THE EXHIBITION

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THE EXHIBITION •

The Word's Faire . 8/4/24 The Word's Faire . 8/4/24

‘TALES UNTOLD, SO SAYS LANCELOT’

Andrew Sarewitz has published more than 70 short stories (website: www.andrewsarewitz.com. Substack access is @asarewitz) as well as having penned scripts for various media. Mr. Sarewitz is a recipient of the 2021 City Artists Corp Grant for Writing. His play, Alias Madame Andrèe (based on the life of WWII resistance fighter, Nancy Wake, the “White Mouse”) garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights in San Jose, CA; produced with a multicultural cast and crew. Member: Dramatists Guild of America.

TALES UNTOLD, SO SAYS LANCELOT

With a retinue of eight knights lifting his body, Lord Galehaut, a Knight of the Round Table, was carried to his grave. Ferried behind two white stallions from Tintagel Castle, King Arthur’s fortress on the sea, Lord Galehaut was brought to Joyous Gard, to be buried. And when the time comes, I shall lay next to him.

====

You don’t need to open literature to know of me. The fables and stories of lords and maidens, of magic and sorcerers, of King Arthur and Guinevere, of Camelot and the Knights of the Round Table. I am Sir Lancelot.

In truth, only the wealthy and powerful earned idolization in Sixth Century writing. With tedium and boredom stretching the days of the royal and rich, it is understandable that love often became obsession, with little else to do when not training for war or warring. Most women had no voice or rights. Only beauty was prized, when not seen by protective family as a detriment, fearing expected abuse by men’s base desires. From Cleopatra to Helen of Troy, beauty was, for the most part, the primary pedestal on which a woman was valued.

I loved Guinevere. She was exquisite; beauty beyond description. Forbidden as she may have been, I often could think of nothing else. The love for King Arthur, my chosen brother now and in Heaven, should have made it impossible for me. And when he discovered she and I had bedded, he never spoke to me again. I should be grateful he didn’t have me put to death.

But this isn’t the story I mean to tell. The days of Camelot are recited with varied dramatic plots and interpretations over many centuries. But during those years of battle sieges and knightly protection, there was a figure, believed to be the son of a giant — part God if you ask me — that came to Camelot.

=====

In the Sixth Century of our Lord, there had been no one I met that stood taller than I. At more than 195 centimeters in height (about 6 foot 5 inches), Lord Galehaut was the first and only man from Rome’s Empire to the realm of Logres to put me in his shadow. No woman or man, enemy or friend could deny his physical dominance.

In battle or tournament, I dressed with a face-shield for protection and anonymity, which was not unusual. Fighting for King Arthur and Briton against the Saxon devils, I began as one of the youngest men knighted to be at Camelot’s Round Table. Barely 16, I’d been brought to Castle Tintagel by the woman I called my mother, Viviene, the Lady of the Lake. I was put to test by King Arthur, jousting in five tournaments against formidable knights, winning all my competitions.

(My father who was himself royalty, died when I was a young child, leaving my birth mother abandoned and destitute. Finding me wandering alone, the Lady of the Lake took me to her magic realm and raised me as her own. I knew none of this until I was a grown man).

My battle artistry, though practiced against burlap sacks and other lifeless targets, was either inherited from birth or gifted by my upbringing beneath the enchanted lake. On the battle field, I was known as the Black Knight. In those first years, I never fell in tournament or war. To hear Galehaut tell it, that is what gained his attention.

====

The earliest Camelot accounts don’t mention me. My presence was erased for nearly 700 years. Not for my pairing with Elaine de Corbenic, who gave birth to my bastard son, Sir Galahad. Nor for my unbearable longing for Guinevere, breaking King Arthur’s heart. But for indictments of an intimate nature between Lord Galehaut and myself. During war’s despair and aloneness, no one questions Man’s shared desires. In cases when the perfumes of a woman are not within reach, men will do what they must. But loving another man this way? No. It is rumored that Greek and Roman soldiers took young slave boys with them into battle to use as you might a woman. As for allegations of love between Galehaut and myself, there is no proof. But it is true. I care not if that is the cause for my being deleted from early manuscripts. I would have done anything for my Lord, Galehaut. And with the exception of a brief period of the Round Table writings, Galehaut was rendered insignificant or banished from the stories of Camelot altogether.

====

We met on the battle field.

A difficult charge. Defending the King’s realm, I didn’t have the heart to tell my Lord, King Arthur, that our army was outnumbered and out fought by Saxon invaders led by an exceptional warrior. As the battle day was nearing its end, there was no denying the exhaustion of my remaining men. Yet, within sling range, I saw the Saxon giant, known as Lord of Distant Isles, rein his horse to a full stop mid-field, his shield barely marked and his lance, unbroken. His flanks fell back, as he stood alone. In the quiet, the giant brought his mount to a canter and rode without his lance lowered for battle. He dismounted before Arthur. He took a knee, bowing before my King.

Head lowered, the Lord of Distant Isles said, “I have never seen man, noble or soldier, fight with the majesty of your Black Knight. I yield to you, my Lord. I will not take your land and castle. This soldier, whoever he may be, is Godlike and worthy of the day’s victory, unchallenged.”

“Stand, Sir,” said King Arthur. “If I am not to battle or yield to your armies, send them on. You fight with dignity and power. Join my Knights of the Round Table and you may stand side by side with the Black Knight and the other worthy knights protecting the lands of Logres.”

Cerdic of Wessex, enemy to King Arthur, ruled the Saxon lands. While Lord Galehaut had fought loyally, he abandoned his allegiances and joined the Round Table, knighted with the sword, Excalibur, by King Arthur himself. But it was not for love of Briton and the Logres realm. Sir Galehaut did this for me.

It was a fast and equal friendship. He and I rode in battle together. We often slept side by side when traveling or in camps; and when accessible, bathed together in springs. There was no one I trusted or loved more. Our conversations, complex and easy, never went dry. I did not talk with women this way; not even Guinevere.

====

I have loved two people in my life. Queen Guinevere and Lord Galehaut. Both had my heart and devotion. How the passion between Guinevere and I played out has been written over and over. It killed my brother-ship with Arthur and was eventually the cause for Guinevere’s exile to a secluded convent where she would die of starvation.

====

Patrolling the realm as a Knight of the Round Table and protector of the Briton lands, I was ambushed near Saxon Rock, where I alone fought 20 soldiers. I left the 20 men bloodied or dead. But l barely escaped. My horse, who stayed as brave an ally as I have ever known, died from battle wounds after carrying me through the assault. I walked until I could walk no more. Four of my brothers found and carried me back to safety. My wounds were numerous and painful. Sir Gawain, a fellow Knight and a true friend, brought a surgeon to tend to me. The doctor performed what he could, sewing my torn shoulder and other open wounds. I would not be able to access the magic from witches at Lady Viviene’s secret realm beneath the lake. I was on mortal fields of war.

With little evidence of improvement, my men lowered me into a pool of warm spring water believed to have healing minerals, hidden by rock caves some distance from our camp. Submerged to my chin, I ordered my men to leave me be. I closed my eyes and lay neck deep until I drifted into either dream or fantasy. I lost all sense of time.

While in a dreamlike state, I heard a voice. “You shall not die here. I will not allow it.”

I did not open my eyes. I felt hands caring and with purpose, run tender fingers through my blood-knotted beard, washing the clots free, as a nurse might remove mud from a child’s hair after play. I reached my injured hand up to find his, and we threaded our fingers together. “I will not die as long as you do not leave me.”

“I will never leave you.”

Sir Galehaut, Lord of Distant Isles, no longer dressed in chain mail armor, disrobed what remained of his clothing and slid into the mineral pool beside me. We sat naked, side by side, hand in hand, beneath the warm water. Turning me cautiously onto my side away from his face, he wrapped his giant arms around my bruised and broken body, pulling me with impossible gentleness into his chest. Not since I was a boy cradled by the Lady of the Lake had I felt this secure. Myself being 183 centimeters in height (about 6 foot 1), there had been no one larger than I from the time I turned 10. Galehaut, pressed against my back, fitted to my frame, his arms enveloping me as I fell into his body. “I am here, Lancelot. I am your servant, my knight. I am here.”

I have loved Arthur, my friend and King. But this total and utter adoration was nothing I have known with another man. I pulled away only enough to turn and face my companion. Without pause, I pressed my lips to his and kissed him deeply, and said, “I will not die. Not here, not now.”

Men are not by nature, gentle creatures. Sex can be violent. When with Guinevere, which at this date in time had only been once, the passion that took over was heated and frantic from our extended and secret longing. When finally we were alone in her bed chamber, I clumsily spread her legs and with untamed desperation, thrust myself inside her over and over as she moaned, digging her fingernails so deep into my skin, blood was let. At first I did not know if she was in pain or rapture when she arched her back and screamed as I unleashed what felt like decades of imprisoned energy. It was violent ecstasy.

With Galehaut, this was unexplainable passion of a different breed, as our mouths opened upon each other. I was in physical pain, but not from him. He could break me easily in this state. Instead, an action of uncommon trust came over me. An experience neither of us questioned, I said, “I am yours, my Lord.” This stimulation, arousal man to man, was unexplored desire in love. I had seen him naked many times before but now I looked on his beauty with awe and longing. He was a perfect specimen, whether giant or human by definition. I had not considered that this coupling meant something different for Galehaut. He never mounted or enslaved any women of conquered villages as spoils of war, which soldiers tend to do. He had not a woman he longed for or was promised to for betrothal. He was completely mine.

There had always been ties between Galehaut and I. On the day he knelt before Arthur and took his place with the Knights of the Round Table, he told me in private he would never be anywhere but beside me. For myself, we had been linked by valor and battle and that was the clear bond. But for Galehaut, he had seen the destiny of our love from the moment he saw the Black Knight defend a losing Kingdom.

Galehaut helped me back to a bed set for me at the camp. He would be riding back to Castle Tintagel and the Knights of the Round Table come daylight. He slept beside me. In the morning, when I awoke, he had gone.

The travel home was uncomfortable and took longer than expected. But I did recover and took my place among the other exceptional knights once more.

====

There is a great deal of Medieval history that has been scribed. Disputed or not, I will leave that to the curious to research for themselves. As for Galehaut and I, we rode together many times over the years and just as often, were sent to separate fields to defend or conquer. And when together alone, we had passion and love.

====

Toward the Northern Territory, traveling alone, I was surprised by a band of robbers. Without armor for bodily protection, I still was able to fight them off but suffered life threatening wounds. Once they retreated, I walked toward a wide stream, removing my blood-soaked garments, thinking I would find some relief. Before I reached the river, I fell to my knees and lost consciousness. My bloody clothing was discovered at the water’s edge, but not I. It was reported back to Camelot that I had drowned.

When the news of my death reached the Knights of the Round Table, Sir Galehaut stood and walked to his sleeping chamber, bolting the door. He refused all company, food or drink. He would not even accept a royal visit from Guinevere, who herself was privately mourning. After days of Galehaut refusing anyone’s service, Gawain came to his chamber. With no response to his demand for entry, Sir Gawain brought two men and, employing a wooden ram, knocked open Galehaut’s door. The Lord of Distant Isles lay on the floor, no breath left in his body. Sir Gawain knelt beside him, tears running down his face.

I had not drowned. I’d been rescued by a hermit who found me unconscious by the water. With a cart and mule, he towed me to his hut, hidden in the forest where he tended me back to health. When strong enough, I traveled back to Castle Tintagel.

As I approached, the draw bridge was lowered. Two knights on stallions rode to meet me, which I thought unusual. Sirs Yvain and Percival. With what at first appeared to be great concern for my health and safety, they rode with me flanked in-between them as we crossed over the moat. I did not ask for Guinevere nor Arthur, who even in his denial of me, I held hope would again embrace me. Still weak, I dismounted. My two comrades escorted me to a quarters reserved for members of the Round Table. Agravain and Tristan joined Yvain and Percival, but not Galehaut. Sir Gawain came in last, kneeling before me.

“My Lord and friend. We believed you to be dead. We thought...” said Gawain.

I interrupted, “I was not able to send a message. I was rescued by a kind hermit who nursed my wounds. But my hands were injured and he could neither read nor write.”

“The Queen will be very relieved, my Lord. She has been beside herself in sorrow,” said Percival.

“I will visit with her shortly. I should like to first bathe and dress appropriately. And I should like to see Sir Galehaut.”

Gawain began speaking: “Lord Galehaut, he is... not here, my Lord.”

“He is dead,” said Agravain plainly. “He is dead.”

Absolute silence. Then, “where is he?!” I screamed.

Sir Gawain stood, saying “My Lord, his body is —“

“Take me to him!”

That is the last I remember of the day.

Galehaut was lain out on a table, not meant for death. In secrecy, Sir Gawain took me aside and told me Galehaut had died of a broken heart. Believing I had been killed, Sir Galehaut, Lord of Distant Isles, did not want to live anymore.

The Knights of the Round Table were permitted the honor of burial on the grounds of Castle Tintagel. But I wanted to bring Galehaut to my home. And though King Arthur would not travel there, white horses carried Galehaut, Knight of the Round Table, to be buried at Joyous Gard.

I did not speak of my great love to anyone. It was simply assumed that my closest friend had died. And that’s not incorrect.

I would return to Guinevere’s bed a number of times before she was publicly shamed and exiled by Arthur. I walked away from the Knights of the Round Table and returned to my home at Joyous Gard. I would outlive King Arthur, Guinevere and of course, Galehaut.

====

Honoring my wishes, I was buried next to Sir Galehaut, so we may lie together for eternity. And though my love for Guinevere would be scribed and rewritten over the centuries, my love for and time with Galehaut vanished from the tales of Camelot and the Knights of the Round Table, like fallen leaves in an autumn wind.

Andrew Sarewitz has published more than 70 short stories (website: www.andrewsarewitz.com. Substack access is @asarewitz) as well as having penned scripts for various media. Mr. Sarewitz is a recipient of the 2021 City Artists Corp Grant for Writing. His play, Alias Madame Andrèe (based on the life of WWII resistance fighter, Nancy Wake, the “White Mouse”) garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights in San Jose, CA; produced with a multicultural cast and crew. Member: Dramatists Guild of America.

The Word's Faire . 7/23/24 The Word's Faire . 7/23/24

The Diary of James Eggleton: Deep Shit, Arkansas

Max Peña spent the best part of a quarter century working in corporate jobs in New York City. These experiences have inspired his creative work. He also holds a master's degree in creative writing from Edinburgh Napier University. He now lives in the south of France with his wife, dog, and cat.

The Diary of James Eggleton: Deep Shit, Arkansas

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

New Year, new job, thank God. Start tomorrow at Brobdingnagian Corp's H.Q. on Madison Avenue. After all these months stuck at home, it'll be great to get out of the apartment. If nothing else, Emily will be pleased now that I have something to do.

I don't think she'll ever understand why I left the last one, I had to resign. It was the moral thing to do. Anyway, Brobdingnagian is steeped in integrity, so I should be OK on that front. Maybe I can do some good in this world.

The job's incumbent sent me this email today:

James,

Congrats on your new gig on the borrowing desk. It should be a dream. These last six months have been so quiet that I've managed to read five novels a week.

Best/Henry.

P.S. Don't call your boss Fruit Bat to his face. The last guy who did that got sent to Argentina.

Wednesday, January 6

As I left for work, Emily said: “Good luck, and don't screw this one up.”

Spent the day arranging my desk – no one has an office. My new boss Darren seems a little surly. Barely spoke to me, except when he explained the bonus plan. If I do well, we could afford a house in Connecticut like the one that Emily's wanted for the past two years.

Discovered the company is in loads of different businesses – everything from aircraft manufacturing to supermarkets. Who knew?

Thursday, January 7

Predecessor Henry was correct: Nothing much happens in the office. Forgot to bring books. Ordered a slew online.

Back home received a hand-written invitation to an Adventurers’ Club event later this month. It’s mostly climbers who get invited and I qualify on account of being the former president of the Princeton Mountaineering Club. A Ranulph Fiennes-type person is scheduled to expound on his latest expedition. I expect he'll flog some books too. I'll take Charlotte. She and I love talks by adventurers. Emily says she's too busy with friends, which is weird since she used to enjoy such gatherings.

Still puzzles me why Emily didn't go back to practicing law after she had Charlotte. I know better than to mention it these days.

Friday, January 8

Heard not a peep out of Darren today, other than a sound that resembled something between a grunt and the word “morning,” as he passed my desk. Today he wore the same ill-fitting, crumpled grey suit that he had on yesterday.

Read Mikhail Lermontov's “A Hero of Our Time.” I like his theme: What is the role of the unnecessary man? Good question.

Charlotte's thrilled about the Adventurers' Club event. Hope they serve soft drinks. We can't have her going to school hungover.

Saturday, January 9

My turn to make Saturday brunch. I decided on Charlotte's favorite: Eggs Benedict. She toasted the muffins while I showed her how to poach the eggs. First, I put a few drops of vinegar in the boiling water, then stirred the water-vinegar mix into a vortex to drop the eggs into. The result produced near perfect artisanal poached eggs ready for the muffins and a coating of homemade Hollandaise sauce that I put together before she woke up. I skipped the bacon for health reasons. Yum!

Monday January 11

Started the morning reading Charles Bukowski's “Ham on Rye.” Great book about the rough side of town.

Late-morning got jolted into office-mode by the sound of Darren shouting “Motherfuckers” down the phone line, then throwing the same phone to the floor and kicking his desk. After that, he jumped over to me and spoke a complete sentence.

“Jason isn't it?” he asked. I readied the words “James, actually,” but I couldn't get them out in time. He was on a roll, and beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. This was not the time to take issue with him.

“Well, whatever your name is, we are now officially living in Deep Shit, Arkansas,” he said. I could see swollen blood vessels pulsating in his neck. He's quite a character swearing like that in the office. I don't think he's an Ivy Leaguer.

The story has nothing to do with Arkansas. Must be slang. Anyway, this morning the union went from hissy fit to full-on strike with a picket line at the Ohio factory gates. It's about who can or cannot unload trucks. This factory makes aircraft brake pads as well as vital widgets we supply to all our other factories. As a result of the latter, all of our factories are shut.

The bottom line: I must borrow $200 million every workday to keep the company going. Called our banking contact, then two hours later got an email confirming a $195 million loan. Spent an hour completing the paperwork. Darren didn't seem too bothered that I was $5 million short of the requested $200 million.

Worked late into the night writing code to automate the borrowing process. From now on I’ll just enter how much I want and then click a button.

Arrived home at 10.30 PM to find Emily asleep.

Tuesday, January 12

Borrowed $250 million.

‘The Creation of Joe Costello’

Jordon Jones has a MA Creative Writing and a BA in History from the University of Lincoln. He is originally from the northern town of Warrington, and his passion for storytelling started young.

The Creation of Joe Costello

The man awoke. It felt as though a bullet was ricocheting around his skull, destroying his memories. Closing his eyes, he collected the most basic of information and then saw something glowing deep within. He reached out. From the pulsating mass of grey matter, he pulled out a name.

It was Eric.

Eric gasped. He was sat on a dusty fabric seat, travelling at a high speed, and realised that this was a train. Eric sat, knuckles whitening as he squeezed his thigh. He breathed deep as the carriage plunged into the tunnel. The overhead lights failed to illuminate, burying him and those around in darkness. He breathed out, and when he tried to inhale, his chest tightened. The darkness around was thick. Eric clutched his chest, and his vision faded; he was about to pass out. Then, light flooded the carriage, and with it, air into his lungs. No one else seemed to feel what he did. The woman across the aisle was staring out of the window with longing, and a light, thumping bass came from her headphones. Eric cared little for music; it all sounded the same. In front of the woman sat a suited man, who kept glancing over his shoulder with a look of annoyance, but she didn’t notice.

The sounds of children surrounded Eric, but all he could see was a silent, small girl, standing by the doors holding a red, heart-shaped balloon. She smiled at him, and her eyes held intelligence beyond her years. Then, an announcement rang out; the next stop was coming up. Eric couldn’t remember why he wanted to go here—or even where here was—all he knew was that he had to get away, away from his life. Eric got up and swung his backpack over a shoulder. He approached where the little girl once stood and waited. And through the window, the towering city lay bare before him. Skyscrapers stood on end like the hair on the back of giants. The streets were pristine, and devoid of cars, busses, trucks. People walked through the city; others were on push bikes. Pollution-free air wafted in through the window. Eric smiled as a light mist descended from the sky like an ashen blanket.

The train pulled into the station, and the doors slid open. The terminal was empty, except for several families that stood waiting for those aboard. A woman stripped off her headphones, and ran into the arms of another, kissing them. The suited man lifted a child into the air and smiled, tears gathered within his eyes. But no one waited for Eric, at least, so he thought. Then, from the distance, a dark-skinned man approached. His eyes were light, and his hair dyed a disgusting shade of yellow. He smiled at Eric and said: “Hey Joe, took you long enough.” Before pulling him in for a hug.

Eric went to correct him but realised he couldn’t remember anything about himself. How sure was he that Eric was even his name? The idea of not knowing himself caused a point of pressure to form within his mind—it was about the size of a pinhead. As he thought about it, the name Joe did feel more like him. He did not know who this person was, but he wanted a friend. So, he took the name with pride, and said: “Hey, how are you?”

“I’m good man,” he said. “Come, let me show you to your apartment.”

“How do you know where I’m staying?”

“That’s my job,” the man said with a smile. “Come on then.”

Joe followed the man, not caring to ask for his name. As they left the station and stepped into the street, the mist enveloped them, and Joe could only see several feet in front.

“Where are you from?”

“Nowhere interesting,” Joe said. “Always found myself moving from place to place.” He figured lying was simpler than having to explain his lack of memory.

“Ah, a drifter. Man after my own heart. You see, I’ve been guiding people to their destination for a long, long time. It always warms my heart to help someone like you find their way to where they belong.”

Eventually, the man brought him to one of many high-rise apartment buildings, which punctured deep through the mist and into the sky. As the door came into view, someone walking in ahead of them, and a red heart-shaped balloon slipped inside. He felt oddly at peace here. The city was, in his mind, idyllic and appealed to him on a level deeper than he understood.

“Here we go,” the man said. “If you need anything, just call. You still have my number, right?”

Joe pulled out his phone and looked through his contacts. Blank. “Think it got wiped when I changed SIMS, sorry.”

“No worries, pass it.” The man took the phone and tapped away. “There we go.”

Joe glanced at the phone; the man put himself down as Mike. “Cheers, Mike,” he said. He approached the apartment building and paused. He thought to himself, Do a Columbo.

Joe turned and said, “Remind me, which room is mine?”

Mike laughed. “Penthouse, Lieutenant.” He winked and walked away. After several steps, he too ‘did a Columbo,’ and said, “It should rain soon. Your favourite weather, right?”

Joe nodded and smiled; he didn’t expect this guy to catch on to what he was doing. He figured his weather comment was a lucky guess. Rain is popular, after all. But he waved and entered the building. In the distance, he caught the face of the little girl from the train. The elevator doors slid shut in front of her; he could have sworn she was smiling at him.

Stepping across the threshold into the lobby presented Joe with a cavalcade of scents. The sanitised, sterile smell of a hospital provided a canvas for the aroma of a greasy English breakfast. And despite the smell, and the clinking of silverware, the restaurant across the lobby looked to be empty, with a dim light flickering towards the back end, illuminated various buckets of paint and wooden offcuts. An absence of presence within the hotel increased the pressure building within his frontal lobe. The entire city had this emptiness. It was the same emptiness that permeated from the depths of his soul.

The lobby itself was small, with a circular desk manned by two people sitting in the centre. Behind them, shelves ran along the walls, lined with decorations from plants to statuettes. Above, small bulbs hung onto scaffold shaped wood, like fireflies hanging motionless in the air. Joe approached the desk, and the young woman smiled. She had dark hair cascading down her shoulders and olive skin.

“Mr Costello? We’ve been expecting you. Here’s your key.” She slid it across the table.

Joe Costello? He thought. Sounds more like me than Eric Costello. I’ll take it.

“Sir?” The woman’s name tag read Genevieve. “Everything okay?”

“Sorry, Genevieve. Thank you. I’m in the penthouse, correct?”

“Correct sir. Please, just call reception if you need anything.”

“Will do.” Joe walked towards the lift and hit a button. After several moments, the doors slid open. Revealing a chimpanzee dressed in a white shirt and red vest, loose beige trousers, Joe’s attention was drawn to the red, polka-dotted tie he was wearing.

“Going up?” The chimp said.

“Penthouse, please.”

“Key card, sir.” The chimp held out a calloused hand.

“Oh yeah, of course.” Joe fumbled around and handed him the card. “There you go.” Something felt wrong. Could Chimps speak? Something in the deeper wrinkles of his brain was screaming at Joe, telling him that this was not normal. Eventually, he acted on these urges, and said, “Worked here long?”

“Most of my life, sir.” The chimp slid the card into the elevator panel, and it lurched into action.

“Is English your first language?”

“Technically.”

“What do you mean?”

“‘Chimpanzee’ isn’t an officially recognised language. Doesn’t matter now that I’m here.”

“Got any family?”

“Please, sir, I would rather not talk about all that.”

“Of course… My apologies.”

“No worries.” The elevator bell dinged. “Ah! Penthouse Floor. Have a lovely stay.”

“Thank you…”

“The name’s Archibald, sir.”

“Thank you, Archibald.” Joe smiled and stepped out. Before him was an almost barren room. The blinds were closed, and the lights were off. The room was illuminated by a television set playing Ransom for A Dead Man. It revealed the all-white room, even the sofa and television set were white. There were no decorations, and the room was hardly furnished. Then, the sound of rain pattering down on the window broke the dulcet tones of Peter Falk. Joe rushed towards the curtain and pulled it open, revealing a large storm overhead. Rain was beating down on the city, and he smiled. Joe walked back towards the white sofa and sat down, drifting to sleep.

He awoke sometime later; the TV had stopped playing Columbo hours ago. The city lights from outside illuminated his room, and on the TV, he could see his reflection. Slouched back on the white sofa was a skinny man, no older than twenty-five. The man was clean-shaven and had dark hair, and even from within the depths of the television, his face distorted as it was, he could see the sadness in his eyes. He couldn’t remember why he was sad; he just was. And the last thing Joe concluded was that he looked nothing like a Joe Costello, the name wasn’t his—he was sure of it. But he had nothing else, so he clung to it. To have at least one thing he could call his was enough to maintain him for now. The material things surrounding him weren’t really his, were they? He had assumed this identity after all. But, even then, within his soul, within the essence of himself they felt like they belonged to him. His brain throbbed from the thought.

Joe pushed himself out of the chair and sauntered towards the television. He knelt and pushed the button; it flickered to life. A blue light bathed the sofa, and Joe slipped back into his seat. The TV flickered. For a moment, a woman’s face appeared. Joe jumped out of his seat, and again it appeared; he couldn’t make out the details. All he could see were red lips and blonde hair. He stayed standing for a moment; the TV fizzled and on it, Bruce Forsyth began introducing contestants on The Price is Right.

Joe shook his head and switched off the television. He was delirious. The day’s events had taken a toll on him. As Bruce’s face disappeared, the room reflected itself at Joe, and behind him, he could see a little girl with a red, heart-shaped balloon. But when he turned around, no one else was to be seen. He took a deep breath and checked his watch. Five A.M. and still dark out, he figured it must be late December or early January. In an instant, his vision faded, and he saw flashes from the past. Fireworks, a blonde hair girl, and liquor were all he caught before something dragged him back to reality.

Joe clutched his chest and limped towards the elevator. On the door was a scribbled note, which read:

I know who you are. Meet me. 8 pm, bar on St. Michael's Street.

Joe couldn’t catch his breath. The pressure within his mind continued to build and hit the elevator button. The memories that flooded him were dissipating fast. Who was that woman? Was she the one on the TV? What about that party, New Year's presumably? Joe figured someone had to know something. Maybe the girl with the balloon could help? Did she write the note? No one else could have. As he pondered this, the elevator slid open to reveal Archibald. “Going down, sir?” he said.

Joe stepped into the elevator and said, “Lobby, if you would.”

“Certainly.”

The two stood there in silence for a minute, until Joe said, “So, Archi, what brought you into this business?”

“There’s something satisfying about helping people who are lost.”

“My driver said something similar when he dropped me off—wait, you believe I’m lost?”

Archibald let out a thin smile. “If you don’t mind me saying, sir, you do seem extremely lost.”

“Tell me about it.” Joe laughed in an exhausted manner. The way one does not out of bemusement due to defeat. “Honestly, I don’t even know the date.”

“Are you feeling well?”

“If I’m being honest, I can’t remember anything.”

“Why would you divulge this to me, sir?”

“You just have a trustworthy face.”

“It’s because I’m a chimp, isn’t it?”

“What? No, I hardly noticed—”

“It was a joke, sir. Either way, today is the first of January 2023.”

The elevator came to a halt, and the doors slid open. “My stop. Thanks Archi.”

“Just a moment, if you don’t mind, sir,” Archibald said, walking out of the lift. “Perhaps I could come with you, show you around the city? Help with this memory issue?”

“You can’t just leave work, can you?”

“Oh this? This is a hobby. Come on now.” He walked past Joe and gestured for him to follow. “Hey, Genevieve.” He waved to the receptionist. “I’m off out.”

“Stay safe.” She waved to Joe. “If you want breakfast, I recommend the café just down the street. The hotel restaurant is under renovation.”

Joe jogged to catch up; the ape moved faster than expected. He ran out and looked up and down the street. Archibald was nowhere to be seen.

“Archi? Archibald!” His voice echoed across the empty streets, but no one returned the call. His guide disappeared and Joe didn’t feel as though he truly knew himself. The pressure within his mind had swollen so much that it was like a balloon had been inflated within; it was close to bursting.

Not being sure what to do, he decided the best idea would be to follow Genevieve’s suggestion and find the café. As he walked, he continued to yell out for Archibald, but as he did, the rain rolled in and his words were lost in the wind. He couldn’t hear himself over the pattering of rain. It pounded down, harder and harder. It obscured his vision, and he couldn’t see more than three feet in front.

Despite this, Joe was fine. The rain was warm and pleasant to the skin. As it enveloped him, depriving him of all senses, he felt at peace. But then, from the silence and within the grey void outside his vision, came the sound of music. Joe stood still. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was familiar. He stood, letting the rain drench his clothes; they were heavy. Cogs in his mind turned, and he stepped closer. Then another. Soon, he could hear a voice over the bass synth. It clicked. The song was Believe by Cher.

Joe shook his head. Tears ran down his cheeks and into his mouth; their salty taste was the only thing differentiating them from the rain. Wiping his face, he ran. As he did, the café broke into his vision, destroying the sense of deprivation. The music was coming from within but seemed more subdued and, as he entered, it had almost faded in its entirety. It played in the background, overridden by the bustle of conversation. The sweet scent of a buttery sweet coffee dancing up his nasal passage, accompanied by the soft cinnamon notes of a pastry. Taking it in, he figured the beans must have been sourced from Guatemala. When Joe first saw his reflection, he didn’t take himself for a coffee connoisseur, but he figured looks deceive—a fact proven as he approached the counter.

Behind it was a tall, well-built man. A man you’d expect to be cutting into a tree in a forest or cutting open wolves and saving grannies. But here he was, smiling and working at what looked to be a coffee shop.

“Hello,” the lumberjack said. “Can I get a name?”

“Sorry?” Joe was taken aback. The pressure continued to build within.

“Your name.” The man’s tone never strayed away from pleasant.

“But, why?”

“To mark your order. It’s just so no one else takes it by mistake.”

“But I know what mine is.”

“Aye, but no point taking that risk, is there? Just tell me who you are, and we’ll know what yours is.”

“I don’t…” Joe paused. He knew his name wasn’t Eric, nor was it Joe Costello. Was it? If anything, he was more Joe Costello than anyone else—it was all he had. He didn’t know who he was. Letting people assume you are someone is one thing, but pretending to be that person? How long does that last? How long until you are that person and no longer yourself? Joe didn’t know. He had no other identity and didn’t want to let go of what little he had. But also, he saw this as an opportunity. He could become anyone with any name. The name’s Lucian Ambrosius Everard. No, that’s ridiculous. Bruce Willis maybe?

“Are you okay?”

“What?” Joe shook his head.

“Are you okay? What’s your name?”

With that one simple question, the balloon within is mind burst. “Shut up,” Joe said. “Just shut up. Who cares who I am, Eric, Joe, Raphaël, Bruce? I don’t have to tell you anything, you’re just some guy. Leave me alone.” He ran out of the café.

As Joe ran to the door, a girl stood watching across the street. A red heart-shaped balloon hung above her, and she smiled. He pulled open the door, and she was gone. Joe ran across the street, to where she was once stood and looked around. On the floor was a small polaroid which displayed a couple; both of their faces were burnt out. But Joe could make out a man with brown hair and a blonde girl. Joe let his thumb fondle the Polaroid for several moments, before sliding it into his back pocket and heading back to his apartment.

When he arrived, the receptionists were gone. He drifted through the lobby and pondered on what had occurred. The poor barista didn’t deserve that, but the question was too much. What is my name? He thought. I towards the elevator. Soon it arrived and inside stood Archibald. “Archi!” Joe said. “What happened?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“We left, remember?”

“I never would have left my post.” His lips twitched into a forced smile.

“Are you okay?”

He paused, then pulled Joe in closer. “I shouldn’t have got involved. This is something you must do alone.”

“What? What do you know, Archi?”

The bell rang. “Penthouse!” Archibald said. “See you soon, sir.” With that, he ushered Joe out of the elevator and smiled as the doors shut.

The room had changed. Believe was playing, and Joe realised he enjoyed the song. The room, whilst still white, now had a desktop computer in the corner. It was switched on and its fans hummed beneath Cher’s pitch-shifted notes. On the monitor, a video game was booted, titled, Disco Elysium. The other recent addition was on the television; no longer was it condemned to play solely Columbo and late-night game shows. On it was a homebrew streaming service, which advertised Columbo, alongside all the Die-Hard movies. The time was in the corner of the television, and it read One Thirty in the afternoon.

Somewhere within Joe’s reptilian brain, synapses fired. He stepped back in fear. What was happening? The names he contemplated taking were here. He ran out towards the bedroom. Inside was a plain, white bed facing a bay window revealing the city skyline. In the distance, the sun was falling behind the skyscrapers, which now looked like the silhouette of a hand reaching out, trying to escape an earthy entombment. Joe checked his watch; it was now six in the evening.

“What the…” he muttered and looked to the bed, a suit had been lain out for him, with a note. Wear this x.

He got dressed and returned to the elevator. When the doors opened, inside was a small, bald man. He was so old that it was impossible to guess, anywhere from seventy to one hundred. The man smiled as Joe entered. “Going down?” he said.

“Where’s Archi?”

“Say again, my hearing ain’t what it used to be.” The man’s hands were shaking as he hit a button.

“The ape? Archibald?”

“An ape? As an elevator operative? Surely not.” The man shook his head in disapproval.

“I’m being serious. He was here just a few hours ago!”

“If you see an ape, you should call the zoo or something.”

“But he could talk!”

“I see what you’re doing. Very funny kid, it isn’t polite to prank the elderly.” The old man smiled as he spoke, and the bell rang. “Lobby!” he called out.

“One second, sir,” Joe said with as much politeness as he could muster. “Which way is it to St. Michael's Street?”

“Left when you leave, cross the street and head straight until you reach a crossroads. Then right.”

“Thank you.” Joe walked away, confused. What happened to Archibald? Whatever it was, he didn’t have time. He ran outside. He had to find this bar. Maybe it had the answers.

He was met with crisp air and empty streets; the lights of the city were off. In the silent darkness, the only sound came from Joe’s feet beating the concrete. He ran for twenty minutes, and soon he came across a sign for St. Michaels. Doubling over, he hyperventilated. He couldn’t remember the last time he ran, and then he laughed at the thought. He gave himself two minutes before standing straight. This street was like the others, apart from a neon sign in the distance. The words were hazy from where he stood, so he couldn’t make out the name, but it had to be the bar; nowhere else was open.

As he approached, the sign came into focus. In pink neon, it read: Claire’s Castle. Below the sign stood a bouncer. As Joe came closer, the man nodded and gestured for him to enter.

Something changed as he stepped through the door. The bar was of a higher class than it appeared. The lighting was dim, but warm. And within were red sofas, all of which were occupied by familiar faces. Mike was sitting with Genevieve and the other receptionist. The suited man from the train was here with the elderly elevator operative, and behind the bar was Archibald. Serving a drink to the barista Joe had fled from. For a moment, Joe and Archibald locked eyes; the ape shook his head and nodded towards the end of the bar. Standing there, alone, was the girl with the red balloon.

She smiled and gestured for Joe to approach. As he did, someone walked past him, and the scene shifted. The girl in the red balloon was gone. Replaced by a small table and two chairs. Sat down was the blonde-haired woman, the balloon in hand.

Joe sat opposite her, and she smiled. After several minutes, he broke the silence with, “Who are you?”

“Wow, straight to business.” Her voice was that of a child’s. “The better question is, who are you?”

“I’m—”

“Easy, no need to decide right now.”

“What?”

“Ask me another question. Humour me,” she said.

“Right… Where are we?”

“Come on. Look around and you’ll figure it out.”

Joe looked around the room and concentrated on the faces. Recognising no one, he shifted to the smell, and finally the sounds. As he did, the music faded into existence. Believe. “New Year’s Eve, 2022,” he said.

“Great work, detective.” A wry smile danced across her lips.

“Why are we here?”

“To find out who you are.”

“What about that other place?”

“Where do you think that was?”

Joe paused. Deep in his heart, he knew, but he had never accepted it. Even now, he couldn’t say it aloud. “Does that mean you’re…”

Her smile was sad. “You’re an interesting case. Before arriving, you were stripped of your memory. It took me a while, and some observing, but I figured out a way for you to take it back. All of it.”

“How?”

“Look. If you do this, there’s no going back. The pain of the past will haunt you. Forever. And you will live with it. Leave this memory, return to the city and you will enjoy a new existence, as someone without the weight of the past haunting them.”

“Say I leave and abandon my memories. What about my name?”

“Why do you care about a name?”

“That’s who I am.”

“Is it?” She cocked her head. “Have you ever heard of the ship of Theseus? The idea is, if you have a ship and over the years, you replace the parts. You change everything about it: the crew, the sails, the type of wood used for the stern. If all that is changed, is it still the same ship? Just the name remains unchanged. In my mind, the ship ceases to be when the crew is gone. Without them, the ship is simply a ship—no matter the construction.”

“But I’ve only lost my memories.”

“Your crew,” she said. “You’re just an empty vessel now.”

“Even without the crew, the ship still belongs to Theseus.”

“Does it? If an empty vessel is drifting across the sea, would you know which ship it is? Without the crew, there’s no identity. Without memory, you’re nobody. What are we, if not our experiences?”

“I don’t want to be nobody.”

“Then become someone new. You need to let go of the past; the name means nothing. I am giving you an opportunity to be someone else, to live a new, better life. You’re more Joe Costello than the man who walked into this bar on New Year’s Eve. If I tell you this other name, then it is meaningless without the memories to go with it.”

“But those memories are already leaking through. I can’t change who I am.”

“Are they? What if those flashes of memory are simply your brain attempting to fill in the gap? Your brain reached into its depths and pulled out what it could. The name Eric?” She paused. “Just a Pratchett novel.”

“What? I must have reached out to that for a reason.”

“Do you remember anything about it? Do you like it? Maybe you hate it. You don’t know, your brain just took what it could. It knows Columbo exists and decided you like it. Storms? Everyone loves them.”

“But why? Surely I’d remember nothing if I didn’t care for them?”

She sighed. “Without something for your consciousness to spring from, you’d be a philosophical zombie. Yes, your body would continue as normal, but you. A conscious individual. You’d be nothing. It saved you. And you should know that creating a personality on the fly isn’t easy, and memory is such a fickle mistress; most memories from childhood are not real. They’re events created by your brain based on the anecdotes of those around you.”

“What are my options, then?”

“You can relive this night and spend the rest of your time holding on. Or you can leave and continue living as Joe Costello. A fresh start. That’s what you wanted. That’s how you got here.”

“Will I see these people again?”

“Only if you stay. But then, you won’t want to.”

Joe looked back towards the doorway. From it came the warm, welcoming light of Claire’s Castle. He couldn’t see anything within the orange haze. Having decided, he looked back toward the woman; she was gone. In her place was the little girl, her red balloon slipped out of her hand, clinging to the ceiling. Joe stood and took one last look around the room. At the faces, which he realised now meant nothing to him. He approached the door and leaned against the doorframe.

Without looking back, Joe Costello smiled before letting go.

Jordon Jones has a MA Creative Writing and a BA in History from the University of Lincoln. He is originally from the northern town of Warrington, and his passion for storytelling started young.

The Word's Faire . 6/21/24 The Word's Faire . 6/21/24

An Autumn Grave

Cole Moore is a queer writer from Georgia. He aspires to capture the human experiences and tragedies of existence that have haunted and framed his life.

An Autumn Grave

His eyes opened to the sound of cicadas; their discordant melody celebrated their brief existence in this world. The low crackled groan of meandering frogs added harmony to the shrill trill of the lonely katydids. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the looming oak trees, scattering the soft rays across the forest floor. He watched the way this brilliance peaked through the dark cracks and burnt the autumn colors. Orange turned to gold, and gradients of brown were painted across the dead leaves. Rust-colored pine straw glittered like threads of molten bronze as they intertwined into a thick blanket across the ground. There was something infinite about this moment. Allen felt like he could lose himself in it, and there was a chance that if he did, no one would ever find him. He could disappear right there as if he had never existed at all.

As a blackbird lifted into the air, calling obnoxiously as it went, tears clouded his vision.

“Why?”

His voice was soft. Quiet. Allen could barely recognize that he had spoken — the rustle of dry leaves and the low howl of the November wind had stolen the sound. If it hadn’t been for the dull feeling of his jaw moving or the dry, chapped corners of his lips touching together, he would have thought that the forest had hushed him. Silenced him. With their long, gnarled limbs stretching towards the sky, the trees swallowed him whole. There was a dull ache in his chest – a soft throbbing as he tried to piece himself together. What am I crying for? No reply came to his question. The wind only rustled through the leaves and momentarily shifted thinner branches. Allen lay in the shade and stared up at the spaces between each leaf. With the slow awakening of his consciousness, he tried to remember where he was or why he was there. Alone. Where am I? Everything around him was beautiful, still and serene, in its quiet stasis. Yet, the repose bordered on alien. The cold earth beneath him and the tiny grains of dirt between his fingers. The light and the shadows it cast, and the distant march of the abstract clouds in the sky. It was all too perfect – too harmonious. There was no one else in the lonely forest, nor any tracks or trails. For as long as he could see, there were simply rows of trees, their limbs, and an outstretched of leaves across the floor.

But something pulled at him – a gentle urge beckoned him forward through the uneven rows of limbs and fallen leaves. The ground beneath his feet as he stood felt foreign and his feet felt weightless. He followed the feeling, unaware of himself, until Allen stood in the shadow of a decrepit brick building outlined by the light of what seemed like a never-ending morning. The pale, white walls were harsh against the autumn background. Disjointed. It was as if God had simply discarded it there – careless and haphazard. If the house had ever been occupied, the signs barely showed. Even from a distance, the weathered marks of age could be seen sketched across the surface. Vines had sprouted from the ground and nestled in the cracks between the bricks and concrete that had once perfectly secured their placement. Thin tendrils stretched across the walls like capillary veins, while small leaves plastered themselves against the lead paint.

The house had never looked so old before.

But I know this place. In his memories, Allen could vaguely imagine it, though the image was fragmented. When the panicked thrash of his body had succeeded in pushing the blindfold upwards, enough that his eyes stung from the sudden influx of light, the house had appeared horrifically normal. The paint had been white then, pure like a sheet of paper, as he glimpsed it from the back seat window.

Allen took a breath.

He crossed the overgrown grass. The passage of time had enabled it to grow tall and lick at the upper edges of the foundation. It swayed gently as he passed, bending ever so slightly to allow him to draw closer. The leaves kissed his hands and arms, grazing against his skin as if their comforting touches could ease the ache in his chest. Allen smiled, ever-so-slightly, as the echoes of the past drifted by with the faint brush of the wind.

***

With the sunlight beaming down on him and gently warming every inch of his uncovered skin, Allen remained on the verge of falling asleep. He had been so tired. Exhausted. The subtle summer breeze brushed through the grass, rustling the blades and kissing his skin. He took a slow, quiet breath and smiled at the smell of warm biscuits and freshly melted sugar in the air. She must be nearly done baking. Allen felt the slightest hint of guilt. He had meant to help his grandmother finish the desserts, but the temptation to lie on the grass and enjoy the prolonged nothingness had been too convincing. He rarely got to relax. With every light, shallow breath, his consciousness slipped from his bones, stealing the tension from his overworked limbs. His mind drifted away, revolving slowly as the world gently spun on its axis.

A warm, hard weight smacked against his face.

Then, another.

What is it now? Allen debated whether to define its properties – if he opened his eyes, he could see whatever projectile decided to rupture his descent into peace. Or I can just let it go and try to sleep.

Crumbs fell on his face, pattering his skin like grains of sand. Above him, a voice giggled.

“Sugar rain!”

“I thought you were helping Grandma,” Allen sighed and reached up to brush the morsels from his face, “Or bothering the dogs.”

“I’m feeding the birds.”

He opened his eyes, lazily looking up at the sharp, shark-toothed grin plastered on his sister’s face. In her hands, the remains of freshly baked biscuits were pulverized between her fingers. A lump of biscuit fell from her hands, bouncing off Allen’s nose and rolling into the dirt.

“I don’t think any birds plan on eating breadcrumbs off my face, Laura.”

She frowned and shrugged. With a fistful of biscuits, she pulled her hand back and launched it into the distance. Closing his eyes, Allen settled back into the dirt.

He relished in the silence — then let out a pained grunt as a heavy weight dropped onto his stomach.

“Laura!”

“I wish we could stay here forever.”

Allen looked at her, the annoyance replaced by concern. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat and covered with stray crumbs. But she smiled, silent for once, relaxing in a way Allen had never seen. Reaching up, he brushed away the bits of biscuit from her face.

“I know.”

Laura looked down at him, her blue eyes iridescent in the sunlight. She shifted, settling her weight more comfortably on Allen, and smacked her hand across his chest. With each swat, he winced as the crumbs flew into the grass.

“If you could stay anywhere forever, where would you stay?”

He thought for a moment then stared up at the clear, endless sky of blue, “Somewhere sunny — quiet, but with lots of places to go.”

“Sounds boring, I’d want to stay in space.”

Allen snorted, shaking his head, and closed his eyes. He felt Laura move and sucked in a sharp breath as her elbow jabbed his neck. Her hair fell into his eyes. But as she laid her head on his chest, he smiled.

The silence returned, for a moment, until she softly whispered, “Or with you, I wouldn’t mind staying with you.”

***

Laura.

More tears gathered in the corner of his eyes.

Where was she? The surrounding forest was soundless – a perfect paragon of abandoned tranquility, but the loneliness felt suffocating. With silent steps, he climbed up the cracked stairs, careful not to crush the dandelions that grew from between the jagged gap of stone. Age had not made them kinder. Their rough concrete surfaces, which had once ripped through his skin, were covered in flakey mint-colored lichen. As he reached the rough, wooden patio, Allen paused for a moment. The pads of his fingers curled up into his palm, while his eyes glanced at the top right corner of the last step.

Some unknown part of him recognized it.

Without seeing through the haze obscuring his memory, Allen knew the final step was the one that had hurt the most. The memory returned to him quietly. He felt sickened, disturbed that his mind simply accepted – the fact that his head had been bashed into the stone. Over and over again. He had been punished for the strangled screams in his throat and the rugged effort he had made to break free. Allen reached up and rubbed at his temple. The images in his mind felt invasive – unfamiliar. Were the memories even his? He felt the wispy strands of his hair, searching, but the soft, caramel locks were no longer flattened by blood. There was no wound, but the memory played with a distant viscerality. It felt familiar. He touched his head again. There was nothing, but the press of his fingers to cold skin couldn’t ease the phantom ache. He could feel the ghost of hands intertwining through his hair, pulling and tearing as they dragged him along. But, like a twisted joke, the marks were gone as if they had never existed at all. Why can’t I remember? Allen ran his hands through his hair and mapped every inch of his uncovered skin. He tried to find evidence of the abuse. Somewhere. Anywhere.

Nothing.

Allen closed his eyes. The reminiscent ghost of bruised bone beneath torn skin and clots of dried blood replayed in his head. His hands clenched, tightly squeezing their calloused skin. The air felt thick and heavy in his lungs. Fear, like needles beneath the surface of his skin, pricked every inch of his arms. Nausea rolled inside his stomach; his muscles squeezed until it hurt to breathe.

Here, hold my hands and squeeze. Just try to breathe again, okay? I’m right here, Laura.

His heart thundered in his chest, beating against his ribs, and he choked on the air. The world felt faint, distant and ephemeral, like it could crumble into dust at any moment. Breathe. He tried to picture Laura. Her soft, chubby cheeks and her stubby fingers. The ladies in church teased her, their soft voices poking fun at the way fat was distributed across her body, but she was perfect. Happy. Allen wanted to see her smile and feel her small hands touch his own again. He missed her – her baby eyes and curly hair. They had matching caramel strands and a splatter of freckles across their noses. The same sharp teeth, though Allen’s peaked more visibly from his lips, but it reminded him of their mother anyway. They both loved a little too much and cried a little too hard when the world in their head caved in.

Why am I here?

Allen looked back up at the broken door. Mold had eaten away at the frame, splintering and bending the weathered wood as the metal hinges that held it in place melded from bronze to brown. He tried to see himself in the yellowed remnants of the glass windows held by the doorframe.

But the face of someone else flashed by.

Sharp teeth, carnivorous canines. Brilliant blue eyes, and calloused dirty hands. Long, blonde hair pulled into a tight, unwashed ponytail. A recollection of the smell of sweat stuck to his skin. Breath that reeked of rotten eggs and cheap whiskey.

Allen blinked, and the fragmented memory vanished. A thick layer of dust and grime was all that remained. A slow, sickening feeling of dread washed over him. In the distance, a crow sang a low, mournful sound. The face, like a piece of a stained-glass window, flittered through his memory. Disconnected. A fraction of a whole that remained close — Allen could almost recall it — but still unrecoverable.

As the wind brushed against his arms, he fell to his knees on the stairs. His heart stuttered in its rapid rhythm. The face, a blurry momentary glimpse, remained vivid behind his eyes. From the depths of his subconscious, a low, hushed voice whispered.

What would your sister say if she could see you like this?

***

Light pierced through the beige curtains, cutting through the thick blankets of dust. Small, shimmering particles danced in the light as they spiraled down inside the warm beam. Burns were scattered like water droplets across the floor. Small piles of yellowed powder and pebbles of debris had clumped in corners of the room beneath low, curving dips in the ceiling and tattered holes where the wood had been broken through. Mold licked at the countertops. Rusted forks and spoons were haphazardly strewn beside the sink. Loose papers and notecards, spotted red from the years of abandonment, were limply rested on the slanted remains of a wooden table. Some were taped across the yellowing surface of a fridge that sank downwards through the dip in the softening linoleum.

With the lightest ghost of a touch, Allen ran his fingers across the countertop as he passed through the room. Funny, how easily something ages when people forget it’s there. Carefully, he moved around the small piles of debris and broken plates. He glanced at the writing on the table, disturbed piles of letters intermingled with the remnants of folded newspapers. Time had faded their ink, while evaporated water had painted a murky black ocean over the wide, cursive words strung together with elegant, looping curls.

Allen eyed it wearily.

The same neat, looping handwriting had been printed on the letter he was given, and Allen had taken it as a sign of authority and opportunity. How could he not? His name had been so prettily scrawled across the top of the letter. The man had smiled so brightly when he squeezed Allen’s shoulder, promising him that it would be a chance at a new life. Jeremy Wessan treated Allen like he was special. When he saw the cuts and bruises on Allen’s arm, he bandaged and iced them himself. You remind me of my son – you’re a good kid. Allen preened himself on the affection. Desperate. The cash inside the folded envelope was enough to afford ice cream and the cost of Laura’s therapy appointments. Jeremy promised him that he’d be back before nine each night. If he took it and budgeted his month’s paycheck, Allen was certain he could afford to buy the light, rose-colored bunny that Laura had eyed so greedily as they walked home from the grocery store.

He had wanted to give her something new — something soft and good.

Turning away, Allen abandoned the kitchen. He walked through the wide opening, stepping with silent footfalls on the dark, molded rug. Jackets, shirts, and pants were thrown in large piles in the adjacent room. Their limp cotton limbs fell to the ground and stretched towards abandoned plastic toys, books, and magazines beyond their reach. Cobwebs clung to the spaces between the scratched furniture and the cream-colored walls. Layers of paint peeled and fell in little flurries of white specks to the floor. Against the furthest wall, a grand piano basked in the sunlight beside a plaid sofa. Pulled by an invisible string, Allen moved towards the bright beacon of light. He placed himself in front of the piano and studied it, noticing the places where the once-glossy finish had been scratched off. Slowly, he reached out to touch the long, discolored scratches across the cover.

He smiled.

His fingernails scraped the surface, retracing their marks. Allen had always told Laura that if she were in trouble to use her nails. Rip them to shreds darlin’ and don’t you ever fuck stop. Splatters of blood had stained the couch, forming a dark cloud over the parallel stripes of brown, red, and beige. The dent in the wall had never been patched. Cobwebs hung from the splintered wood and a spider had crafted her web within the hole. Fingernail marks were stretched across the base of the piano. Allen glanced at the low-cut cuticles of his nails.

The blood was gone from beneath them now.

He closed his eyes. Why am I here? He received no reply. What’s the point of all this? There’s nothing here anymore, no one is here. An answer still didn’t come. All that was left in Allen’s head was a memory — the trembling fear as his fingers swept across the piano keys, relying on muscle memory to push him on.

Jeremy Wessan said he was a businessman from Idaho.

It had been a lie.

Allen’s arms trembled as he played. The large looming shadow of a man cast above him, an ax peeking out in the corners of his vision. As the song came to a close, thunderous laughter and shouts intermingled with the deep chords of a sonata in F minor. Roughly, a hand had slapped his back.

Faster.

Allen’s fingers had been frantic.

Faster – come on!

Light droplets of blood had been left on the keys.

Come on, boy! Play it louder — let me hear it!

He had never allowed himself to cry even as the tears gathered in his eyes.

That’s it, glory hallelujah — keep it going, boy, I’ll lop your fuckin’ head off! Come on, faster!

Laura had always loved it when Allen played for her. She would sit on the bench beside him and lean, her hands neatly folded in her lap as she watched him. It was rare when Allen would have time, he could only play for her when their father was gone, and Allen had to take multiple shifts at the bar downtown. But, when the opportunity came, he tried to entertain her — the music seemed to calm her constant anxiety. As she listened, her eyelids would flutter shut and Allen would feel the weight of her head against his side. Sometimes, Laura would sleepily mumble aloud, reminding him that she liked the sound.

He had wanted to teach her to play one day.

***

Allen missed his mother. Desperately. The hole in his soul was large and aching, and it was shaped like her. Though she had been gone for years, he could still conjure hazy memories of her. Her bright, wide sharp-toothed smile. The way she laughed like a lion roared, and the roll of her eyes when she reminded everyone that she couldn’t care less of what any man thought of her for it. Sometimes, Allen would list the things he remembered or knew. She smelled like chamomile and lavender. Her favorite color was gold, and she thought dresses were nicer than skirts. Her parents hadn’t been able to afford to send her to college, but she learned piano and made a living playing in bars. They died in a car accident, but she told everyone that she could hear their voices singing loudly when she slammed her fingers down on the keys to play hymns for the church. Everyone said she moved like she was possessed when she sat at a piano. Allen’s mother had married at nineteen, given birth once at twenty, again at twenty-five, and then vanished a month later.

No one knew where she had gone.

Allen looked like his dad, and Laura looked like someone completely different. They both smiled and laughed like their mother, but Laura was short, tan, and prone to outbursts. If Allen wasn’t there, she could break into a screaming fit and choke on her spit until she vomited on the floor. A lot of people had things to say about it all to him — theories and speculations about his father’s alcoholism, his mother’s disappearance, and Laura.

None of it mattered.

We’re made from the same blood and bones. Laura had his mother’s eyes and her warmth. She smelled like chamomile and talcum powder, and she would raise her hand to ask the preacher in church if anyone had heard from God yet, or if he was still missing like her mother. Always unaware of the way people looked at her and the things they would say.

Allen loved her. How could he not? She was all he had left of his mother – the only thing that could fill the space in his chest that had only seemed to grow with every passing year. He would have done anything for her, and he did everything he could to protect her. When their father came home, a bottle in his hand and demanding to know where the little monster was hiding, Allen hid her in a closet. He took the punches for her and cleaned up the blood – his father’s and his own – so she didn’t worry.

Laura deserved to be happy.

Looking down, he stared at the chains on the floor. They lay limp on the floor, their surfaces rusted brown and orange. Dried blood discolored the concrete floor. A pillow remained discarded on a pile of sheets. Light, yellow stains intermingled with dark, black spots of mold. A red plastic bucket sat in the corner of the room. Black water remained stagnant within it, and the smell of urine was thick. In the air, the scent mixed with mold, mildew, and decay. It was a putrid, rotten odor, and it fought for dominance against the damp, earthy air.

Allen breathed it in. His eyelids shut and his head tilted back. He asked himself the question again, though he knew he didn’t have an answer and there was no one else that did.

Why am I here?

In chunks, the gaps filled themselves in — the outline of the sketch finally colored in by some unknown force of nature. A knee pressed painfully into his back, digging into the bruises where a baseball bat had been repeatedly smashed against his skin. The quick electric jolt as a sharp knife split the skin of his shoulder blades, and the searing burn as it tried to push through the tough muscle beneath. Night after night, Allen pissed himself. The smell of vomit and urine was suffocating, but the feeling of it on his skin was nauseating. He screamed. Prayed. At first, he begged God, and then he pleaded with whoever might hear. Please, someone. I don’t want to die here – I want to go home. He had cried for his mother —for anyone, even though no one could hear him.

Mama.

He didn’t know why he had thought she might save him — maybe she was dead herself.

And now, as he stood in the quiet little underground room, his fingers twitched, aching as if they were still suffering. A raggedy, pink stuffed bunny sat on a table, accompanied by rusted tools – saws, hammers, and dozens of nails. The beady, lifeless black eyes watched him. Allen stumbled forward and fell to the floor in front of it, he reached out to touch it and felt the soft fabric against his fingertips. He tried to grab it and hold it close, desperate to find any comfort as the damp walls closed around him, but the bunny didn’t move.

Why was he here?

There was no point. The lonely little house had been abandoned for years — left to rot and collapse in on itself. Time would steal it away. In years or decades, there would be nothing left except stone and fragments of a memory that would never be pieced together.

And nothing would change, none of it would ever matter.

Allen was dead, and he would still be dead decades later. His body would stay in the dirt beneath a tree. An unknown grave among an endless collage of brown limbs and vibrant leaves. No one would ever know where he went. Allen had disappeared, vanishing as if he never existed at all. The bunny remained limp and lifeless – an undelivered gift. A broken promise. Allen stared into its eyes and sniffled as he started to cry.

This shouldn’t have happened, not to us – not after everything we’ve been through.

The final pieces of his life returned to him.

***

Allen raced towards the decrepit home. The front door, weakly clinging to its hinges, was left ajar and it slammed against the wall as Allen barreled inside. Please don’t let it be too late. He offered a quick prayer to God. Navigating through the collapsed piles of newspapers, he gracefully avoided the pools of broken glass and battered, overturned furniture.

“I’ll fucking kill you!”

In the small space of their living room, his father stood hulking – heaving large, stuttering breaths as he looked around wildly. His hands wrapped tightly around a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. He raised it.

Laura screamed.

“Don’t fucking touch her!”

Their bodies collided, smashing into each other. Allen’s chest heaved and ached. Hands turned into fists, and the living room became a boxing ring. Bruised skin. Busted lips. Broken porcelain plates, their intricate patterns cracking and dismantling like a torn-up puzzle box set as Allen collided with every table, cabinet, and chair in the room. The smell of cigarettes and beer was suffocating as his face was pressed against the carpet, his father’s hands around his throat. Blood dripped from his nose. His ribs burned.

“Stop it – stop fighting!”

Laura shouted. Her voice wavered weakly – stuttering and warbling like a baby canary. The weight lifted off Allen. He coughed, gasping for breath. His head spun. An ache beneath his eye throbbed as he tried to blink. Droplets of blood stained the beige carpet, and it joined a growing pool of brandy. The bottle of Jack Daniels sat beside him.

“Please – I’m sorry. Please, don’t be mad!”

Reaching out, Allen grabbed it. He felt the lingering warmth on the glass. Behind him, the thunder of his father’s voice was growing louder with every passing second. It filled his ears, buzzing like a hurricane of flies as the world spun and swayed.

“You should have never been born! You ruined our –”

The sound of breaking glass and a heavy thump silenced the living room. Laura whimpered, and Allen stumbled back. He fell to the floor next to his father. They stared at him, lying limp on the ground. For a moment, there was peace – a sudden, undisturbed quiet.

Laura cried and threw herself into Allen. Her small, stubby arms wrapped around his neck and the wet warmth of snot from her nose smeared against his neck, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“It’s okay,” Allen hushed her and pulled her close, “I’m right here. I’ll always be here; I won’t ever leave you alone.”

He made it a promise.

***

“I’ll fucking kill you!”

A hand grabbed his jaw. The fingertips dug into the bruises there, forcing Allen to look at him. Their eyes locked. He tried to hold himself steady, but the hot stub of a cigarette pressed against his cheek. It seared against his skin. A deep, aching pain.

“I love a good fight; I can’t wait to see you try.”

A deep, grumbling laugh rattled through his head. Then, the cigarette dropped. Fingers tangled in his sweaty, unwashed hair.

“You ain’t ever gonna get outta here boy – I could bury your little ass beneath the dirt right now and not a single soul would ever know. Not your father. Not your sister. God himself wouldn’t even know where to start lookin’.”

The chains rattled loudly as his head collided with the concrete floor. Once. Twice. Again and again, Allen’s head was bashed against the unforgiving ground. His bones cracked, loudly crunching as his nose was broken. Then, the pale blue eyes were meeting his own again. Blood dripped steadily from Allen’s nose. His vision blurred and swarmed. For a moment, he thought he would die.

A wet tongue ran across his jaw, licking away the blood.

“But you don’t care, do you? I like that about you. You’ve got a little fight in you. What would your sister say if she could see you like this?”

His heart froze. Three days ago, Allen had promised Laura that he would be back before nine. Through the haze of his spotted vision, he saw the limp corpse of a pink bunny. It lay on the floor surrounded by a pool of blood. Lips pressed against his aching jaw. A mouth clumsily moved across his skin, kissing it with a mocking tenderness. Offering a silent prayer, Allen hoped that this time God would answer. He snapped his head up and bit down, a metallic taste filling his mouth.

He was going to wash the bunny once he got home.

***

Laura smiled sadly. Her arms tightened around the small, tiny frame and she pulled her daughter close to her chest. Pressing a kiss to her temple, she inhaled the soft smell of lavender and sighed, “He just never came back. I don’t know why he left, but I’m sure that no matter where he is right now, he’d be happy to meet you.”

“Where do you think he went?”

“I don’t know, baby,” Laura sighed as she spoke, but her eyes lingered for a moment on the coffee table beside them. Beneath a pile of TIME Magazines, a newspaper article peaked out. Time had worn away its vibrant colors, but the blink ink on the front remained – legible and clear. The headline was simple: FORTY YEARS LATER, THE TOTAL NUMBER OF VICTIMS REMAIN UNKNOWN.

“I just hope he’s okay – wherever he is.”

Cole Moore is a queer writer from Georgia. He aspires to capture the human experiences and tragedies of existence that have haunted and framed his life.

The Word's Faire . 6/20/24 The Word's Faire . 6/20/24

Biopic Pre-Production Item

Samuel Bollen is a writer living in Los Angeles. His work has previously appeared in Grattan Street Press and Running Wild Press.

Biopic Pre-Production Item

The house contains a dizzying blend of decorative styles, with art and furniture pulled from the latest Instagram retro fads. Here an egg chair from the 60’s, there an art deco lamp. The carpet is red velvet, several times thicker than the carpet the diva has walked several times already in her budding acting career.

He finds it charming. It tells him she has not hired a decorator, that she picked the pieces herself. A bit of that small town charm still remains. She is not yet a product—not completely, anyway.

He passes posters for the pop starlet’s first few feature films. Musical, remake, sex comedy. A bit part in a megafranchise.

It’s a promising start to acting after the success of her second album. He’s a fan.

But the balance sheets have been run, and he’s been called. The next movie will be her biggest yet–but she won’t be in it. He loves movies, he hates movies. They’re all the same. Each time you hope you’ll see something new. Each time you’re disappointed. But the hope remains.

Now he’s a part of the problem. A fixer for the studio. He makes sure things go according to plan. Exactly according to plan. He’s the one who makes sure things never change.

The carpet muffles his footsteps as he reaches the door.

She lounges in a Victorian fainting chair, scrolling on her phone. A plate of chips sit on the floor, mostly as a prop, he thinks. But maybe not. Maybe her relatable girl image extends to junk food on breaks between red carpet appearances. The room, gazing out over her swimming pool and garden, reminds him strangely of Scarface.

“Oh, you can go home for the day.”

Then she sees the gun.

“Take whatever you want. Just leave me alone.”

“It’s okay. I work for the studio.”

“Oh. What do you want?” She sits up, wrapping her vintage nightgown around herself.

Reflexively, he feels sorry for seeing her like this. Defenseless. Minimal makeup, half-naked. She doesn’t have her armor on. But that’s why he’s here.

“I’ve got good news and bad news.”

“What’s the good news?”

“The good news is that you’re going to be a bigger star than you ever imagined.”

“What’s the bad news?”

He waggles the gun at her.

“But I’ve done everything they’ve told me, haven’t I? I’ve been good.”

She has. She’s fulfilled every request, bounced from pageant queen to child actor to teen pop sensation, and back to acting. She’s hit every career milestone with ease. But there’s a new scheme.

“I know. And you were good at it, too.” He walks up, grabs one of the chips off the plate.

“Do you mind?”

She shakes her head. Her eyes dart to the double glass doors overlooking the pool and garden. The first attempt is coming soon.

“For what it’s worth, I’m a fan.”

“Oh, great.”

“The thing is, the studio ran the numbers. And they think you’d be great in a biopic.”

“About who?”

“You don’t understand.” He finishes chewing. The plate lies forgotten by the couch.

“You’re the subject.”

“They want to make a movie about me?” She’s flattered.

“Well, here’s the problem. You’re not dead yet.”

She runs to the balcony doors–but he’s there first, snaking his arm around her and depositing her back on the couch, almost gently.

“My manager will hear about this.”

“She knows. She’ll get her percentage.”

She wriggles. He holds her down, gun point-blank.

“I’m gonna give you a choice. Either you can be murdered by a mystery killer, Black Dahlia style. Nothing wrong with that. It just doesn’t test as well.”

Another futile spasm.

“Or, and I hope you’ll like this one better–because it’ll be less painful for you and better for the movie–tragic overdose. A problem nobody knew you had.” It also means a bonus for him, but he leaves that part out.

“I have one question.”

“Anything.”

“Who’s gonna play me?”

“There are a few stars in the running...”

Suddenly, he’s stunned, and no longer sees her on the couch in front of him. China shards and nachos fall around him. At first, he thinks he’s seeing stars. Then he remembers the plate of chips.

He turns sluggishly. She’s gotten the doors open and stands on the balcony.

“Don’t.”

She jumps.

Son of a bitch. This isn’t the ending he had planned. The studio, either.

He advances to the balcony, gun drawn.

She’s twisted her ankle, not quite making the jump to the pool. She hobbles to the edge of her garden. It would be trivial to hunt her down now.

He raises his pistol. A silenced round shivers the leaves by her leg. Another busts the ear off a faux-Renaissance bust by her head.

Maybe he’s slipping. Maybe he pulled his shots.

He itches his head with the silencer, then presses it against his temple. It’s only a matter of time before the police find him, or worse, the studio.

Or maybe...

He’s got enough money saved up. Not for Hollywood. But maybe somewhere quieter. Enough old connections to secure an exit. If she can have a new ending, maybe he can too.

She reaches the hedge by the edge of the property. Looking up, she tries to figure a way to climb, wondering why she let the gardeners grow it so high.

As she thrusts her hands into the tearing thorns and prepares to climb, the second unit steps out from behind a hedge. He can snap her neck easily, like a 10-pound cable crossover.

Black Dahlia it is.

The second fixer will get the bonus as he does it, too–and likely report the first for his incompetence. The fixer raises his pistol once again.

It’s a clean shot. The starlet shudders as brains Jackson Pollock the leaves in front of her.

The second unit falls into the hedge, perfectly domed. Fly high, little birdie, he thinks. For all of us.

She begins to climb.

Samuel Bollen is a writer living in Los Angeles. His work has previously appeared in Grattan Street Press and Running Wild Press.