud to be a part of this endeavor to create a student-run publication. The students working on this dedicate their own time and resources to provide a place for other students, faculty, staff, and alumni to share their voices and visions. They uti l ize what their classes have taught them about collaboration, communication, project management, and so much more. They uti l ize their technical skil ls by employing various media and software. But most importantly, in celebrating l iterature, poetry, and art we speak to the heart of being human.But most importantly, in celebrating l iterature, poetry, and art we speak to the heart of being human.

submitted by <> Debra Parkssubmitted by <> Debra Parks

“The Grim Reaper Smiles at Us All”

picture & essay submitted by <> Jonathan Stewart

F u n n y , h o w o n e p e r s o n i f i e d c h a r a c t e r o f n a t u r a l o c c u r r e n c e c a n i n s p i r e u s t o d e c i d e h o w t o l i v e l i f e . L i k e t h e b l o o d c o u r s i n g t h r o u g h o u r v e i n s t h e f e e l i n g s p r e a d s m o r e a n d m o r e k n o w i n g t h a t o n e d a y w e w i l l k n o w w h a t i t ’ s l i k e o n t h e “ o t h e r s i d e . ” A s o m e w h a t i n v i t i n g i m a g e c o m e s t o m i n d w h e n I p o n d e r o n t h e d e p t h s o f d e a t h , a s m i l i n g f l e s h l e s s b e i n g a w a i t i n g m y a r r i v a l . W a t c h i n g e v e r y m o v e I m a k e , w h i l e I w a l k t h e s t e p p i n g s t o n e s l e a d i n g t o m y l a s t b r e a t h . N e v e r t o i n t e r f e r e n o r g i v e g u i d a n c e , o n l y t o s h o w h i s p r e s e n c e j u s t s l i g h t l y f o r u s t o k n o w t h a t w e w i l l a l l p a y o u r d e b t t o t h i s e a r t h f o r o u r s w e e t b i t t e r l o a n c a l l e d “ l i f e . ” T h e s m i l e s h o u l d r e a s s u r e o u r h a p p i n e s s o f l i v i n g ; h o w e v e r w e o f t e n c l o u d o u r s e l v e s w i t h d o u b t r e m i n d i n g o u r s e l v e s t o l i v e b e t t e r l i v e s f o r o u r s e l v e s a n d o t h e r s , t h u s b r i n g i n g f e a r o f d e a t h i n t o p l a y . K n o w i n g o n e d a y w e m a y n o t b e a b l e t o a t t e n d t o o u r s i n s , b r i n g s a v i o l e n t i m a g e o f p u n i s h m e n t f o r o u r a c t i o n s . T h i s m a y b r i n g n e w p e r s o n a s o f p o s i t i v e o r n e g a t i v e v a l u e t o o u r o w n t a b l e o f r e l a t i o n s h i p s t o u s a n d o t h e r s . T h r o u g h t h i s s u b c o n s c i o u s r e a c t i o n w e c h a n g e o u r p a t h t o t h e e n d , n e v e r f o r g e t t i n g t h e i t c h i n t h e b a c k o f t h e m i n d r e p e a t i n g o v e r a n d o v e r t h a t w e w i l l a l l h a v e o u r e n d . A s t h e G r i m R e a p e r s m i l e s i n a s s u r a n c e t h a t w e w i l l m e e t , I c a n o n l y s m i l e b a c k t o a c k n o w l e d g e t h e o n l y r e a l f a c t I k n o w a b o u t l i f e , t h a t I w i l l s u r e l y m e e t h i m o n e d a y a n d t e l l h i m a b o u t m y l i f e i n k n o w i n g t h a t I w i l l b e a t p e a c e w i t h w h a t I h a v e d o n e w i t h m y l o a n .

T o t h o s e w h o f o r g e t , t o t h o s e w h o f e a r , t o t h o s e w h o a r e n o t r e a d y , b e s u r e t o k n o w h e i s a l w a y s s m i l i n g a n d w a i t i n g . L e t i t b e k n o w n t o a l l t o l i v e l i f e t o w h a t y o u s u i t b e s t f o r y o u r s e l f w i t h t h e c o n s i d e r a t i o n o f o t h e r s a n d d e a t h w i l l j u s t b e a n o t h e r f r i e n d w a i t i n g f o r y o u .

T h e U n d e r t o wW r i t t e n B y E r i c B r o w n

T h e U n d e r t o wW r i t t e n B y E r i c B r o w n

A s I w a l k d o w n t h e p a t h o f l i f eT h i s r o a d d u s t y a n d m a n g l e d w i t h l e a v e s

I c o m e t o a p o i n t w h e r e I s e e n o t h i n g A n d j u s t a t t h e m o m e n t I s e e t h e b l a c k n e s s o f w h a t i s t o c o m e

A s I s t a n d i n t h i s p l a c e o f a s h a n d w a s t eI s e e t h e g r o u n d s t a r t t o f a d e

A s I l o o k b e l o wA s I l o o k b e l o wI s e e t h e v o i d a t m y f e e t

A s t h e j a w s o f a s h a r k t o w e l c o m e t o m y c r u e l f a t e I s c r a m b l e

I c r a w l T o e s c a p e t h i s e v e r w i d e n i n g a b y s s

Y e t I s t i l l f a l l A s L e a d i s t o w a t e r I t o o d r o p t o t h e s t a g n a t e d e p t h s o f t h i s a b y s sA s L e a d i s t o w a t e r I t o o d r o p t o t h e s t a g n a t e d e p t h s o f t h i s a b y s s

A s I w a l k d o w n t h e p a t h o f l i f eT h i s r o a d d u s t y a n d m a n g l e d w i t h l e a v e s

I c o m e t o a p o i n t w h e r e I s e e n o t h i n g A n d j u s t a t t h e m o m e n t I s e e t h e b l a c k n e s s o f w h a t i s t o c o m e

A s I s t a n d i n t h i s p l a c e o f a s h a n d w a s t eI s e e t h e g r o u n d s t a r t t o f a d e

A s I l o o k b e l o wA s I l o o k b e l o wI s e e t h e v o i d a t m y f e e t

A s t h e j a w s o f a s h a r k t o w e l c o m e t o m y c r u e l f a t e I s c r a m b l e

I c r a w l T o e s c a p e t h i s e v e r w i d e n i n g a b y s s

Y e t I s t i l l f a l l A s L e a d i s t o w a t e r I t o o d r o p t o t h e s t a g n a t e d e p t h s o f t h i s a b y s sA s L e a d i s t o w a t e r I t o o d r o p t o t h e s t a g n a t e d e p t h s o f t h i s a b y s s

A s I w a i t f o r g r a v i t i e s i n e v i t a b l e e n dI s e e w h a t i s a w a i t i n g m e

F i n a l l y I s l a m i n t o r o c k h a r d e r t h a n s t e e l B u t m y b o n e s d o n o t b r e a k

M y s k i n d o e s n o t b l e e d A s I l i f t m y h e a d u p f r o m t h e g r o u n d

M y e y e s b e h o l d t h e h o r r o r s t h a t e v e n h e l l w o u l d n o t s o w M y e y e s b e h o l d t h e h o r r o r s t h a t e v e n h e l l w o u l d n o t s o w “ T o w h a t i s t h i s p l a c e t h a t I h a v e f a l l e n ” I p o n d e r e d

A s I w a i t f o r g r a v i t i e s i n e v i t a b l e e n dI s e e w h a t i s a w a i t i n g m e

F i n a l l y I s l a m i n t o r o c k h a r d e r t h a n s t e e l B u t m y b o n e s d o n o t b r e a k

M y s k i n d o e s n o t b l e e d A s I l i f t m y h e a d u p f r o m t h e g r o u n d

M y e y e s b e h o l d t h e h o r r o r s t h a t e v e n h e l l w o u l d n o t s o w M y e y e s b e h o l d t h e h o r r o r s t h a t e v e n h e l l w o u l d n o t s o w “ T o w h a t i s t h i s p l a c e t h a t I h a v e f a l l e n ” I p o n d e r e d

As I began to stand I felt the pain of a thousand knives plunging into my heart and spine

My God what is this that plagues me so” I Scream My answer was soon to follow

For when my eyes where to look at the epicenter of this pain I witness a horror that words cannot express

For at that moment I witnessed a dagger like clawFor at that moment I witnessed a dagger like clawfreeing itself from me and slamming itself onto my face

I felt the knife like fingers scraping on my very boneIts inevitable twin soon made its aperients

As it plunged into my stomachAnd with a force so powerful it nearly broke my body in two

It ripped itself from me as a child from its mother’s wombThe pain was just too much for me to bareThe pain was just too much for me to bare

I began to fall to my kneesAnd just at that moment

I saw the smoky claw clinch around my throat like a noose and pulled me up to its face

As I now stare into its eyes of burning embersIt shrieked these words to me

“Hello old friend” “Hello old friend”

As I began to stand I felt the pain of a thousand knives plunging into my heart and spine

My God what is this that plagues me so” I Scream My answer was soon to follow

For when my eyes where to look at the epicenter of this pain I witness a horror that words cannot express

For at that moment I witnessed a dagger like clawFor at that moment I witnessed a dagger like clawfreeing itself from me and slamming itself onto my face

I felt the knife like fingers scraping on my very boneIts inevitable twin soon made its aperients

As it plunged into my stomachAnd with a force so powerful it nearly broke my body in two

It ripped itself from me as a child from its mother’s wombThe pain was just too much for me to bareThe pain was just too much for me to bare

I began to fall to my kneesAnd just at that moment

I saw the smoky claw clinch around my throat like a noose and pulled me up to its face

As I now stare into its eyes of burning embersIt shrieked these words to me

“Hello old friend” “Hello old friend”

submitted by <> Sheila Sheddsubmitted by <> Sheila Shedd

The Scariest Book I Ever Read

By Judy Garner

It was the summer between seventh and eighth grade, and driven by boredom, I had decided that I was going to read books from my mother’s bookcase. While she had never specifically stated that I was NOT allowed to read her books, it seemed wiser and safer to do so under the cover of darkness, when everyone was tucked into bed and the house was dark and quite. I selected the first book that caught my eye – a bright yellow book with a small girl on the front. I remember neither the name nor the author of this book, but having such a sunny cover convinced me that it would be a great way to start my grown-up reading. I remember that the story started out perfectly – a single parent mother moves to a new town with her two children and tries to rebuild her life following a horrible divorce. This is great, I thought, an almost perfect reflection of my very life. The mother in the story searches for the perfect babysitter for her daughter and small son, happily choos-ing a woman who seems like she is the answer to her prayers. And then the story took a turn. The little boy goes missing; the babysitter seems to dote just a bit too much on the little girl; things just don’t seem right. I knew that this story was not going to end well. I remember specifically contemplating not finishing my first grown up book. But, in the dark and silent night, I did finish the book. I remember bits and pieces vividly, as if they were somehow seared into my brain. The babysitter has the little girl and takes her to an aban-doned house hidden deep in the woods. The little girl is forced to go into the cellar, her little feet descending the cold, damp cellar stairs. I can almost smell the cellar still; thick waves of rotten stench enveloping the pair as they descend into the darkness. The only light was the faint beam of the flashlight, creating pictures and shadows, masking what may lay hidden in the shadowy depths. I know that at some point the little girl starts to put the pieces together - the rotten stench of decay and death tell the reader that whatever has been hidden down in this basement should stay hidden, a certain sign that all will not be well. The babysitter forces the girl into the corner where a stack of old, worn rugs have been thrown and stacked high. The babysitter pulls back some of the rugs and reveals the rotting corpse with the blond curly locks. The little girl is grabbed and forced to kiss what used to be her brother. She sees up-close the worms and maggots that have made her brother their new home. The babysitter is joyous – her family is now complete.

I finished the book before dawn. The house was still and I could hear the sounds of night outside my bedroom. We did not have air conditioning growing up, and in the summers we were forced to throw wide the windows and recycle hot, musty air with fans that never seemed to quite cool anything. This summer was also the summer that my friends learned a new trick. They would wait for their families to fall asleep, and then they would climb out of the windows and run rampant around the neighborhood. Having discovered that most of the world is asleep at this hour, and too excited by their new-found freedom to go back home, they would creep to my windows and scratch their nails across the screens. My house was a prime target because a. we didn’t have air condition and the windows were open wide, b. my mother slept like a rock, and c. I was awake all night reading. I became very adept at listening to the sounds of the neighborhood dogs that would alert me to the presence of my friends making their way up the street. This particular night, however, every time I closed my eyes, I could see the dead, rotting corpse of the little boy and the mad, hungry eyes of the babysitter that I was sure would come and find me to take me away. I could hear footsteps outside my window and my heart raced as I pictured that for-gotten house in the woods that would surely be the death of me. I grabbed my pillow and went to sleep in my mom’s bed, surrounded by pillows in case of attack, lulled to sleep by the click-click of the her ceiling fan.

The Scariest Book I Ever Read

By Judy Garner

It was the summer between seventh and eighth grade, and driven by boredom, I had decided that I was going to read books from my mother’s bookcase. While she had never specifically stated that I was NOT allowed to read her books, it seemed wiser and safer to do so under the cover of darkness, when everyone was tucked into bed and the house was dark and quite. I selected the first book that caught my eye – a bright yellow book with a small girl on the front. I remember neither the name nor the author of this book, but having such a sunny cover convinced me that it would be a great way to start my grown-up reading. I remember that the story started out perfectly – a single parent mother moves to a new town with her two children and tries to rebuild her life following a horrible divorce. This is great, I thought, an almost perfect reflection of my very life. The mother in the story searches for the perfect babysitter for her daughter and small son, happily choos-ing a woman who seems like she is the answer to her prayers. And then the story took a turn. The little boy goes missing; the babysitter seems to dote just a bit too much on the little girl; things just don’t seem right. I knew that this story was not going to end well. I remember specifically contemplating not finishing my first grown up book. But, in the dark and silent night, I did finish the book. I remember bits and pieces vividly, as if they were somehow seared into my brain. The babysitter has the little girl and takes her to an aban-doned house hidden deep in the woods. The little girl is forced to go into the cellar, her little feet descending the cold, damp cellar stairs. I can almost smell the cellar still; thick waves of rotten stench enveloping the pair as they descend into the darkness. The only light was the faint beam of the flashlight, creating pictures and shadows, masking what may lay hidden in the shadowy depths. I know that at some point the little girl starts to put the pieces together - the rotten stench of decay and death tell the reader that whatever has been hidden down in this basement should stay hidden, a certain sign that all will not be well. The babysitter forces the girl into the corner where a stack of old, worn rugs have been thrown and stacked high. The babysitter pulls back some of the rugs and reveals the rotting corpse with the blond curly locks. The little girl is grabbed and forced to kiss what used to be her brother. She sees up-close the worms and maggots that have made her brother their new home. The babysitter is joyous – her family is now complete.

I finished the book before dawn. The house was still and I could hear the sounds of night outside my bedroom. We did not have air conditioning growing up, and in the summers we were forced to throw wide the windows and recycle hot, musty air with fans that never seemed to quite cool anything. This summer was also the summer that my friends learned a new trick. They would wait for their families to fall asleep, and then they would climb out of the windows and run rampant around the neighborhood. Having discovered that most of the world is asleep at this hour, and too excited by their new-found freedom to go back home, they would creep to my windows and scratch their nails across the screens. My house was a prime target because a. we didn’t have air condition and the windows were open wide, b. my mother slept like a rock, and c. I was awake all night reading. I became very adept at listening to the sounds of the neighborhood dogs that would alert me to the presence of my friends making their way up the street. This particular night, however, every time I closed my eyes, I could see the dead, rotting corpse of the little boy and the mad, hungry eyes of the babysitter that I was sure would come and find me to take me away. I could hear footsteps outside my window and my heart raced as I pictured that for-gotten house in the woods that would surely be the death of me. I grabbed my pillow and went to sleep in my mom’s bed, surrounded by pillows in case of attack, lulled to sleep by the click-click of the her ceiling fan.

As summer wore on, nighttime became something of a trial. The heat was oppressive, and my friends started staking out the house, hiding in the ditch and throwing rocks and pebbles at the window to get my attention. Other times they would come right up to the window and whisper my name, only compounding the nightmare problem. My mother, liking her sleep and distressed to find that I now crept into her bed every night, demanded to know why I suddenly couldn’t sleep on my own. Not wanting to admit my nightmares about crazy babysitters and rotting corpses, I made some vague comment about night-mares, which managed to keep her from permanently stopping my nighttime wanderings. She was used to me being slightly crazy and unexplainable most of the time anyway.

The heat and the nightly visitors drove even my sister crazy, who started sleeping at her boyfriend’s house to escape the crazytown that our house had become. Her boyfriend’s parents, not thrilled with this development, took pity on us, or maybe just wanted to stop the love nest their son’s room had become, and one day out of the blue, arrived with two air conditioners in tow. Katherine decided that because it was her boyfriend’s parents that gave us the air conditioners, she should be the one to get the air conditioner in her room. But logistics, miraculously, won, and as the owner of the bedroom at the end of the hall, it was my window that got the new unit. With joy we ran around and closed win-dows, cranking the air down as low as could go, reveling in the ice-cold circulating air. By the time Mom got home even she could not protest the gifts, and that night was our first taste of what it must surely be like to be rich. By nightfall, my room was crazy-cold, and I dragged out my old, comfortable quilt and settled down to sleep. With the windows closed, I couldn’t hear the night sounds, no hint of trespassers, no whisperings or footfalls. I fell asleep to the hum of the air conditioner, tucked up like a mummy, so tight that even the nightmares couldn’t reach me.

As summer wore on, nighttime became something of a trial. The heat was oppressive, and my friends started staking out the house, hiding in the ditch and throwing rocks and pebbles at the window to get my attention. Other times they would come right up to the window and whisper my name, only compounding the nightmare problem. My mother, liking her sleep and distressed to find that I now crept into her bed every night, demanded to know why I suddenly couldn’t sleep on my own. Not wanting to admit my nightmares about crazy babysitters and rotting corpses, I made some vague comment about night-mares, which managed to keep her from permanently stopping my nighttime wanderings. She was used to me being slightly crazy and unexplainable most of the time anyway.

The heat and the nightly visitors drove even my sister crazy, who started sleeping at her boyfriend’s house to escape the crazytown that our house had become. Her boyfriend’s parents, not thrilled with this development, took pity on us, or maybe just wanted to stop the love nest their son’s room had become, and one day out of the blue, arrived with two air conditioners in tow. Katherine decided that because it was her boyfriend’s parents that gave us the air conditioners, she should be the one to get the air conditioner in her room. But logistics, miraculously, won, and as the owner of the bedroom at the end of the hall, it was my window that got the new unit. With joy we ran around and closed win-dows, cranking the air down as low as could go, reveling in the ice-cold circulating air. By the time Mom got home even she could not protest the gifts, and that night was our first taste of what it must surely be like to be rich. By nightfall, my room was crazy-cold, and I dragged out my old, comfortable quilt and settled down to sleep. With the windows closed, I couldn’t hear the night sounds, no hint of trespassers, no whisperings or footfalls. I fell asleep to the hum of the air conditioner, tucked up like a mummy, so tight that even the nightmares couldn’t reach me.

photographed by + Lucas Barnes -Evergreen Cemetery-

Ghost Story What is a ghost but that sad longingFor what was left unsaid or undone?Forever haunted by not responding--Downward love sinks like sullen sun.

Horror ripens in fall’s brown trimester --The specter of a human incomplete:The specter of a human incomplete:Potential allowed to rot and fester,

Forgotten joy, misshapen and diseased.

submitted by <> Virginia Fick

submitted by <> Nichole Miller

s u b m i t t e d b y < > S h e i l a S h e d ds u b m i t t e d b y < > S h e i l a S h e d d

submitted by Sheila Shedd

Seth

Seth

Mama was dead. That’s it, then. Us or Them. Us or Them, like a cuckoo clock

the radio preached survival. Us or them, me or you. No more coexistence? Fine. I was

up to the challenge when I saw her still in bed, the last of my old people, purple and stiff.

She hadn’t moved an inch in three days, and, though it was chilly in her room, we

couldn’t just ignore her any more. For more than a month we had seen our grandmother

only once or twice a day; my brother Seth carried food up to her, then carried it down

uneaten. I unbraided her long, brittle hair, brushed it out, rebraided it, while I lied about

how desperate we had become to keep food coming in. Some days we didn’t see her, but

I would call up the stairs. Sometimes she’d answer, sometimes not. That may seem

unkind, but I saw no hope for her, and needed to build it for us. I couldn’t face her if we

hadn’t found any meat that day, and frankly, sometimes I was just too tired to pretend

more than I felt. So when I found her position unchanged last week, I waited a couple of

days to tell Seth; I thought, what’s the rush? Maybe she’ll recover; maybe something will

come through her window and gnaw her old flesh away, leaving less to carry down.

But she stayed dead, getting uglier by the hour. Seth rallied to honor her; in a

frenzy he became attentive and determined to make a gesture, so I let him orchestrate his

bizarre funeral. He needed a real ceremony, one that might represent our loss. So many

of us had ended as gore in the street; others were dragged off, just disappeared forever, or

for a time. But this body, the husk of our grandmother, was all ours: a symbol of the end

of so much. We tied on the ruffled chintz apron she saved for company; found two

dollars in a pocket. I smeared coral lipstick across her puckered blue mouth; Seth

actually stapled her brown velvet cloche to her head because it wouldn’t stay properly

tilted as we carried her out. I wondered what he would find left in my closet to wrap

around my corpse; I had a fleeting memory of my favorite cotton sundress, pale blue and

green, once flowing and bright, now torn into strips, rusty stained and barely rinsed out.

We hauled her body back behind the house where a neglected little garden plot lay.

Tomatoes, chilies, squash, all gone to seed. We bent and scooped out a shallow dent in

the frosty ground, and laid her mostly in it. We were too tired, and didn’t care enough to

put her all the way under, even if we dared. Seth insisted on leaving her face uncovered

“just in case," and cried big sloppy tears over her while he read haltingly from the only

book we had. “Deep into that darkness peering/Long I stood there wondering, fearing...”

I watched his face; the sinking, dull eyes, the greying skin around his cracked lips, barely

moving as he spoke.

He was so broken up afterwards, I almost laughed at him behind my hand as we

turned away from the grave. But the look on his face was so twisted, so pained. He was

a child watching the last corner of his security blanket decay into lint; he heard the thud

of his blind, amputated teddy land flat in the garbage can. That was when I realized how

fragile he had become, and I felt stronger next to him, took his arm and lead him back

upstairs to our darkened bedroom. Gritting my teeth, I promised silently that Seth would

never starve while I lived. I love my brother and I’m keeping him. His gentle humor, his

generous heart, would give me a reason to stay and defend our life and our home. I

would be the hunter now, capable, ready, and smart. In my house, us would beat them; I

would kill to defend our home. In fact, I looked forward to it.

I let Seth rest the next few days while I stockpiled wood from the yard and

weapons from the shed. A broken shovel, sharp where it cracked, a dull axe, heavy. I

grabbed the croquet set; the wickets were pointy and caked with mud, the mallets solid. I

piled them with the broken tools, wire, nails and all the scrap I could carry on a blue tarp

and dragged it out through the garden. Desiccated vines stood out at crooked angles from

their stakes--the gnarled, accusing fingers of a sullen fairy crone. They pointed at the

ankle deep grave; Mama’s face had been pecked and eaten away, there was no blood.

Her hat was still secure, it looked fetching above her empty sockets. Something larger

had tried to pull her leg away; the exposed thigh was bloated and waxen, and for one

whole minute I was reminded of her great cooking. I wished I had paid more attention to

how she made her mystery casseroles. A sensible cordovan mary jane lay apart from a

calloused, severed foot. I always liked those shoes. I didn’t want to picture the feast

attempt or what could have interrupted it. I just kicked the foot back towards the hole,

tore a corner off the tarp and covered her up, turned my face and mind to the tasks at

hand.

Just before dawn I snagged a mangy orange cat that was prowling around our

yard; I called softly to her, pretending I had a little treat between my fingers. When I was

just close enough to hear her broken purr, I slammed a bucket over her head. Seth could

barely swallow her stringy meat, but I felt triumphant and renewed, and anxious for

bigger game. There was life outside our little habitat; I heard it at night, crunching

around the fallen leaves in the yard, with us at the top of the food chain. That evening at

dusk, sharpening up my shed weaponry, I barely heard the leather footsteps outside the

front door. I shoved Seth towards the stairs and yanked a moldy, green striped mallet

from the pile, ready for whatever was approaching my home.

“Wait Lila,” Seth whispered, “I think it’s Ezra.” My spirits lifted; I tossed the

mallet aside. Ez had been gone for three weeks, not his longest absence, but I had still

nearly written him off. I smiled and stretched while our intrepid cousin put his key in the

locked deadbolt and opened the door. “That won’t hold if they know you’re in here,” he

said, closing his eyes and shaking his head at us. He lifted a dirty canvas bag. “Who likes

possum?”

There were seven of us in this house only a year ago but we have slowly dwindled,

with Mama’s death, to just us three. Zombie wars, riots, civil disobedience. It’s messed

up. The emergence of the undead, their rise, and then chaos; the general collapse of

society, the decimation of the population, it happened so fast. It was on T.V. constantly,

but for a year we were left unaffected in Amelia. Then last September my daddy left his

regular shift at Reynolds and walked cluelessly into the first riot in Petersburg like it was

some kind of peace rally. Everyone there, some four thousand souls, ended up totally

dead, or undead. So. Despite what we thought, zombies were not quarantined in Florida.

They streamed all over Virginia, making their way to the capitol.

The original infection was caused by a mutated virus that was engineered in Japan

to fight an uncontrollable flu. At first, Tokyo sent seven thousand infected to the Ile å

Vache, thinking they would mix with the quiet, ancient subculture there. They threw

money at the tiny island council; said it was temporary. But the elder undeads poured out

of their huts. They bludgeoned the newbys and sucked out their confused, juicy brains

right there in the street and all over the port; they even boarded the boat and devoured the

Japanese crew. The small breathing population was terrified and fled screaming into the

jungle, fearing the strength their undead would gain from the riotous feasting. Haiti

stepped in and begged the world for help while Japan frantically tested antidotes; finally

Miami accepted a few thousand, Rio took several hundred. The rest went to Paris.

While planet Earth waited for science to repair its own damage, zombies were

employed all over the city of lights, picking up dog feces, hosing down sidewalks,

minimum wage, low profile work they could accomplish at night while the breathing

population slept. In Florida, they picked citrus or scraped gum from the concrete of

theme parks. A temporary peace seemed possible, but pressure mounted as formulas

failed in Japanese laboratories, calls went out to the scientific community and the virus

spread.

In France, events compounded fast. First rats, then pigeons disappeared. Reports

of lost cats and dogs raised an alarm but the government looked away, offering confused

pet owners a few Euros for silence. When the vibrant homeless population was gone

almost overnight, Paris was accused of valuing vermin over beggars, but poodles and

pigeons don’t qualify for social services, and are a protected urban wildlife. Breathers

turned their heads, wrung their hands, some prayed; all waited desperately for results

from labs in Sendai, Athens, Irvine. Things only got worse. Milk carton portraits

dominated billboards as elderly aunts went missing from retirement condos; street teens

didn’t show up to donate their weekly pint. Violence flared along the river--vigilante

raids on zombie squat flats. Finally a breather stepped up demanding justice, or at least

compensation, for the loss of a boy.

Guy Etienne, a painter of miniature Paris landscapes, had hired Cristo, a young

undead high functioner capable of communication and restraint, to hawk his little

canvases around the Place de la Concorde. Tourists, especially Russians, were fascinated

by the cooperative and exotic population of undead wandering the French capitol, and

Etienne cleverly exploited his special helper. One evening last May, Cristo, didn’t return

to the studio. The police reluctantly began a search. The tiny acrylic masterpieces were

never recovered. Only bits and pieces of the zombie salesman were found--just enough

chunks to study. A crudely built guillotine was confiscated, dismantled, and burned

behind the police station.

Cristo carried a mutated strain, a hybrid infection. He retained most of his human

aspect; his intellect trapped inside a breathless, bloodthirsty, carnage seeking body.

Balanced nutrition would sustain one indefinitely, enough meat would even keep one

strong. But without brain tissue, (preferably human), one would slowly, inevitably,

deteriorate; both body and mind eventually failing. First fatigue, inertia, dementia, then

catatonia, until finally one would be unable to move at all, atrophying beyond revival.

Will and ethic, not savagery, determined how long one would survive, and how

well; this factor closed the philosophic gap between us and them and leveled the playing

field between us. Tension and resentment grew along with fear; accusations of blame

flew around governments and nations. In one heated session, Cuba threatened to nuke

Japan, laying open a hand they had held so close. Paris, pawing the ground for any

reasonable excuse, burst into civil war. Dead breathers lay in rows along the avenues,

skulls smashed and drained, while the dismembered and completely dead undead littered

the streets and parking lots. Tourism dropped right off. Finally, martial law maintained a

brief recess while the U.N. convened.

The population of undead renamed themselves zombeings; immediately thousands

came forward aggressively demanding their rights. Jacksonville and Pensacola mobilized

for a quick eradication of our quiet southern colony, but Washington stopped them. The

U.N. wanted diplomacy; France caved. Rio was in shambles; all zombeings truly dead,

the breathing population cut in half. No one wanted to risk more devastation. In just six

months a depraved, but employed, horde had become an “immigrant minority.”

Compromise prevailed; Zombeings were here to stay, and the world settled into an

uneasy peace. By late June, when preliminary antidotes started to arrive, it was just too

late.

After dinner, I sponged off the sticky counter. Seth, tired as usual, went back

upstairs to bed. Ezra balanced his chair on two legs and propped a heavy boot on the

table edge. “Ez,” I whined, “get that nasty foot off my table. Come on outside.” We

went out to the front porch and sat on the steps.

Ezra scanned the yard. “Your brother doesn’t look so good. How are you holding

up?”

I told him about Mama’s weird little funeral.

“Seth’s still good for company some nights, but he won’t play cards.” I said. “He

misses Rachel, Daddy, everyone. I make him come down to the couch, but he sits there,

a lump, eyes empty, staring at the dead television. He says the radio makes him sick. He

talks about you sometimes, hopes you’re not lost.”

“Are you getting enough to eat around here? You both look skinny as hell.”

“Sure.” I said. “I mean, there’s a few canned tomatoes left, and we’ve had squirrel

twice this week; I catch a lot with those flip snares you showed me. Plus, it’s only been a

few days since the wagon came by.” The local authority sends food around, but it’s

unpredictable; you have to be ready and go right out when they ring. The drivers don’t

wait long, and whatever they leave behind gets scooped up quick.

“I should go into town, Ez. I’m restless.” I thought about myself, sitting alone in

the kitchen, cutting my hair crookedly, hacking off pieces of it into the sink. I painted all

the mirrors black one day, scraped it off with a razor blade the next. I wrote a

heartbreaking letter but had no one to send it to. I burned it over a candle, scorching the

table with glowing ashes. I even cut myself once, slicing deep along a fate line in my left

palm; it didn’t produce the effect I hoped for. “I’m demented keeping to the yard,” I

confessed. “I’ve got to get out. He’s suffering, and I can’t just watch. I’m not afraid.

Teach me how you move among them.”

Ezra smiled and smashed a moth on his jeans; flicked it away into the mud. My

cousin could never sit tight, never hide away. When the first riots hit Richmond, he and

his father, Daniel, went well armed. Ezra came home alone, but undaunted. He was the

only one who would leave the house for more than a few minutes that first month without

our fathers. Rachel, my best friend, was left standing when her whole family was

massacred in the Chesterfield Confrontation; she attached herself fiercely to us,

especially to Ezra. One October morning she picked up a knife, walked away from the

house looking for him, and never came back. After that, Seth and I stayed close to the

yard. But Ezra was so bold; he went right on with his life, coming home every week or

so filthy and loaded with ticks. We relied on Ez for so much--news, food, and stability, a

sense that we were somehow still connected to the world. But then he’d be gone so long;

I never said so to Seth, but I was so afraid he wouldn’t come back. I wanted to start

relying on myself.

“First thing is, Lila,” he started, “it’s bad out here, worse than the city. I see them

all the time; hostile, killing sometimes for no reason. On my way home yesterday, three

of them passed right by me, two old guys and a woman with dark red hair. I hid behind

the Friendly’s and watched them carrying dirty, jagged weapons, just looking for action.

They’re pissed. They’re organized. They mean to end us.”

“God, Ez! Don’t scare me like that. You’re still in one piece. I’m a mess; I’ve got

to do something for this family, or what’s left of it. I can’t stand feeling trapped. I don’t

want to go across country. The radio says there are areas in town where everyone is

getting along o.k. I heard they have fresh meat, soap, even beer sometimes.”

He chuckled in his throat. “I never saw beer. Someone did have a carton of eggs

once, and a Snickers. Once you get to Richmond, it’s not so bad. The guns are there,

keeping things quiet, but outside the limits, it’s pretty much us or them. But Seth would

definitely perk up with something more than a squirrel in his belly. There’s a small

supply pad in Amelia. You could try hiking out there first, but it’s best not to announce

yourself while you’re crossing through town. Some of them meet right there in the back

room of Spokes and Daggers.”

“I can avoid that area.”

“All right, tough girl” he smirked. “Here’s how we do it. T-shirt and jeans.

Boots. Maybe a cap, shadow your face. You walk with a deliberate, steady, pace. Don’t

break your stride. Head directly for the gate of the pad, don’t look around.”

Piece of cake, I thought. “What if someone speaks to me?”

“No one will. It’s not cool to reveal yourself to anyone. Don’t make eye contact,

don’t nod, don’t smile. Even if you recognize a face, especially if you recognize a face,

keep your eyes straight ahead, your expression blank, like you’re holding a full house.”

“Won’t that seem strange?” I asked. “I’m trying not to attract attention, right?”

“Everyone should be acting the same way.” Ezra shook his head. “No one reacts,

no one speaks. That way no one gets hurt because you can’t tell who’s who. If someone

follows you around, they’re a freak. Just keep walking. Ignore everyone except the guy

with the gun; point to the items you want, leave the pad. Stay focussed and you’ll be

fine.”

The next morning, he was gone. The plates were drying on the sink, I must have

just missed him. “Seth!” I yelled up the stairs. “I’m going out for a few hours.” He

didn’t answer, I figured he wouldn’t miss me this early. I set out for Amelia like it was

Mecca. I took one canvas bag, seven dollars cash, and the blue striped mallet.

The grass was still wet in the overgrown fields. Abandoned cars, boarded up

houses, broken fences were all I passed on the four mile walk to town, but when the

pavement started I saw them all, moving slowly and quietly towards the center, just like

Ezra said they would. No one noticed me as I crossed the playground; I did not stop to

swing, I did not slow down, I just kept walking. Then I saw her, not twenty feet away, a

woman, maybe forty, with thick red hair staring right at me; I quickly looked down at my

boots, but I could feel her eyes locked on, willing me to turn and face her. At first it

freaked me out a bit; I felt a little shock, a thrill of adrenaline, like she was challenging

me to acknowledge her, give her a reason to approach. And I would have, too. Gladly.

But I remembered my brother, upstairs alone, hungry, helpless, and Ezra’s warnings. I

stuck to my pace--right, left, right, forward always, towards the chain link fence of the

guarded pad.

I approached a long steel table covered with food and supplies, two soldiers stood

behind it, nervously watching the dozen or so occupants. I placed the money and my

sack in front of a small lockbox, and, without looking up, pointed at a small, very dead

bass. The soldier nodded and picked it up. I indicated a couple of eggs, and a rabbit; he

shook his head. I chose the rabbit; again it was “no.” I took the eggs, and a can of milk. I

lifted my bag; the mallet fell out and hit the ground. I heard a rifle cock. I slowly bent to

pick up my stuff, careful not to lift my eyes or threaten him in any way. I turned to

leave--she was standing right there.

She didn’t speak, but I heard her grind her teeth. What did she want with me?

God, I could have spit right in her face, she was that close. I made the slightest step to

the left, and walked deliberately past her, through the gate. I did not look back. I knew

she was watching my movements, and I’ll admit the thought of her behind me scared me

silly. I risked a quick peak once I reached the end of the pavement; she hadn’t left the

center, but two men had joined her. I made it home in record time, crashed through the

front door and locked it tight behind me.

Still shaking and weak from the hike, I flopped onto the couch and fell into a

tossing, murmuring sleep. It was twilight when I woke and went into the kitchen. I lit

the front burner and slammed a greasy frying pan down. I cracked the eggs hard,

destroying the yolks, making a mess with a wooden spoon, leaving shell bits where they

fell. I slid the ugly, filmy eyed fish on top and pressed it in with my fingers, poking at the

gray scales and gaping mouth. Dinner looked like a big predator had vomited into the

skillet. I sat down hard on the kitchen stool, almost tipped it backwards. Head in hands,

I thought, How can we eat this? “Better than another tomato based squirrel,” I answered

myself. I walked to the stairs and called up. “Seth! Seth! Come down--there’s food!”

“I’m right here, Lila.” Crap! He scared me to death! Seth was standing behind

me, at the window, looking out through the lace curtain.

“What in the world are you doing! Come away from the window, Seth. Sit at the

table.”

I was relieved when he moved toward the kitchen, but he stopped and turned

suddenly toward the door again. “Someone’s here” he said, “and someone’s been out

back, too. I heard the shed door creaking. You were asleep; I’ve been watching you, and

waiting for them.”

I shuddered, but kept my “tough” face on. “There’s no one here, Seth. And if

there is, they’re just looking for food; they’ll leave. If they don’t, we’ll take care of it.”

“Lila, I’m too tired to fight.” He said. “If they come for us, please, just run, leave

me behind.”

“HA!” I barked a laugh at him. “I’m not going anywhere, drama queen. I can

face whatever walks through that door. I’d kill one gladly. This morning I could

have...well, there was this one woman--too scared to walk away from her friends. Plus, I

had to get home with this fish, but if she ever...look, just don’t worry about us; I’ve got

things under control.”

I trailed off and walked to the kitchen. “Lila!” Seth hissed through his teeth. I

looked back at the front door, Seth was frozen, pointing at the knob as it turned. I

grabbed the bubbling skillet flinging grizzly upchuck everywhere and ran in front of Seth.

I locked my hand onto the doorknob and yanked it open, Ezra ducked just out of reach as

I swung the smoking iron pan at his head, my blow hammering the edge of the spade he

raised in defense.

“Damn! Girl! Whatever I did--I’m sorry!” He made his big smiling frown at me.

“You’re ready all right. You are definitely up for this, and now’s your chance to prove it.

Close the door,” he said as he stalked into the house. “Where’s Seth?” He looked over at

the stairs, where my brother had collapsed in relief. “Hold on, buddy. We’re having a

party tonight, and our lovely guest is just up the road.”

“What? Someone’s coming here?” I lowered my dripping weapon and looked

eagerly past him out the window.

“A redhead,” he started.

“I’ve seen her!” I yelled at him. “Big girl. Long thick hair. She tried to kill me

with her face this morning at the pad.”

“That must be why she’s here, Lila. She probably thinks she can snap you in half

and no one would even miss you. I saw her boyfriends go off across the field towards

Howard’s, looking to hurt something. She assumes you’re alone and she’s tracked you

this far; it won’t take her long to find the house.” He squinted his eyes at Seth; he took

him by the shoulders. “We’ve got to be ready, this is not for the squeamish.”

“No,” he said, looking Ezra in the eyes. “I’m good. Just tell me what to do. But

I...I don’t know if I’m strong enough to hold the door, or swing a frying pan...”

“You’re perfect, cousin. Just stand right here,” Ezra led Seth by the arm to a spot

about ten feet in front of the front door, “keep still and look pathetic.”

“Choose your weapon, Lila.” He grinned.

I looked at the broken and rusted assortment of salvage from the shed. I picked up

another mallet. Orange stripes with an veiny blue mold growing. Go Gators.

“Over here, sweetheart, behind the door.” He moved me into place. I heard her

footsteps on the packed mud path. Slow, quiet, deliberate: perfect. My head was

pounding like mad. I scowled at Ezra, questions flew through my mind, panic, and

doubt.

“Shhh.” He whispered. You’ll know what to do; keep your eyes on Seth, and

follow my lead.” He twisted the lock back into place and stepped to the other side of the

doorway. He balanced that spade above his shoulder like a designated hitter. I grinned.

Bring it.

The door handle rattled, then nothing. I heard her step back. Crack! There was

an earsplitting blow, wood splintered in as a pickaxe flew into the door above the

deadbolt, the deadly tip just penetrating. Seth gripped the stair rail and steadied his

shaking legs. She wrenched it free. Again the axe struck the door hard and came

through, splintering the frame. She grunted and pulled it loose, swung again, cracking it

wide open and knocking the hardware to the floor. She burst through screeching and

wielding the horrible pickaxe above her.

She lurched screaming toward Seth, the jagged pickaxe falling forward. Ezra

swung his shovel into her back and sent her flying to her knees--home run! My mallet

came down like a sledgehammer on her head. Whack! I nailed her skull. Whack! Again,

and again I smashed at her cranium till it cracked open like an Easter egg. I straddled her

shoulders and grabbed two fistfuls of the luscious red hair, matted and tangled with black

gore and bone chips, and yanked her skull apart, a ginger piñata, spilling its throbbing

prize.

“Seth!” I screamed at his paralyzed form. “Seth! This brain’s all yours, brother!”

He shook himself and stumbled forward; he dived face first into the flayed head of our

party guest. “Unghh” he smacked, then sucked, sucked, sucked, with vigor and delight.

Ezra bit deeply into the soft, pulsating neck, pulling strands of glossy hair from between

his teeth. I rocked back and laughed out loud, licking the blood from my fingers one by

one, glowing with satisfaction and pride at my own strength, and at the boys I adored.

submitted by <> Bil ly Isenhour

At Breaks Interstate National Park, there is a cliff in the mountains called Lover’s Leap. There, in earlier t imes, two Indians from feuding tribes took their l ives to lock in their love for all eternity. We were there, watching the sunset and holding each other in loving arms as eight pairs of eagles began circling above us, l i ft ing up higher unti l they were no more.

-Anonymous-Anonymous

I entered the dimly l it bedroom, closed the door behind me and turned on the l ight. The wind was raging; I walked towards the window to close it.

Just then, the door opened slowly and I heard faint footsteps behind me. When I turned, I saw no one, but the window slowly closed on its own…

as if someone else was putting it down….

-Luther AndersonIn the Phil ippines, the most overcrowded cemetery I’d ever seen separated from my backyard by a stone wall, and, strangely enough, all of the neighborhood kids played in it. After playing there one day, I came home with strange black spots on my hand that my mother claimed were etched on me by the dead, and she forbade me from ever returning. Months went by before the so-called “marks of the dead” faded away, Months went by before the so-called “marks of the dead” faded away, and, to this day, I never climbed back over that wall. -Chris Dudley

It is said that the dead come back to retrace their steps before moving on. It is also said that if somebody mourns a loved one for too long, the dead feel l ike they can’t move on.

My mother experienced this first hand when she was young. One night while everybody slept she cried and mourned her uncle. She missed him greatly and nothing anybody would do could console her.

After hours of crying in the dark she heard a creak coming towards her. When she opened her eyes she saw her dear uncle looking at her.

She was in shock, she tried to move, tried to scream but nothing worked. Her uncle told her to stop crying, that everything would be ok. She was in shock, she tried to move, tried to scream but nothing worked. Her uncle told her to stop crying, that everything would be ok. Then he walked through the wall saying goodbye.

Once he was gone she was able to move, she ran to her sister’s room and began sobbing tell ing her what had just happened. As scary as this experience was, it showed her that by mourning him for so long she was preventing him from moving on.

She understood she had to let him go, and after doing this she never saw him again.

-Byron Leon

The usual glow of the street light made it's orange way into her bedroomAll the shadows she had become accustomed to.The normal noises of the apartment no longer made her on edge. Restless, she tossed and turned most of the night until, a cold swept through the roomSo cold, she could almost see it, an unusual shadow caught her eye, At a sudden loss of breath, she didn’t even notice she stopped breathingAt a sudden loss of breath, she didn’t even notice she stopped breathingUpon realizing what the outline was, the hair on the back of her neck began standing up, one by one This cannot be real, she thought, unsure of what else to do, she jumped up, running quickly away. Reaching the deadbolted door, fumbling with the handle, that required keys to unlock, these were located in her purse, beside her bed. Her knuckles began to turn white from her grip on the handle, too afraid to turn aroundHer knuckles began to turn white from her grip on the handle, too afraid to turn aroundthe sound of its heel being placed on the hard wood floor,made a creak that she swore would wake the entire world. Spinning around in a frenzy, tripping over her feet, then her shoes,placed in front of the window, she began to fall, and fall, unable to scream.Jumping up in a cold sweat, in her bed, in a pant she realizes it was all a dream. Laying her head down, finally becoming stable, she rolls overgetting the eerie feeling she saw something foreign in her room, the figure from her dream.There was an orange glow to it, unsure if it was from the street light or not, she jumps up, shrieking, understanding this is no longer a dream. The tall murky figure, glided towards her, silently.

submitted by + Yvonne Redford

The usual glow of the street light made it's orange way into her bedroomAll the shadows she had become accustomed to.The normal noises of the apartment no longer made her on edge. Restless, she tossed and turned most of the night until, a cold swept through the roomSo cold, she could almost see it, an unusual shadow caught her eye, At a sudden loss of breath, she didn’t even notice she stopped breathingAt a sudden loss of breath, she didn’t even notice she stopped breathingUpon realizing what the outline was, the hair on the back of her neck began standing up, one by one This cannot be real, she thought, unsure of what else to do, she jumped up, running quickly away. Reaching the deadbolted door, fumbling with the handle, that required keys to unlock, these were located in her purse, beside her bed. Her knuckles began to turn white from her grip on the handle, too afraid to turn aroundHer knuckles began to turn white from her grip on the handle, too afraid to turn aroundthe sound of its heel being placed on the hard wood floor,made a creak that she swore would wake the entire world. Spinning around in a frenzy, tripping over her feet, then her shoes,placed in front of the window, she began to fall, and fall, unable to scream.Jumping up in a cold sweat, in her bed, in a pant she realizes it was all a dream. Laying her head down, finally becoming stable, she rolls overgetting the eerie feeling she saw something foreign in her room, the figure from her dream.There was an orange glow to it, unsure if it was from the street light or not, she jumps up, shrieking, understanding this is no longer a dream. The tall murky figure, glided towards her, silently.

submitted by + Yvonne Redford

The Life and Death of a CigarettebyXander Ragnauth

I come here every night. Sometimes the faces and names change, but for some reason, it always seems familiar. Perhaps it 's because the routine is always the same; coffee, 2 creams, 4 seconds of sugar out the jar. I wrap my fingers around the ceramic and embrace the transfer of heat into my fingertips. It starts off a slow burn, but when it reaches just the right temperature it shifts to a sharp icy sting. I wonder if I ' l l ever figure that one out. I scan the diner, individually focusing on each sound and smell, thus imprinting another memory into my cerebral l ibrary.I take a sip from the mug and get just a l itt le giddy the moment the hot creamy fluid hits my lips. I take a sip from the mug and get just a l itt le giddy the moment the hot creamy fluid hits my lips. That quick shot of f iery pain is almost euphoric. But l ike any drug, the first hit is always the best. That's when I reach for my pack.

I treat the box l ike an origami figure too delicate to man handle by just anyone. The cellophane slips down the sides l ike a silk night gown fall ing off a lover's form. It crinkles l ike dry leaves on a cool autumn afternoon. I carefully pull i t back up, ensuring that the next t ime I go for one I ' l l get to hear that sound of invit ing chaos. I pull out my first cigarette and examine its form.I pull out my first cigarette and examine its form.

Like a straw, it awaits for me to pull in and drink in the nicotine therein. My Zippo fl icks open and the metal clang of the top seems to echo louder than the voices around me. I drag my thumb against the wheel and all my senses go into overdrive. I 'm about to bring about great destruction.

I move the flame up to the open end of my cigarette and listen for the slow hiss of that f irst drag. Breathe in deep, breathe out deep. It 's the same sigh you hear at those peer counseling groups after those preliminary introductions; Hi my name is addiction. It 's the same sigh you hear at those peer counseling groups after those preliminary introductions; Hi my name is addiction. I squeeze in vain against the coffee cup in hopes that the heat in both my hands might take over and consume me, but they never do. I take another drag.

I watch the pumpkin ring glowing on the tip trying to reach some kind of imaginary finish l ine. Just before it is a pea sized mass of orange, black, white and grey. People call i t a cherry, but frankly I don't see the connection. At any rate, I wouldn't eat a cherry looking l ike that. That's when I notice it. That's when I notice it.

The Life and Death of a CigarettebyXander Ragnauth

The smoke. I feel almost hypnotized by it bil lowing from the ashened mass. It f l ies around wildly looking for somewhere to occupy itself. As I blow out I notice that the smoke has two shades, one ivory, one magnolia. And that's where the megalomania sets in. I begin to think about the origins of this cigarette. The sum of all i ts parts; paper, cotton, tobacco.The paper of course coming from trees while the cotton and tobacco are free roaming. Okay, so maybe they were farm raised, but let's put semantics aside for now. None the less, these elements all came from living organisms. Okay, so maybe they were farm raised, but let's put semantics aside for now. None the less, these elements all came from living organisms. Carbon based life.

Could these plants, these living creatures of the soil have had a soul? The thought is almost frightening as another plume of smoke escapes my lips as fluid and the coffee I indulge myself with. Could that frantic wisp of smoke be the souls of plants that once were allowed to l ive free before they were destroyed to create a false sense of desire?And what of the smoke I squeezed out from my lungs? Maybe I gave those wondering souls a purpose, I made them part of my being, only to blow them asunder l ike a ship in a storm.

I watch the smoke drift into the air and disappear under the hanging l ights of the café. I watch the smoke drift into the air and disappear under the hanging l ights of the café. That glowing ring sti l l burns. I watch it tr ickle down the barrel unti l i t hits the print "Turkish Gold." I see those tiny l itt le letters scorch into the ash, preserved in the wake of the flame before they tumble off the end into dust.I f inally reach the end. My nicotine fix is about to expire. All that's left is a skewed mass of cotton and paper with a tiny ember l ingering on. I grind the butt into the pressed metal ashtray and hear that f inally hiss. That last plea for mercy. The smoke dancing more erratically than ever. Then nothing. Just a darkened patch sure to be wiped clean before the end of the night. Then nothing. Just a darkened patch sure to be wiped clean before the end of the night. All that remains is this withered corpse of a 5 minute craving.

And there you have it. This great metaphor for l i fe; creation through destruction. Well, I see the destruction, but what have I created? Nothing more than some hole in the back of my mind. Perhaps the price I have paid for playing God. Manipulating souls for personal gain. A void that may never be fi l led. A lust for destruction. I take one last sip from the cup and pay my tab.I need my rest. If for only five minutes, I played God and found myself utterly weary. I want nothing more than to lay my head down on that cool fabric of my pil low and drift into slumber. I want nothing more than to lay my head down on that cool fabric of my pil low and drift into slumber. Tumbling into the night l ike the dust and ash from those lost souls at the diner. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe the diner wil l be closed or my car wil l break down and I won't be able to go back. Who knows? All I know is I 've reached my seventh day.

submitted by <> Anonymous

‘Twas Halloween night, when all through the houseMany creatures were stirring, much bigger than any mouse.Spider webs were hung on the walls with little care,In hopes that Satan soon would be there.The children were tied all snug to their beds,While visions of demons and ghouls danced in their heads.And mama wearing her ‘kerchief, and I in my cooking cap,And mama wearing her ‘kerchief, and I in my cooking cap,Had just turned on our oven for a long awaited snack.When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,I sprang from the kitchen to see what was the matter.Away from the window I flew like a flash,I tore open the window and made a loud crash.The moon upon the new-fallen leaves,Gave the werewolf the power he needs.Gave the werewolf the power he needs.When, what to my wondering hands and feet,I spied a thirty-eight with silver in the breech.This little old equalizer, so lively it screeched,I knew in a moment I’d likely be deceased.More rapid than an automatic the piece it rang,The beast roared, and I shouted, but still it came!Now Zombies! Now Vampires! Now, Demons and Satan!Now Zombies! Now Vampires! Now, Demons and Satan!A, spider! A, Bat! Oh, oh more have risen!To the top of the roof! To the top of the wall!Now run away! Run away! Run away from it all!As I ran out of roof, the beast was behind me,That werewolf was close, as I knew he would be.So off the house-top I flew,With eyes full of fury, I took the beast too.With eyes full of fury, I took the beast too.

That killed the beast, but faster than dreadThere was groaning and moaning from the looming undead.As I drew up my head, and was turning around,Appeared more zombies than should ever be found.One was dressed all in gore, from his head to his foot,And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.A collection of flesh freshly flung on his face,A collection of flesh freshly flung on his face,Made him look like a murderer about to violate my space.His eyes-how they twinkled! His pimples how scary!He threw an eye in his mouth that popped like a cherry!The drool in his mouth was falling so low,And knew that I had nowhere to go!Then I fell down to the ground and gritted my teeth,As I soon thought I’d be a zombie treat.As I soon thought I’d be a zombie treat.He had breath so fowl and a dripping red belly,That shook when he ran, like a bowlful of jelly!I stood and snarled and faced the dead man,And laughed wildly as he stumbled and ran!He mowed me down and went for my brains,Oh death so gruesome, so horrid, so insane.I spoke not a word, but went straight to my hell,I spoke not a word, but went straight to my hell,And went down deeper, and farther than I previously fell.Then Satan laid his finger aside his chin, looked at me,And giving me a nod, he let me free!I sprang from the ground with a groan,And away the humans all flew, chilled to the bone.But I heard the red man himself exclaim out of sight,Happy Halloween to all, and I wish you luck to survive the night!Happy Halloween to all, and I wish you luck to survive the night!

‘Twas the Nightmare

submitted by <> Anonymous

‘Twas Halloween night, when all through the houseMany creatures were stirring, much bigger than any mouse.Spider webs were hung on the walls with little care,In hopes that Satan soon would be there.The children were tied all snug to their beds,While visions of demons and ghouls danced in their heads.And mama wearing her ‘kerchief, and I in my cooking cap,And mama wearing her ‘kerchief, and I in my cooking cap,Had just turned on our oven for a long awaited snack.When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,I sprang from the kitchen to see what was the matter.Away from the window I flew like a flash,I tore open the window and made a loud crash.The moon upon the new-fallen leaves,Gave the werewolf the power he needs.Gave the werewolf the power he needs.When, what to my wondering hands and feet,I spied a thirty-eight with silver in the breech.This little old equalizer, so lively it screeched,I knew in a moment I’d likely be deceased.More rapid than an automatic the piece it rang,The beast roared, and I shouted, but still it came!Now Zombies! Now Vampires! Now, Demons and Satan!Now Zombies! Now Vampires! Now, Demons and Satan!A, spider! A, Bat! Oh, oh more have risen!To the top of the roof! To the top of the wall!Now run away! Run away! Run away from it all!As I ran out of roof, the beast was behind me,That werewolf was close, as I knew he would be.So off the house-top I flew,With eyes full of fury, I took the beast too.With eyes full of fury, I took the beast too.

That killed the beast, but faster than dreadThere was groaning and moaning from the looming undead.As I drew up my head, and was turning around,Appeared more zombies than should ever be found.One was dressed all in gore, from his head to his foot,And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.A collection of flesh freshly flung on his face,A collection of flesh freshly flung on his face,Made him look like a murderer about to violate my space.His eyes-how they twinkled! His pimples how scary!He threw an eye in his mouth that popped like a cherry!The drool in his mouth was falling so low,And knew that I had nowhere to go!Then I fell down to the ground and gritted my teeth,As I soon thought I’d be a zombie treat.As I soon thought I’d be a zombie treat.He had breath so fowl and a dripping red belly,That shook when he ran, like a bowlful of jelly!I stood and snarled and faced the dead man,And laughed wildly as he stumbled and ran!He mowed me down and went for my brains,Oh death so gruesome, so horrid, so insane.I spoke not a word, but went straight to my hell,I spoke not a word, but went straight to my hell,And went down deeper, and farther than I previously fell.Then Satan laid his finger aside his chin, looked at me,And giving me a nod, he let me free!I sprang from the ground with a groan,And away the humans all flew, chilled to the bone.But I heard the red man himself exclaim out of sight,Happy Halloween to all, and I wish you luck to survive the night!Happy Halloween to all, and I wish you luck to survive the night!

‘Twas the Nightmare

B e w a r eB e w a r e t h o s e m o n s t e r s t h a t h i d e u g l i n e s s B e h i n d a m a s k o f c i v i l i t y . L u r k i n g b e n e a t h t h e s u r f a c e i s m a d n e s s ,T r i g g e r e d b y i n s e c u r i t y .T h e i r k i s s e s h a v e t e e t h , t h e i r t o n g u e s h a v e f l a m e s ,T h e y c l a i m t o l o v e , y e t t h e i r l o v e d e f a m e s .T h e y c l a i m t o l o v e , y e t t h e i r l o v e d e f a m e s .T h e s p i r i t s o f o t h e r s t h e i r e m b r a c e d o e s d r a i n .T h e i r w o r d s a r e b a r b e d ; t h e i r h e a r t s a r e c h a i n e d .

s u b m i t t e d b y < > V i r g i n i a F i c k

B e w a r eB e w a r e t h o s e m o n s t e r s t h a t h i d e u g l i n e s s B e h i n d a m a s k o f c i v i l i t y . L u r k i n g b e n e a t h t h e s u r f a c e i s m a d n e s s ,T r i g g e r e d b y i n s e c u r i t y .T h e i r k i s s e s h a v e t e e t h , t h e i r t o n g u e s h a v e f l a m e s ,T h e y c l a i m t o l o v e , y e t t h e i r l o v e d e f a m e s .T h e y c l a i m t o l o v e , y e t t h e i r l o v e d e f a m e s .T h e s p i r i t s o f o t h e r s t h e i r e m b r a c e d o e s d r a i n .T h e i r w o r d s a r e b a r b e d ; t h e i r h e a r t s a r e c h a i n e d .

s u b m i t t e d b y < > V i r g i n i a F i c k

submitted by Lloyd Morehead

Shadow OverInnsbrook

The Shadow over Innsbrook

L. K. Morehead

(1)

During the winter of 2011 the Virginia State Police descended on the small affluent

section of Richmond's West End knows as Innsbrook. Their claim that a raid on a

Methamphetamine lab and its subsequent explosion was responsible for their arrival and

continued presence went unquestioned. Even if there were whispers of what this unsavory

enterprise would be doing in the white collar and service industry section of Richmond, they

were quelled by the general stigma and horror of that insidious substance.

I have my own horror related to the events of that night having been sent screaming into

the night and the arms of Henrico’s police force, with a mad tale that brought down the wrath of

government agents.

I had recently been relocated to the west end of Richmond by my new wife and some of

my own poor life choices. Trying to set myself on the right path I enrolled in ECPI’s school of

technology at Innsbrook and set out to make a better life for myself and my family. Even though

I was happy at my new chosen path, I found I had trouble finding a job close to my home or

school since I wasn’t qualified for most of the office jobs in the area and still had a touch of

stubborn pride keeping me from pursuing employment in food service.

Because of this I was very excited if a little puzzled when one day I was contacted by a

temp service I had registered with about a factory position right there in Innsbrook. I hadn’t

thought I would find that type of employment anywhere in the west end so I immediately called

a cab and set out to meet my new employer.

Fifteen minutes later I was deposited in front of a small ramshackle building which bore

very little resemblance to any factory I had ever seen before in my life. It was located behind a

large building of office suits through their parking lot and down a single lane gravel path cut into

the trees. I would not be surprised if even people working at the offices didn’t know of its

existence.

The building itself had the look of an old church, and was partially covered with moss

and Virginia creeper. On the front was a small loading dock and bay door obviously added much

later in the buildings life. A sign on the side of the building was the only indication it was an

operating business “C, D&S enterprises”. I felt my stomach drop at the very sight of the place,

but my non-existent bank account and the thought of my wife waiting at home for me pushed me

forward.

I walked through the open loading bay door into a crowded and dirty space. Everywhere I

looked were boxes, tumbled on the floor and stacked to the ceiling. The inside of the building

had a much larger feel than the impression I had gotten from the outside but the towering boxes

and smell of wet molded paper closed in on me making it hard to breath. Then I felt a hand on

my shoulder.

I started and almost ran for the door. Then held my breath and collected myself, I was

here for a job. How would it look to my prospective employer if I went running out the door

screaming? I turned around and was met by the smiling face of one John Thomas, who I learned

in short order was actually employed by the same temp service that had retained me.

John took me around for a brief tour, this being all that was required. The whole

operation was one large room. Packing and shipping materials stacked all around and a couple of

desks with computers made up the working component of the “factory” in one corner a small

office with “foreman” stenciled on the door. My new co-worker knocked briefly then escorted

me into the office and introduced me to Mr. Smyth, my new boss.

Mr. Smyth was a small disreputable looking man. Thin slick black hair plastered to a pail

damp forehead, clammy skin that seemed to be flaking off in places and a wide puffy mouth.

Strangest of all were his eyes. Overly large and watery blue, he stared at me without ever

seeming to blink. Overall he gave the appearance of an overgrown and sickly amphibian

crouching behind his desk. He shook my hand with a cold clammy palm and commenced to

explain how this factory operated.

I was expected to receive shipments of boxes, unpack the antiques inside repackage some

for shipment to retailers, and set certain ones aside for local sale. I had my own desk and a

computer at my disposal. I would be working with two other employees both from the temp

service. All said easy and low stress work.

After meeting with Mr. Smyth and taking my leave from his office I set about trying to

become acquainted with my new coworkers. They were altogether a much more normal pair than

my new boss. John was a family man from Hampton roads and the other ... I cannot now recall

his name I never got the chance to get to know him for he was not there the next day.

John and his accomplice immediately set me to work unpacking. I was thrilled to have a

new job and sliced the first package open, only to stop short seeing my first CD&S antique. It

was a small statue made of a stone I had never seen before, Mostly black, swirling with green

almost like marble or jade, but of a very strange hue and looking deeply at it seemed to give off a

slight sickly glow. The figure itself was no more wholesome. It resembled things found in nature

only in places. The head was bulbous and tentacled resembling an octopus, bat like wings curled

over its back, grotesque reptilian body. This monstrosity sat on a miniature dais engraved with

strange markings. Even though I felt horrified by this strange figure I couldn’t seem to look

away. I as I gazed upon it the small statue seemed to grow bigger and bigger in my vision till all

my thoughts were lost in it.

My new friend John startled me out of my reverie by clearing his throat. He explained

that it seemed to be a good idea to immediately set the items I unpacked to the side and not dwell

on them for long periods. He had himself been snared by the oddness of the items into losing

minutes or even hours just gazing before someone or something snapped him back to reality. I

looked at the clock and realized I’d been staring transfixed for at least twenty minutes.

Since my interview had been scheduled for late in the afternoon it was already time to

leave and I was happy for it, the time loss having unsettled me. I gathered my belongings and set

off for ECPI to start my evening studies.

(2)

The next few weeks passed in a blur. I worked eight hours a day then spent five hours

every evening at the college. My new job, odd though it was, paid the bills. And allowed me

plenty of free time while I was there to do homework and catch up on studying. I came to realize

that CD&S was a very strange operation in more ways than one. Instead of regular deliveries,

boxes were brought to the building in an old pick-up truck driven by a small man who almost

had to be a relative of Mr. Smyth, this being the explanation I could conceive to account for their

similar small toad like appearance. Items left the place in a similar manner on a truck driven by

Mr. Smyth himself.

John’s accomplice was never seen by me again. He had seen him when we left the night

before but he had not called in that morning. This did not seem unusual to me, having dealt with

people working through temp services many times in the past. One day they decide something on

the job displeases them and they are never heard from again. A new man from the temp service

was on the job the next day. Then a week Mr. Smyth told me that john himself had found full

time employment and wouldn’t be back.

Most of my time on the job was actually spent doing schoolwork so I had no trouble

picking up the extra load. There were almost always three men working at a time and when one

quit another would be sent from the service the next day. I learned to not gaze deeply at the items

we packed and unpacked, no matter how odd they were in appearance. Along with several

statues like the one I had seen the first day we also received large amounts of strange jewelry.

Necklaces and tiaras wrought of a substance like gold but harder with a bluish green cast. These

were formed into swirls that suggested pagan temples and creatures of the deepest ocean never

seen by man.

My feeling of unease about the place never fully left me, but needing the money I could

ill afford to quit. The sense of dread seemed to emanate from a closed and locked door across

from Mr. Smyth’s office that from the lay of the building could only lead to the basement. Every

time I walked past it I could just barely hear on the edge of my conscience a humming throbbing

rhythm, like a chant without words tickling the hairs at the base of my neck and Vibrating

through the heels of my shoes. An old fuse box or some ill kept piece of equipment I told myself,

but still avoided it as much as possible.

The next five weeks passed in a blur. Work, school, and sleep. But even sleep seemed to

offer no comfort for I started having nightmares. For me this was a new experience having never

before been able to remember my dreams weather good or ill. Now every night I found myself

climbing a steep and slippery pile of rocks toward an unknown horror, feeling with every step

that I should turn and flee, but always drawn upward by feet and hands that did not obey my

panicked commands. Every night as I finally crested the summit of this slimy mountain of doom

and the source of my horror drew into view I would come awake bolting upright in my bed

soaked in sweat and panting. The only thing that I could not remember was the sight of my

antagonist, even though I knew my tormenter waited for me at the top.

School could not even offer respite, as I sat in class I thought I could still hear that dread

rhythm from CD&S, feel it soaking up through the floor into my bones and my brain. If I could

only translate it. Put words to the sound that my ears couldn’t even hear. I found myself

humming it over and over as I sat listening to lectures, lying in bed, even riding in the car with

my wife.

After five weeks I reached the end of a term at School. I had started my new job at the

start of that term and managed to reach the final even though my mind seemed to be collapsing

from the inside. Now all that was left to do was turn in my final paper and breathe a sigh of

relief. I walked into my class room turned on my computer, opened my e-mail, and froze. My

final paper wasn’t there. I always typed my papers while at work then e-mail them to myself so I

could access them from the computer lab. But it wasn’t here. I had left work without sending it.

In five weeks I had not been to my job after dark. I had been asked to stay on several

occasions, but had been able to use my class schedule as an excuse. The thought of being alone

in the dreadful building by myself after dark was more than I could take. Now I seemed to have

no choice. My final paper was worth 50% of my grade and I had sworn to my wife and myself I

would succeed at this endeavor so after telling my instructor I would return shortly, I set out to

walk back to work.

Fifteen minutes later I was standing in front of that broken down structure. No lights were

on. The broken down old church looked like a black hole against the city glow behind. My heart

fell at the sight of the place. I almost turned and fled. Only an old streak of stubbornness stopped

me. I crept up to the abandoned looking building and checked the door. It was unlocked. This

place didn’t need dead-bolts to protect it. The constant pall laying it over it was all that was

needed.

Inside the darkness seemed alive and malevolent. The damp mustiness closed in on me as

I walked to my desk. Tiptoeing, afraid to disturb the heavy darkness I sat down booting up the

P.C. mentally urging it faster. The only sounds in the place was the quiet whir of my computer

and the ominous throbbing from the door at the far corner of the room, That constant mind

numbing chant that had become the theme song of my days. “Press Ctl-Alt-Del to begin”. I

breathed a sigh of relief and logged on. Finally my report was on the way, I didn’t bother to log

off I started to stand up and saw a blur of movement out of the corner of my eye. What the..? I

started to turn then felt a sharp pain in the back of my head, the world spun. I collapsed over my

desk and saw nothing more.

(3)

I awoke to total darkness. My head was throbbing with a bitter slimy taste in my mouth.

What happened? Then I remembered, the paper, my computer terminal. I tried to look around but

was met with pitch blackness. I was lying on a slim covered stone slab. Sitting up I found the

stone only about a foot above a floor of wet muddy earth. One thing was certain this wasn’t the

building at CD&S. Where was I?

Feeling around I discovered I was in a cage. Two walls were rough damp stone, the

others were bars made of ... what? Wood, or sticks maybe. I couldn’t tell in the dark. How was I

going to get out of here when I couldn’t even see? Then it hit me, my cigarette lighter if it was

still in my pocket. I began digging into my pants pockets. Most of my possessions had been

taken but whoever took them seemed to have missed my lighter. It was damp, along with the rest

of my clothes but after shaking it and striking it what seemed like a thousand times it finally

flared to life and let me examine my surroundings.

Bones, I was trapped in a cage made of rotten and corrupted bones. The flickering light

reveled that I was caged in some sort of cave or cavern. My meager light was lost in the vastness

of the room. My mind was boggled, how far had I been brought and more importantly, why?

My mind turned back to the immediate problem. How to get out of this grisly prison I

found myself in. After rattling those morbid bars I learned that no matter how decrepit they

looked they were surprisingly sturdy. The bones were bound together with twisted sinew tight

and strong even trying to burn though them with my lighter had no effect. Soon my attention was

drawn to the floor. While the walls making up two sides of the cage were of solid rock and the

bones anchored solidly to them, the floor was deep with slippery mud. After feeling around the

base of my cage I found one spot in the corner where I could dig my finger into the soft ooze all

the way under the bottom. I concentrated all my energy in that spot shoveling mud out of the

way with both hands, ripping my fingernails out in my desperation.

Finally I had cleared out enough mud to make my attempt. I lay on my stomach and

started wiggling under that horrid grate. As I clawed my way forward I found my belt hung on

the bottom of the bars. I panicked twisting and dragging my way out into freedom.

Outside I took stock of my situation. I was standing in a large cavern with several

passages leading in different directions, which way to go? Standing quietly and listening I heard

once again the same throbbing wordless song I had heard so many times sitting at my desk.

Though it still filled me with loathing it was the only point of reference I had in this hellish

place. The sound seemed to be coming from the passage to my left and I set out in that direction

creeping slowly hugging the wall in case my tormenter decided to come check on me.

I inched along for what seemed like hours passing other passages to my left and right but

the sound always seemed to be coming from in front of me as I followed it in a daze. The chant

became louder and louder as I inched forward. Gradually I realized there were words in the

Rhythm the meaning still eluded me even as it grated on my eardrum in horrific guttural

syllables.

Soon the passage began to widen and I saw the flickering glow of firelight ahead of me. I

got down on my stomach; Slithering along like a snake hoping to catch a glimpse of what was

ahead of me without being noticed. Crouching behind a boulder, I peered out onto a scene from a

nightmare. Stunted black shrouded figures clustered around a raging bonfire chanting and

contorting in ecstasy. I looked closely and saw that all of the figures were draped with the strange

greenish golden jewelry I had so many times unpacked and sent out around the country.

” Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn”

The words were gibberish, but still filled me with mindless panic. Looking past the

writhing horde I gazed on a figure straight from my dreams, a giant version of the statues I had

seen so many times, bulbous tentacle head, and curled horrible wings. It now towered thirty feet

above the floor in shadowy dread. This monster crouched behind a squat black alter which

glistened damply in the firelight. It took a moment to realize it was not a living thing, but a huge

statue of stone.

As I watched a lone figure broke from the crowd and stepped in front of the alter. Pulling

back his hood was revealed the amphibian face of Mr. Smyth. Any doubt I had about the source

of my misery disappeared instantly. The grotesque little man raised his arms and the mob

instantly fell silent. Mr. Smyth lowered one arm and gestured to a person I hadn’t noticed before,

calling him forward out of the shadows. The chant began again softer than before as he walked

into the firelight.

It was John. I hadn’t seen him in weeks and now I knew he had not found new

employment. He was slim and dirty, his hollow eyes staring blankly forward as he shuffled

forward to the altar. Looking closely I saw him silently mouthing the words of the chant as if in a

trance. He stepped up and seated himself on that dark alter lying back with his throat bared and

wrists lifted to the ceiling.

I one deft motion Smyth drew a glittering dagger from the folds of his robe and slashed it

across johns exposed throat and wrists. John Never even flinched. His arterial blood bathed the

altar in wetness as it poured down the sides. The mob broke for the alter groping for the pooled

blood from the fresh sacrifice. Licking, bathing, and frolicking in it the scene quickly

degenerated to a grisly orgy of gore.

A hysterical bubbling scream broke from my throat at the sight before me. I turned and

sprinted madly away from the horror behind me. I could feel the burning edge of insanity eating

at my brain as I ran blindly through the black tunnels. I ran and ran not caring where I turned in

the black tunnels. Minutes hours or days stopped mattering, I fell many times crawling and

dragging myself forward till I could rise and run some more. Finally my crazed brain registered

an object it recognized. A stairway!

I dragged myself up the slippery stone steps for what seemed like miles until I encountered a

doorway. I threw myself against the locked door again and again until it finally gave. Throwing

me out into the middle of the floor at CD&S. I fled out of the building and into the night.

Running in panic until my legs finally gave out collapsing in a heap in the middle of Cox dr.

As chance would have it the first car to almost run me over was a Henrico County Police

Cruiser. Very quickly I found myself under arrest for public intoxication and vagrancy, as soon

as I had seen the officer I had tried to embrace him and started babbling incoherently my tale of

horror. Sitting in the back of the police car in hand cuffs, I continued to rant about hidden caves

and bloody murder. When I told of the sacrifice the officer seemed to take more of an interest in

my crazed story. I finally managed to convince him to come see for himself the horrific building

and its crazed occupants.

I sat in the back of the car while the officer slipped into the building. He was only inside

for a few moments before coming running back to his car. I don’t know what he saw inside but

he was pale and shaking. He immediately got on his radio and twenty minutes later there was a

state police swat team deploying around the building.

They entered the building in tightly organized groups with flash bangs and assault

weapons poised. Then silence. We sat and waited outside for what seemed like hours before the

first officers reemerged from CD&S. There was a definite change to the officers that had entered

the building. As they had prepared to go in there was joking and horseplay. Now no one spoke.

Pale faces turned back to look at the building. Smoke began to roll out before the last officers

exited and the old church was soon engulfed in flames. I watched, almost expecting that horrid

statue to rise over the conflagration and punish us for our sacrilege. The S.W.A.T. team stood and

watched until the building was almost completely consumed, the structure collapsing in upon

itself like burnt matchsticks before anyone called the fire department.

(4)

It has been several months since the crazed events of that night. A blood test and a brief

court appearance cleared me of drunken vagrancy. And as far as I know no one was charged in

connection with these strange happenings. The story of a meth lab explosion appeared in the

papers two days later, but claimed the people responsible had died in the fire and no bodies were

recovered.

I have tried to go back to my normal life but know now that it is an impossible task. I am

still tormented by night mares and have fallen heavily into the bottle. I have found myself drawn

back to the scene of the fire many times since even when I thought myself safe in my bed, the

nightmare comes again and I awake in my night clothes standing barefoot in front of that burnt

out structure. After the fourth such instance my wife decided she could take no more. She has left

to stay with her mother with a promise of divorce papers to follow.

As I reflect on my experience in those dark caverns I have to wonder about their origin.

They felt so ancient as if the passages were carved out with stone hammers and chisels. How

could such a vast network exist under the very bones of a modern city? Could they even predate

the shelling and fires of the civil war, kept safe and secure like a deep tomb?

I sit here melancholy and alone in one of ECPI’s Computer labs. Our campus president

has said many times that there are only two ways to leave this school, as either a graduate or a

drop. I know that by next week I will be counted with the latter. I want to flee this dread place

put as much distance between myself and this dread experience as I can. But where too flee? I

know that by my own hand I have sent Icons of that dark god all over the United States. Are

there cults like the one I saw in so many places, and if so where is safe?

My wife in her haste left a bottle of sleeping pills in her bed side table tonight I will take

them, chased with a bottle of my favorite whiskey hoping I can finally find my rest. I sit here

typing this account that I know no one will read, Hoping that after I am counted as a drop before

my account is deleted some I.T. person may stumble on this account as he deletes me from the

system and happen to read my account and know of the secret under Innsbrook.

I must leave. I can’t stay here any longer. I hear the chant again, rising from the floor,

penetrating my bones, trying once again to corrupt my mind to its dread purpose.

” Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn”

photographed by + Lucas Barnes -Hollywood Cemetery-photographed by + Lucas Barnes -Hollywood Cemetery-

photographed by + Lucas Barnes

ALONE

-Hollywood Cemetery-

There they come again Those harsh and feathery fingers

Nebulous in appearance Reaching for more and more

Taking what is not theirs.Ignoring the groping

Slippery, awful feelings Passing all around me

Gripping me ever tightly Making the dawn so appealing

What is this horrible thing Which gropes and seems to cling

To every fiber of my being Granting no easy escaping

Creating this darkening feeling?It’s there, always present

Each time I have to go home My heart deeply dysfunctional My inward peace long gone

As I find myself alone!-Katy Alldredge

photographed by + Lucas Barnes

ALONE

-Hollywood Cemetery-

There they come again Those harsh and feathery fingers

Nebulous in appearance Reaching for more and more

Taking what is not theirs.Ignoring the groping

Slippery, awful feelings Passing all around me

Gripping me ever tightly Making the dawn so appealing

What is this horrible thing Which gropes and seems to cling

To every fiber of my being Granting no easy escaping

Creating this darkening feeling?It’s there, always present

Each time I have to go home My heart deeply dysfunctional My inward peace long gone

As I find myself alone!-Katy Alldredge

photography by + Lucas Barnes

submitted by <> Allen Barnes

submitted by <> Drew Renee

Where do the bodies go, we've got more to hideThe amount of blood and guts would leave normal people mortified

So lets take a walk into the paranormalStep on through the gate into hell's portal

Bring your protection and dress lightCause it is hot in hell and you're due for a fright

Things here get seriously dementedThings here get seriously dementedand there is no escape this is a life sentence

Fire and brimstone lines the devils throneBetter get used to the heat this is your new home

Feels like bugs are crawling through your skinand all the demons do is howl and grinall of this is punishment for your sins

so you'd better straighten up or this will be your endso you'd better straighten up or this will be your end















Matt KelchSubmitted by

ECPI University

64 lit issue #1

Documents

i terary magazine

work ecpi

hard work

quality collegiate education

career skil ls

popeschool presidentsince

colleges early beginnings

lucas barnes