A Winter War
By Matt Shaner
The therapist said I need this journal. She says it will help me to process the events of so many years ago. She says it will help me regain my memory and sanity. She has not seen my sights though. She does not understand the feeling of death. She has no concept of dedication and country. I write this for myself and my family. They need to know our story. They need to see why their grandfather is in this home and why he will never leave.
We were drafted late in the second Great War and arrived on the southern coast of Italy at the end of summer. The landing ships pulled into an ancient harbor and we disembarked to empty buildings. Intelligence reports indicated we would face minimal resistance until we were well into our northward march. The missions were simple, land at the heel of the boot and eliminate the Germans from the entire thing. After four years, set sail for home. I left behind a wife and two daughters.
The late afternoon sun cut some heat away as we organized for the march. It took time to ready the vehicles. I stood with four other guys next to an old fish market building. The waves lapped against our ships. The salt smell danced in the air and it felt good to start a war in paradise. As we were to leave, we heard a rustling in the building. Our Sergeant, Taylor Smithson, drew his service pistol and opened the door. He jumped when an elderly woman fell into his arms. He pulled her outside and laid her onto the sand. She looked into his eyes. We stood in a circle. Someone ran for a medic. She raised her hand and touched the Sergeant’s face. She spoke in an Italian variant. Before a translator arrived, her head fell limp. We placed her on the side of the building and moved on, no time or energy to dig a grave.
We marched through lowlands and hills. We examined villages, wreckage of houses and lives. We were welcomed in some and despised in others. We fought and I killed. The feeling of power intoxicated and invigorated. We were soldiers. We were legally able to eliminate life from the earth. We knew the enemy. They were no better then objects. I thought of my family and I did not care about theirs.
The first sign of luck, if you want to call it that, arrived in the second battle against resistance fighters. We were stopped at a field edge with two towns on either side. The leaders examined the options. They decided to use the towns for cover. Before we moved, our Sergeant spoke up. He stood in the meeting area with a vacant look in his eyes.
“Use the field,” he said. The responses came swift.
“You’re crazy.”
“We’ll be target practice.”
“It’s suicide.”
He spoke directly to the commanding officer. They had gone through basic training together.
“Trust me. We need to use the field.” The officer accented to his friend and we marched straight through.
The bombs fell to our left and right. Bullets whizzed over our heads, some finding ground and others finding the chests of men. The sky had grayed and a stiff wind pushed the gun smoke into the air. The towns on our sides were on fire and totally destroyed. Their people who decided to stay met their deaths in the attack. We watched from our positions and kept the advance.
After the enemy attacks faded, we moved in and cleared their stronghold. We stood on the battlefield, looking at the destruction. The field shone brighter then the towns. My hands burnt against the heat of my guns. We kept our northward march. I went instep with the Sergeant.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“The old woman,” he said.
The seasons changed with our progress. Snow started to fall and we passed roads flanked with frozen bodies. The snow itself was equal parts white and red. The land soaked up the blood regardless of which side we were on. The beauty of the country stood against the destruction. We met more resistance and our numbers succeeded in securing our advance. This is where I first noticed the strange happenings.
They extended further then good guesses in battle. Enemy bombs from above would fail to detonate. Bullets flew over our heads and around our positions. Our guns found no need to reload. Wounds, as the medics were treating them, closed and healed. We walked those months losing no one from our troop. We advanced into the northern sections of the country in December.
Snows fell for a week straight, hampering our efforts. We changed to camouflage whites that burned the eye in the morning sun. Soldiers, half frozen, lined the paths. One night, outside during a smoke break, a guy spoke up.
“Anyone know the date?” Most heads shook. Finally a person responded after consulting their journal.
“December 24th.”
“Wow. Well, merry Christmas early then,” he said. We laughed. That night we fought off a small attack and did not sleep.
The next day, Christmas, we marched onto the ruins of an old bombed out church. The snow had tapered to a few white dots in the sky. We walked in through the entrance. The roof of the chapel was open to the weather. Wooden pews splintered and some withstood the assault. Those open to the elements started to rot from the moisture. A grouping of birds fluttered away at our presence. The Sergeant walked up to the Alter.
“We camp here tonight. Let’s take a break from the weather.” The men cheered. We spread out over the area.
I used my grenade belt as a pillow. A few small fires were started and contained on the stone floor. A soldier took a piece of the splintered pew wood and lit candles on the Alter. Men found a bed where they could. Some slept in the confessional, others on the remaining pews. The stone floor felt like Heaven against the cold ground outside. Around midnight, the scout officer sounded an alarm. We jerked awake, grabbed our weapons, and ran outside.
The snow had stopped. A German contingent advanced up the road to our surprise. We were sure the holiday would prevent any action and we were wrong. The first volley of rifle fire took out the man to my left. He fell, a hole in his chest. He was talking to me and then he was gone. We took up defensive positions in the ruins. This is where things started to happen.
My position flanked the entrance. An organ, with destroyed pipes sounded a mournful note and we all turned. The crucifixion, large and gold, seemed to vibrate above us. The Christ, his head pierced, opened his eyes and two rivulets of blood ran down his cheeks. The rifle fire kept coming. We had no time to watch.
The contingent of soldiers was still advancing. We stopped them at the “driveway” of the church. A grenade took down the right side of the building. We swore this would be the end. I pictured my family and wondered if they enjoyed their dinner. They started to advance past the drive and to our forces. From his cover, our Sergeant stood. He pulled out his handgun and before he could fire, two large figures appeared next to him in white.
The figures extended wings that blocked the building and our troops. The bullets bounced off their wings. They pulled swords from their belts. The night lit up like a noon sky. The organ note pounded in my ears. The Christ’s blood tears now flowed in a small river to the floor. With two swipes of their weapons, they cut down the opposing soldiers. Their vehicles exploded. The bodies fell to the ground. We stopped and stood in silence. After the action, they withdrew their swords. The wings folded. They vanished and the sky went dark.
I slept in the ruins that night with a new peace.
I know what we saw. I know they investigated the area and found no wreckage of a church. I know something else though. We all survived and completed our mission. We returned here and continued our family lives. We have a reunion every year to catch up and the story is always told. I keep a piece of wood in my pocket, not larger then a postage stamp, from those pews and I twist it in my fingers now. That is my story whether they like it or not. I hear them in the hall, talking. They debate my will and my existence. They discuss funeral arrangements. They demand money for grandchildren who never come and visit. They do not know that, in these dark times, I am comforted by my memories. I return to the church. I kneel and touch the blood. I cross myself and fall prostrate to the floor, ready for the next battle, whenever it may come.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Remorse
Remorse
by Aurelio Rico Lopez III
A voice beckons
Deep within the well,
Where ten years today,
Little Angela fell.
Amidst the tall grass,
Above a building breeze,
Remorse’s heavy load,
Drops me to my knees.
A little child’s voice
Unforgiving, yet hushed;
Do you remember, Papa?
This is where you pushed.
by Aurelio Rico Lopez III
A voice beckons
Deep within the well,
Where ten years today,
Little Angela fell.
Amidst the tall grass,
Above a building breeze,
Remorse’s heavy load,
Drops me to my knees.
A little child’s voice
Unforgiving, yet hushed;
Do you remember, Papa?
This is where you pushed.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Announcement: KGB Bar
On July 22 from 7-9 pm there will be a reading in conjunction with the release of The Flash (Social Disease Press ISBN 978-0955282935 Edited by Peter Wild, a contributor to MotD). This reading will be held at The KGB Bar in New York City.
Info about those reading:
Andrew Lewis Conn is the author of the critically acclaimed novel, P (SoftSkull, 2003). Following a starred review in Kirkus, P was chosen as one of the summer's best books by The Austin Chronicle, Nerve, The Oregonian, Salon, and Time Out New York, and was named one of the best books of the year by The Village Voice and The Austin Chronicle. P was translated into Greek by Electra Publishing and into Portuguese for publication in Brazil by Editora W11.
Conn's other writing has appeared in The Village Voice, Film Comment, Time Out New York, and The Believer. He has been a resident at the Ledig House International Writers' Colony and Yaddo.
Nic Kelman is the author of the international bestselling novel, Girls, published by Little, Brown and Co. as well as Video Game Art, an art history of video games published by Assouline. His writing and photography have appeared, among other places, in Elle, Glamour, The Village Voice, and Black Book, as well as various anthologies. He holds a B.S. from MIT and an M.F.A. from Brown University.
Nathan Tyree is a writer from Kansas. His fiction and poetry has appeared in places like Edifice Wrecked; decomP; The Beat; Doorknobs and Body Paint; Flesh and Blood; Problem Child; Dogmatika; The Shallow End; Lightning Journal; Journal of Modern Post and too many others to list. In addition to The Flash his work has been anthologized in 3AM: London, New York, Paris (Social Disease Press); The Empty Page (Serpent’s Tail); Pleasant Dreams (Serpent’s Tail); What Goes on (Serpent’s Tail); Project Contagion (3Pitt Publications) and others. Nathan is the author of Mr. Overby is Falling. He has never mastered the oboe.
Jackie Corley was born in 1982. She developed Word Riot in March 2002 with the help of Paula Anderson. Word Riot Press, an independent publishing press, evolved out of the magazine in January 2003. Jackie's writing has appeared on-line at MobyLives.com, 3AM Magazine and SerialText and in print in BOOM! For Real and Consumed: Women on Excess (So New Media).
Admission to this event is free. All are invited. If you are (or will be) in the NYC area, drop in.
Info about those reading:
Andrew Lewis Conn is the author of the critically acclaimed novel, P (SoftSkull, 2003). Following a starred review in Kirkus, P was chosen as one of the summer's best books by The Austin Chronicle, Nerve, The Oregonian, Salon, and Time Out New York, and was named one of the best books of the year by The Village Voice and The Austin Chronicle. P was translated into Greek by Electra Publishing and into Portuguese for publication in Brazil by Editora W11.
Conn's other writing has appeared in The Village Voice, Film Comment, Time Out New York, and The Believer. He has been a resident at the Ledig House International Writers' Colony and Yaddo.
Nic Kelman is the author of the international bestselling novel, Girls, published by Little, Brown and Co. as well as Video Game Art, an art history of video games published by Assouline. His writing and photography have appeared, among other places, in Elle, Glamour, The Village Voice, and Black Book, as well as various anthologies. He holds a B.S. from MIT and an M.F.A. from Brown University.
Nathan Tyree is a writer from Kansas. His fiction and poetry has appeared in places like Edifice Wrecked; decomP; The Beat; Doorknobs and Body Paint; Flesh and Blood; Problem Child; Dogmatika; The Shallow End; Lightning Journal; Journal of Modern Post and too many others to list. In addition to The Flash his work has been anthologized in 3AM: London, New York, Paris (Social Disease Press); The Empty Page (Serpent’s Tail); Pleasant Dreams (Serpent’s Tail); What Goes on (Serpent’s Tail); Project Contagion (3Pitt Publications) and others. Nathan is the author of Mr. Overby is Falling. He has never mastered the oboe.
Jackie Corley was born in 1982. She developed Word Riot in March 2002 with the help of Paula Anderson. Word Riot Press, an independent publishing press, evolved out of the magazine in January 2003. Jackie's writing has appeared on-line at MobyLives.com, 3AM Magazine and SerialText and in print in BOOM! For Real and Consumed: Women on Excess (So New Media).
Admission to this event is free. All are invited. If you are (or will be) in the NYC area, drop in.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Miss Shen
Miss Shen
by
RJ Astruc
“Hello ma’am,” the official says, “I’m here to inform you that your invincibility has expired.”
Miss Shen opens the door another fraction of an inch and peers fearfully up at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your invincibility, ma’am,” says the official. “Surely you remember? You were injected as a child as part of the AIU government trial. A very successful trial, too – a shame that the product will never reach the commercial markets. But I suppose you couldn’t really have everyone in the country being invincible, it wouldn’t be practical…”
Miss Shen can’t remember the invincibility. But she vaguely remembers the tests: the pinch of the needle, the smiling faces of the nurses, the starched white beds and the shiny silver machines that monitored her vital signs. The questions her parents refused to answer. Invincibility? She smiles nervously.
The official rustles paperwork. “Boy, I envy you,” he says, offering her a clipboard and a pen. “You must have been a real hellion in your youth! No worries, no cares, no fears. Can you initial here and here? And sign on the dotted line.”
Miss Shen takes the clipboard in trembling hands. She remembers only a youth of nervous inadequacy: of poor school marks, of sporting failures, of friendless nights sitting in front of the television listening to her parents fight. She remembers turning down offers of parties (there might be a fight) and travel (I’m scared of flying). She remembers a school boy with a knife behind the bleachers who told her to take off all her clothes and lie still, Nina, lie still so you don’t get hurt.
“Thanks, ma’am,” says the official cheerfully. “Hey, you must have some stories, right? I had a chance to speak to a few other AIU-trial subjects – and wow! One guy said he swum with sharks in Australia, and two of the girls climbed Mount Everest together. Stood above the clouds and saw the sun set at their feet, they said. What a life, I said – what a wonderful life!”
Miss Shen signs her name on the dotted line. She remembers faking a leg-cramp to avoid the embarrassment of school sport. She remembers telling her first – her only – boyfriend that she couldn’t do that, because she was scared of disease. She remembers refusing to wear high heels in case she fell. She remembers avoiding sugars and processed foods, she remembers reading the backs of labels. She remembers a man who followed her home and she had to keep walking, walking, walking, running, sobbing, tight-chested, clutching her purse…
She hands back the clipboard saying, “I don’t have any stories.”
He thinks she’s bluffing. “Surely you must. I mean you were invincible for thirty years… you must have done something!”
“No one told me,” she says.
The official stares. “You’re serious,” he says. “Wow, I’m sorry.” His face is red and flushed. “Invincible for thirty years and you never noticed. Well, I guess it’s not that bad. You never really missed anything.”
Invincibility, she thinks. A life lived. She smiles to alleviate his discomfort. “Thank you for coming,” she says, and closes the door.
Miss Shen stands by the window and watches the official walk down the pavement, shaking his head. On the coffee table behind her there are bills to be paid and a light bulb to be replaced; there is her mother to call and the tea to brew; she has laundry to wash and the newspaper crossword to complete...
Weeping, Miss Shen returns to her life.
by
RJ Astruc
“Hello ma’am,” the official says, “I’m here to inform you that your invincibility has expired.”
Miss Shen opens the door another fraction of an inch and peers fearfully up at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your invincibility, ma’am,” says the official. “Surely you remember? You were injected as a child as part of the AIU government trial. A very successful trial, too – a shame that the product will never reach the commercial markets. But I suppose you couldn’t really have everyone in the country being invincible, it wouldn’t be practical…”
Miss Shen can’t remember the invincibility. But she vaguely remembers the tests: the pinch of the needle, the smiling faces of the nurses, the starched white beds and the shiny silver machines that monitored her vital signs. The questions her parents refused to answer. Invincibility? She smiles nervously.
The official rustles paperwork. “Boy, I envy you,” he says, offering her a clipboard and a pen. “You must have been a real hellion in your youth! No worries, no cares, no fears. Can you initial here and here? And sign on the dotted line.”
Miss Shen takes the clipboard in trembling hands. She remembers only a youth of nervous inadequacy: of poor school marks, of sporting failures, of friendless nights sitting in front of the television listening to her parents fight. She remembers turning down offers of parties (there might be a fight) and travel (I’m scared of flying). She remembers a school boy with a knife behind the bleachers who told her to take off all her clothes and lie still, Nina, lie still so you don’t get hurt.
“Thanks, ma’am,” says the official cheerfully. “Hey, you must have some stories, right? I had a chance to speak to a few other AIU-trial subjects – and wow! One guy said he swum with sharks in Australia, and two of the girls climbed Mount Everest together. Stood above the clouds and saw the sun set at their feet, they said. What a life, I said – what a wonderful life!”
Miss Shen signs her name on the dotted line. She remembers faking a leg-cramp to avoid the embarrassment of school sport. She remembers telling her first – her only – boyfriend that she couldn’t do that, because she was scared of disease. She remembers refusing to wear high heels in case she fell. She remembers avoiding sugars and processed foods, she remembers reading the backs of labels. She remembers a man who followed her home and she had to keep walking, walking, walking, running, sobbing, tight-chested, clutching her purse…
She hands back the clipboard saying, “I don’t have any stories.”
He thinks she’s bluffing. “Surely you must. I mean you were invincible for thirty years… you must have done something!”
“No one told me,” she says.
The official stares. “You’re serious,” he says. “Wow, I’m sorry.” His face is red and flushed. “Invincible for thirty years and you never noticed. Well, I guess it’s not that bad. You never really missed anything.”
Invincibility, she thinks. A life lived. She smiles to alleviate his discomfort. “Thank you for coming,” she says, and closes the door.
Miss Shen stands by the window and watches the official walk down the pavement, shaking his head. On the coffee table behind her there are bills to be paid and a light bulb to be replaced; there is her mother to call and the tea to brew; she has laundry to wash and the newspaper crossword to complete...
Weeping, Miss Shen returns to her life.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Zombies II
Zombies II: Inhuman
by Eric S. Brown
Naked Snake Press
The shelves of bookstores (and the virtual shelves of Amazon) are these days filled with books that in some way or another brush up against the zombie genre. Horror in general has had a big resurgence in recent years; zombies have been a big part of that surge. For fans this is a mixed bag: it's been great to see so many zombies around; but most of those books have been disappointing. Zombies II: Inhuman by Eric S. Brown is an exception. This little book delivers.
Brown has become known in recent years for crafting zombie stories that terrify and surprise. His fans anticipate each new publication. Those fans will not be disappointed by Zombies II.
This small collection contains eight powerful, well written stories that each offer up something totally unique. Brown has given us well structured stories built on round, complete characters. His dialogue is always believable and never sinks to the level of overblown exposition that plagues so many writers in this genre. These are stories that, did they not happen to feature zombies, would be at home in the better literary publications. But, they do contain zombies- and that is kind of the point.
Beyond zombies, what is this book about? These stories are connected. They take place in a world over run by zombies (of course), but there is another thread that runs through them. This also happens to be a world in which some rare people have super powers. Brown gives us humans with super speed, and super strength, and various other comic book powers. He makes these mutants our heroes and lets us enjoy as they do battle with undead flesh eaters. We also get to see the reaction of normal people to these super-humans. You can guess that it probably isn’t a pleasant reaction.
All the way through Brown manages to entertain. Zombies II: Inhuman is a great little book. It’s a must read for any zombie fan.
The only real complaint I can Level against this book is: it’s too damn short. Brown hooks us, and leaves us wanting more.
you can pre-order the book at: www.nakedsnakepress.com
Nathan Tyree
by Eric S. Brown
Naked Snake Press
The shelves of bookstores (and the virtual shelves of Amazon) are these days filled with books that in some way or another brush up against the zombie genre. Horror in general has had a big resurgence in recent years; zombies have been a big part of that surge. For fans this is a mixed bag: it's been great to see so many zombies around; but most of those books have been disappointing. Zombies II: Inhuman by Eric S. Brown is an exception. This little book delivers.
Brown has become known in recent years for crafting zombie stories that terrify and surprise. His fans anticipate each new publication. Those fans will not be disappointed by Zombies II.
This small collection contains eight powerful, well written stories that each offer up something totally unique. Brown has given us well structured stories built on round, complete characters. His dialogue is always believable and never sinks to the level of overblown exposition that plagues so many writers in this genre. These are stories that, did they not happen to feature zombies, would be at home in the better literary publications. But, they do contain zombies- and that is kind of the point.
Beyond zombies, what is this book about? These stories are connected. They take place in a world over run by zombies (of course), but there is another thread that runs through them. This also happens to be a world in which some rare people have super powers. Brown gives us humans with super speed, and super strength, and various other comic book powers. He makes these mutants our heroes and lets us enjoy as they do battle with undead flesh eaters. We also get to see the reaction of normal people to these super-humans. You can guess that it probably isn’t a pleasant reaction.
All the way through Brown manages to entertain. Zombies II: Inhuman is a great little book. It’s a must read for any zombie fan.
The only real complaint I can Level against this book is: it’s too damn short. Brown hooks us, and leaves us wanting more.
you can pre-order the book at: www.nakedsnakepress.com
Nathan Tyree
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Distortion
Distortion: A Short Story
By Will Clements
There he lay, in a large nook in the side of a rocky hill structure, in the middle of what was once a spectacularly beautiful forest. There was room enough for him to lay comfortably with two people on either side. Those two people were his world, his real world, outside the chaotic and hopeless one. These two were the loves of his life.
On his right was a beautiful young woman with long, red hair. Her smile alone, wrapped up in that gorgeous face of hers, was enough to lighten and brighten this world. She was perfect in every way, his dream woman. She lay with her head on his chest and her right hand resting on his stomach. Her warmth, her womanly scent, was enchanting, exotic, and aromatic.
On his left was a young man or a younger man rather for he was a young man himself at age twenty. The boy was about nine or ten; he hadn't asked. He had short, blond hair and cool, green eyes. Though small, he was a tough and strong lad with courage, chivalry, but most importantly, love to give. This man was his adopted father, and he was the man's adopted son. The boy lay with his head on the man's shoulder and his small body curled up against him.
The man loved the boy as his son, and the woman as his wife, even though there were no longer laws to regulate this nor a government to approve it. There they lay, sheltered from the ashen snow and the merciless chill of the wind, snuggled up against one, partially out of warmth but mostly out of the love of being close with one another.
You wouldn't let me give up, the woman said.
I still won't.
You told me that I was too beautiful to die.
You are. But there is more to it than that. We have to carry on because of hope, hope and love.
Is there any hope?
Always.
He felt the woman's body melt into his own and the warmth between, as if possible, increase twofold. The man tightened his grip around her, held her close. He did the same for the boy. Never finding it easy to fall asleep even when extremely exhausted, the man stared at the rocky roof of the nook and thought about nothing. He was finally content, in such a simple surrounding, and didn't worry about anything for once.
The boy spoke up. When you found me, you saved me.
I did.
You said you didn't do it because you felt sorry for me but because it was your fate.
And I stand by it.
Why did you save me?
To anyone else, you would have been a burden, another mouth to feed. But to me, you were hope. I was becoming so desperate, so lonely, that I was ready to give up. Then you came along and gave me hope. I finally had something to live for. Your hope spread from me to her and now we are all alive.
We're alive because you saved us.
Yes. But you saved me.
Content with that answer, the boy snuggled against the man's left side once again. When the boy's breathing became soft and steady, the man found himself drifting off to sleep. But before he did, he felt a weight disappear from either side of him and an emptiness flood into his mind. He clenched his eyes tightly then blinked away a few, cold tears. They streaked down his face, running away from him like the manifestations he had just interacted with.
The cold, isolation of this world weighed heavily upon him. Either side of him was empty, either arm wrapped around nothingness. He hugged his arms to his chest and wept profusely. It was cold and he was alone.
By Will Clements
There he lay, in a large nook in the side of a rocky hill structure, in the middle of what was once a spectacularly beautiful forest. There was room enough for him to lay comfortably with two people on either side. Those two people were his world, his real world, outside the chaotic and hopeless one. These two were the loves of his life.
On his right was a beautiful young woman with long, red hair. Her smile alone, wrapped up in that gorgeous face of hers, was enough to lighten and brighten this world. She was perfect in every way, his dream woman. She lay with her head on his chest and her right hand resting on his stomach. Her warmth, her womanly scent, was enchanting, exotic, and aromatic.
On his left was a young man or a younger man rather for he was a young man himself at age twenty. The boy was about nine or ten; he hadn't asked. He had short, blond hair and cool, green eyes. Though small, he was a tough and strong lad with courage, chivalry, but most importantly, love to give. This man was his adopted father, and he was the man's adopted son. The boy lay with his head on the man's shoulder and his small body curled up against him.
The man loved the boy as his son, and the woman as his wife, even though there were no longer laws to regulate this nor a government to approve it. There they lay, sheltered from the ashen snow and the merciless chill of the wind, snuggled up against one, partially out of warmth but mostly out of the love of being close with one another.
You wouldn't let me give up, the woman said.
I still won't.
You told me that I was too beautiful to die.
You are. But there is more to it than that. We have to carry on because of hope, hope and love.
Is there any hope?
Always.
He felt the woman's body melt into his own and the warmth between, as if possible, increase twofold. The man tightened his grip around her, held her close. He did the same for the boy. Never finding it easy to fall asleep even when extremely exhausted, the man stared at the rocky roof of the nook and thought about nothing. He was finally content, in such a simple surrounding, and didn't worry about anything for once.
The boy spoke up. When you found me, you saved me.
I did.
You said you didn't do it because you felt sorry for me but because it was your fate.
And I stand by it.
Why did you save me?
To anyone else, you would have been a burden, another mouth to feed. But to me, you were hope. I was becoming so desperate, so lonely, that I was ready to give up. Then you came along and gave me hope. I finally had something to live for. Your hope spread from me to her and now we are all alive.
We're alive because you saved us.
Yes. But you saved me.
Content with that answer, the boy snuggled against the man's left side once again. When the boy's breathing became soft and steady, the man found himself drifting off to sleep. But before he did, he felt a weight disappear from either side of him and an emptiness flood into his mind. He clenched his eyes tightly then blinked away a few, cold tears. They streaked down his face, running away from him like the manifestations he had just interacted with.
The cold, isolation of this world weighed heavily upon him. Either side of him was empty, either arm wrapped around nothingness. He hugged his arms to his chest and wept profusely. It was cold and he was alone.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Always Faithful
Always Faithful
By Steven L. Shrewsbury
“Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.”
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Timon of Athens
1605
“You must believe me, sir that I am the lord of the dark realms of hideous vanity. I come from beyond the gates of rusted blood. My home is over the surging river Styx and my love is to torment those lost forever.”
The Marine counselor rubbed a rough hand over his sharp, tight cut hair and sighed. “Private Berry, I believe that you have a problem, but nothing my psyche couch can cure.”
The youthful Marine sat forward on the couch and exclaimed, “But you must believe me, Captain Marten. I am demon!”
Marten glowered at him and shot back, “You are demon? If you’re in possession of anything it’s lousy grammar. Why are you a demon? Because you feel scared sleeping in barracks that once housed the Waffen SS? Get a grip, Marine! You aren’t the only one to sleep there since the occupation began.”
Private Berry’s eyes stared at the forearm of the counselor, bearing the Corps logo and a few other tiny tattoos. “But after I visited the ruins of Ravensbruck…”
The Captain stood up and drilled his fists down, nearly toppling the tiny lamp on the desk. “Get your head out of your ass, marine! I didn’t come to Germany to nursemaid little boys who smoke too much Afghan hash.” The Marten then pointed at the emblem on his forearm and barked, “Do your duty, Marine!”
Berry stood up straight, but his bottom lip quivered. “How can I convince you that I am demon--Amazarak?”
Grinding his teeth, the Captain roared, “Being a non-conformist and wetting the bed is no proof of demon possession. Besides, you exhibit none of the silly things associated with OBSESSION behavior. No marks, no speaking in other languages…” Captain Marten pointed his finger in the private’s face quickly, “…and don’t start to try German on me!”
Private Berry turned about, touched the door and looked back. He glared at the Captain, pulled out a short, curved blade and then closed the door.
*****
When the frantic secretary called the MP’s after she heard the screams, it was no time before the door was broken down to Captain Marten’s office. Crudely, they found Captain Marten laid out inside, his legs up on the couch, his arms spread out on the floor, his throat ripped out and his belly flailed open. A mound of intestines almost rivaling the torso of the dead counselor lay heaped on the tan carpet beside him.
The lead MP, gun drawn, felt his gut flip over as he beheld Private Berry trying to wrap a slippery piece of material over the tiny lampshade on the desk. The flaring eyes of the Private locked on him as he turned the crude lampshade addition toward the MP and said, “You see? Another language my ass!”
The MP swallowed as he gawked at the lamp and read the words, “SEMPER FI.”
By Steven L. Shrewsbury
“Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.”
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Timon of Athens
1605
“You must believe me, sir that I am the lord of the dark realms of hideous vanity. I come from beyond the gates of rusted blood. My home is over the surging river Styx and my love is to torment those lost forever.”
The Marine counselor rubbed a rough hand over his sharp, tight cut hair and sighed. “Private Berry, I believe that you have a problem, but nothing my psyche couch can cure.”
The youthful Marine sat forward on the couch and exclaimed, “But you must believe me, Captain Marten. I am demon!”
Marten glowered at him and shot back, “You are demon? If you’re in possession of anything it’s lousy grammar. Why are you a demon? Because you feel scared sleeping in barracks that once housed the Waffen SS? Get a grip, Marine! You aren’t the only one to sleep there since the occupation began.”
Private Berry’s eyes stared at the forearm of the counselor, bearing the Corps logo and a few other tiny tattoos. “But after I visited the ruins of Ravensbruck…”
The Captain stood up and drilled his fists down, nearly toppling the tiny lamp on the desk. “Get your head out of your ass, marine! I didn’t come to Germany to nursemaid little boys who smoke too much Afghan hash.” The Marten then pointed at the emblem on his forearm and barked, “Do your duty, Marine!”
Berry stood up straight, but his bottom lip quivered. “How can I convince you that I am demon--Amazarak?”
Grinding his teeth, the Captain roared, “Being a non-conformist and wetting the bed is no proof of demon possession. Besides, you exhibit none of the silly things associated with OBSESSION behavior. No marks, no speaking in other languages…” Captain Marten pointed his finger in the private’s face quickly, “…and don’t start to try German on me!”
Private Berry turned about, touched the door and looked back. He glared at the Captain, pulled out a short, curved blade and then closed the door.
*****
When the frantic secretary called the MP’s after she heard the screams, it was no time before the door was broken down to Captain Marten’s office. Crudely, they found Captain Marten laid out inside, his legs up on the couch, his arms spread out on the floor, his throat ripped out and his belly flailed open. A mound of intestines almost rivaling the torso of the dead counselor lay heaped on the tan carpet beside him.
The lead MP, gun drawn, felt his gut flip over as he beheld Private Berry trying to wrap a slippery piece of material over the tiny lampshade on the desk. The flaring eyes of the Private locked on him as he turned the crude lampshade addition toward the MP and said, “You see? Another language my ass!”
The MP swallowed as he gawked at the lamp and read the words, “SEMPER FI.”
Zombie Anthology Update
The submission call for the zombie anthology is now over. We're in the process of editing and compiling the stories now.
We're still working on the third regular issue of Magazine Of The Dead as well, as soon as we get a few more submissions for that, it will be ready for purchase.
We'll let you know more about these projects as time goes on.
We're still working on the third regular issue of Magazine Of The Dead as well, as soon as we get a few more submissions for that, it will be ready for purchase.
We'll let you know more about these projects as time goes on.
Magazine Of The Dead Sells Out.
We at Magazine Of The Dead realize that putting our name out in the public is the best way to make this little project grow into more than just a few guys tossing words back and forth. Therefore, we are proud to announce that we now dwell among the teeny boppers and child molesters of America.
You can now view our Myspace page and become our "friend" here. Keep in mind, of course, that it is a work in progress.
You can now view our Myspace page and become our "friend" here. Keep in mind, of course, that it is a work in progress.
Friday, June 1, 2007
NEWS: Prospero Leaves Island. Burns all his books.
Wake up time children. Art is destruction, destruction of complacency, destruction of the Normal, destruction of the rigid mind set. Destruction can be art, Violence shocks us from our safe places and forces to stare at terrible reality. We are 'safe' in this violence while we read it on black and white pages that are separated from us.
We, here at Magazine of the Dead, understand that. We know the power of Art and how 26 simple characters can create, or destroy, whole worlds for us. So, when Prospero's Bookstore decided that they would burn books to protest the continual decline of the state of American Literacy, we were both appalled, and appreciative of the message. But unlike Shakespear's Prospero, we are not yet done with our Art.
Go Forth. Get a book. Read it. Pass it On.
Magazine Of The Dead
We, here at Magazine of the Dead, understand that. We know the power of Art and how 26 simple characters can create, or destroy, whole worlds for us. So, when Prospero's Bookstore decided that they would burn books to protest the continual decline of the state of American Literacy, we were both appalled, and appreciative of the message. But unlike Shakespear's Prospero, we are not yet done with our Art.
Go Forth. Get a book. Read it. Pass it On.
Magazine Of The Dead
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