‘The Home I Love’, ‘Still Life’ & ‘A Message to the Giants’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Home I Love

Everything looks like

Western Pennsylvania to

The traveler from

Western Pennsylvania, so

He believes he has

Seen the world.

It is as if he

Is pursued by an endless

Sea of relatives,

And the dangers of

Distant lands are only those

Reflected in his

Sunglasses. So he is lost

Among identical roads.

Still Life

Center: chowder in

A fat, white bowl, bits of fish

Cut in sluices lumped

Over the pale lip;

Left: a folded corner of

The tablecloth, that

Deep, speckled blue the

Color of unbroken waves;

Right: the slab of bread

Slathered with cream-gold

Butter, long lines laid across

Its crusted hillside.

A Message to the Giants

Play leapfrog across

Lake Erie, if you have to;

If the Ohio

Is not enough. Step

Side to side, one country to

The next, but be sure

To account for homes

Along the way. No-one likes

To be woken up

By an ecstatic

Big toe squashing the bedroom,

Let alone the death.

But I doubt you can hear me,

Your airplane eyes coasting from

Cloud to cloud, your golden hair

Growing, careless, unchained, and

My voice as small as it is.

Caleb Haas is an emerging poet from the Pittsburgh area, working on his first chapbook: "One to Another".

‘All the Times One Wanted to Walk Away’ & ‘Burial Rites’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

All the Times One Wanted to Walk Away

In Vienna, you thought it too profound to say love me.
Of our divine inferno, as you called it, I loved
being its prisoner and your beautiful disregard
of it: your reprimands lingering in the air’s orange perfume,
my soft weeping the lullaby to which you fell asleep,
your thundering snores the denouement of our evening.

The banisters sang songs of philos for the descent of
Eros: the mahogany reddened like my lipstick pigment
and the steps creaking in coital harmonies.
When you scoffed yet descended the stairs after it.

On the hotel veranda we shared breakfast—
colazione, you ameliorated—
my love ever as hot as the mocha espresso,
as tempting as spreading all the gianduja cream
atop my biscuits, leaving none for you.

When I twirled the knife in the juice
of the jar, replaying our joust of yesternight, pleading:
Darling, do not forget I am your mosque;
Let the horrors nesting in Past’s loins be our charm,
Let them mature into things you love: cherries, boutiques.
Venture! Let us organisms dance in the aggrandizement.

Then, Venice—how their servants welcomed you,
thinking you a crucifer imported, a blessing from Karlskirche!
when you are merely a postulant, rendered immobile
in your waiting to secure my love,
my approval dangling before your tongue.

Our voyage along the Venetian lagoon
where I collected stolen glances from the gondolier,
my pulse thumping like its rudder when
your possessive grasp landed on my neck,
held as you doused my cheek with a smacker.

Oh, all the times one wanted to walk away!
Though I am rendered defenseless like the Simonists
of Dante’s Hell plunged into the ground, their feet ablaze,
just as my heart is afire for your wiles and you.

Burial Rites

It begins when home soil is raided,
the reminder that no earthly dwelling is safe
from infiltration. Inundating Rain storms the
barracks of root and clay until all organisms are
flushed out. And when the bodies of so many
worms are lined up for execution on the cobblestone
crematorium, the mocking sun doing its worst,
they are granted no urn save for the trapping labyrinths
of shoe soles. And when passersby do trample and stomp
on and past the massacred and the still-writhing displaced,
unsure if it is the rain or the worm to blame for the littered
pathway—they were not outside during the storm, after all—
the grass blades shake from the shock of slaughter and plead,
if anyone is listening above, may He remove the Worm Crushers’
hearts of stone and give them hearts of flesh! so that
someone may look upon the site in horror and extend the courageous hand
that will transport the worms to Sod, will dig graves of flower petal
and dirt for their home burial, and will not stop, despite scornful stares
of onlookers, until each corpse has met its proper resting place.

Blake Harrsch is a poet corporeally in New Jersey with a writer’s heart determined to capture stories beyond temporal bounds. She is an English Literature Master's candidate and writing instructor at Seton Hall University. @blakeharrsch, blakeharrsch.com.

The Burning Man

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Burning Man

Up on a hill, in a lonely forgotten part of this strange place there stands a man. He is not a good man, nor a particularly bad one, but he is a tall man; so tall his shadow stretches to the boundary of this strange history park. He’s stood here before, many times in fact. He’s stood here in the rain and the sun, with the biting chill of the winter wind against his cold cheeks. He’s stood here looking down at them: the people in coats and warm scarves; the women and children with their faces painted blue, yellow and red; and the men in such peculiar armour. It’s an odd sight to look at, this show they perform for him ...this spectacle of human audacity.

They do it for him, each year they come in their hundreds, carrying their baskets of food and warm drinks for when the night’s frost starts to creep in. Every year the soldiers come down from their encampment – their armour is strange and metallic; their tunics are made of red thread and if one were to lift up the faces of these strange actors, one might notice a uniform scar under each chin. As if the straps of their helmets were not formed to keep a human skull from harm at all. There are others down on the field, men and women in bright coloured cloths of yellow, and blue, and brown. The only metal these phantoms wear is around their arms, huge bands of gold that loop like dragons around their too pale flesh. The man remembers them all as he looks back down onto that empty field before him: he remembers how their clothes flailed in the wind as they faced each other. Romans...Romans and Celts they named themselves as they rattled their spears, and their shields and screamed at one another. And all the while the man looked on, unafraid because none of this was real – it was all just a play. These were not real soldiers, these were not real Romans or Celts, these were players, dolls in the game before him. The other people knew it too, the people in chairs off to the side – it’s all a game, no one dies in this battle today. A brief show for the onlookers while they wait for night to
come. This is how it’s always been, all this time the man has stood here under the stars – this has always been his role in their game. He has stood here before, in many different bodies: sometimes he’s tall and shapely like a woman, sometimes he is short, his body square and as unnatural as this whole night must look. It’s always this hill he stands on when it happens, when the crowd gather, and they come. They come with their torches, and their lighters and they gather at his feet...at his large wicker made feet.

‘Alright,’ cries the false Roman. ‘Who wants to see him burn?’

Every year the crowd screams back to him, and everyway year it’s always the same answer.

‘Burn him! Burn him! Burn him!’

He hates this part, hates the heat of the flames as they rise up his legs, and his torso, until they cover his entire body. There are red sparks everywhere he looks, and the fire inside him is brighter than the stars. But he doesn’t scream, for they have not made him a mouth to do so. He is burning, and his whole world is that pain, that searing crackle as the paper and the straw in his belly catch light. This is his life – to watch and to burn, and then when it is all over his memory will stand here until next year, when the cycle begins again. Except it doesn’t because this year there’s no new body for him, and no Roman to burn it, for there’s no park anymore. It’s empty and as silent as he is now, and on his hill, made flat from his many different bodies, he stands and watches that silent park. It will soon be winter, he can feel the ice on his phantom cheeks, he’s so very cold, and he thinks how fine it would be to be a fire. Still he remembers their laughter, and their battles and their flames. He remembers them all, for there is nothing else left. Only memories like him stay here now, and even they will fade when there is nothing else left to burn.

Charlotte Burnett is dyslexic and a high-functioning autistic. She lives in Scotland, and has had short stories published in literary journals such as The Write Launch and Coffin Bell. She also has a Bachelor’s in Science from the Open University, focusing on Psychology and Sociology.

‘Wine or Vinegar?’, ‘What Another 'JC' May Have Meant...’ & ‘毀滅與的’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Wine or Vinegar?

The earliest of the New Testament Gospel texts –
Mark –
states definitively that wine (οἶνον),
mixed with myrrh (ἐσμυρνισμένον),
was permitted or offered (ἐδίδουν)
at what is generally considered
the crucifixion of Jesus ...
in ancient times,
by the way,
myrrh had many applications,
including in anointing kings and high priests.

Further,
Mark states that while this libation
was permitted or offered,
it was the person now known as 'Jesus' who –
it may be read –
gave sweet intoxication mixed with a healing balm (metaphorically).

Such manna (מָן)
should not be confused with חומץ (vinegar) –
rather,
it is properly recognised
as a reference to superlative rhetoric
or philosophy.

That manna is apparent elsewhere,
including in a passage in Matthew 27:46 –
purporting to represent
'reasoning' [λέγων]
'shouted again' [ἀνεβόησεν]
in a 'marvellous discourse' [φωνῇ μεγάλῃ]).

For those with an understanding of Aristotelian philosophy,
the application of dialectic methods
and creative translation of various languages,
the relevant transliterated Aramaic and Koine Greek
might be read as shown below.

Being, existence, causation and fate (YHWH)
laments the query,
"Why produce myriad peaceful fruits?"

There – and here – exists
the fundamental generative good
in each emerging moment, my deity,
mine is where what is me is:
in favour of survival;
against abandonment; and
left behind as an inheritance.

Expressed thus –
as may have been the case
for a philosopher, grammarian and rhetorician –
it is a life lesson
free from religious dogma
and relevant to all.

These are a couple of examples
of different interpretations
that may be applied
to the earliest Gospel texts ...
which,
believe it or not,
do not even include the name 'Jesus'.

As for the moniker 'Christ',
it is of only recent invention -
from about 100CE to 1300CE,
a word for 'Good'
was actually the epithet applied ...
and it was used in parallel with derivatives of an earlier descriptor:
χρυσός (meaning 'gold', 'precious' or 'treasured').

All might not be as we have been told
by those influenced by religious dogma –
including that this 'Jesus' died on a cross,
or was a man
(perhaps,
rather than a God,
she was an exceptional mortal woman).

Due to a progressive
(and terminal)
neurological condition,
I may never get the opportunity
to complete my PhD on this matter.

Regardless,
I enjoy sharing thoughts with others
as they arise ...
little by little, perhaps sense will prevail.

The action of the fates aside,
however,
what we can surely agree upon
is that the world needs more good works –
and for that,
all we need to act on
is our own 'divine' spark
(the best of intentions
produced in our own individual minds
[Michelangelo left that message
on the roof of the Sistine Chapel]) ...
after all,
as noted in James 2:20,
“faith without works is dead”
(and I suspect 'Jesus Christ' likely thought the same).

What another 'JC' may have meant ...

Julius Caesar (100 BCE – 44 BCE) –
Roman general, statesman, author and historian –
is believed to have once written,

“FERE LIBERNTER HOMINES
ID QUOD VOLUNT CREDUNT”.

The traditional reading of that passage
is something along the lines of,

“Men generally believe
what they want to believe”.

Rendered thus,
it is a maxim of sorts
that has a Stoic tone to it
(or some may perceive a Cynic).

An alternative reading –
one applying creative translation –
providing guidance
rather than observation
follows:

Humanity,
speak willingly, eagerly, gladly, cheerfully, vigorously and enthusiastically
that which wishes, intends, consents to and advances towards
imagination, thought, confidence and life-preserving trust.

Such an approach is consistent
with masterful philosophical approaches –
and consistent with the teachings
of another subsequent 'JC'.

毀滅與的
信仰是力量讓破碎的世界重見光明
信仰是力量讓破碎的世界重見光明
的與滅毀

Destroying, ruining and slander obliterates ...
provide, cause and participate in the optimal

Belief, justice and capability reproaching?
Broken.

Bindú?
The realm governed by a buddhá duplicating manifest brilliance:
hope in adverse circumstances, frankness and open-heartedness.

Truly,
to rely on this power and influence?
Pramāṇa.

Permitting destruction, ruin or exile?
Shattering, fragmenting and shredding.

The aim, standard and criterion?
A life, generations and a world
characterised by prudent views ...
only clarity, observation, intelligence, knowledge,
discernment, sensibility, understanding, and wisdom.

Winning the lottery?
Helping, supporting, befriending and choosing
extinguishing destruction, ruin and slander.

Douglas Colston hails from Australia, has played in Ska bands, married his love, fathered two great children and among other things, pursued a PhD he hoped would provide a positive contribution to the zeitgeist. Having been a former Pushcart nominee, his writing has appeared in anthologies and magazines, including: Tenth Muse; POETiCA REViEW; Impspired; Hive Avenue; Rue Scribe; Inlandia; and Revue {R}évolution.

An Autumn Grave

Photographer - Tobi Brun

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.