F

Volume 1 | Issue 2 | Winter 2007

General Editors:

Leif Milliken Michael Moore Melissa Wolfe Sarai Douglas Patricia Livermore Aaron Chambers (music) Jordan Milliken (film/tv) Benjamin Kissling Bronwyn Milliken Elizabeth Milliken Terence Smyre Sabrina Stellrecht

Poetry Editor: Assistant Editor :

Review Editors:

Special T hanks:

Forge does not retain the rights to authors work. Please contact authors directly. Visit our website www.forgejournal.com for more information regarding subscriptions and submitting, and to view the archive of works published in past issues. Submissions may be sent as email attachments to: forgejournal@gmail.com

Text: Garamond. Numerals: Minion Cover art by Elisabeth Melander, 2007 Copyright 2007 Printed by Lightning Press 140 Furler St Totowa, NJ 07512

table

of

contents

introduction

The Myth of the Male Orgasm Cherry Blossoms Paradelle Toss the Sausage Shes he, or hes she, sheshe A Lot Can Happen in Five Minutes Hidden Messages L. The Road to Hell: A Cautionary Tale Erins Castle, Episode 2 Eggs At Work Bubonic Plague The Bones of Knight Harris: Chapter 1: Anthem The Barn September 11, 2005, Manchester, England Blues from a Gun: Chapter 1: Thats the Punchline My Nightmare Predictability My Deal with Death The Diving Bell and the Butterfly The Bands Visit Andorra, by Caribou Person Pitch, by Panda Bear Sufjan Stevens and Andrew Bird

7 22 23 25 30 37 39 41 42 45 53 54 55 56 71 74 76 87 88 89

James Mattson Julia Grawemeyer James Goddard Andrew Hill Joseph Hergert Alexandra Barth Pippi van Slooten Elisabeth Melander Sarah L. Schroeder Grant Anderson Elizabeth Milliken Jonathan Winston Jones Bryan Pedersen Joshua C. Udell A.J. Thomas Witt Widhalm

reviews

100 Andrew Stewart 101 Bill Fech 103 Aaron Chambers 104 105

introduction

Forge has been undergoing a lot of change over the last few months. To begin with, our website is finally up and running at www.forgejournal.com. This will be a place to post reviews, to hold our archive of past issues, and to make small talk, big talk, and everything in between. We discovered a theme for future covers: little people opening things. I think there is room for infinite variation on this theme, while keeping to a fairly recognizable idea. We will be taking submissions for our next and subsequent covers. See the submissions page at the back of the journal for more information. We have also added a reviews section to the journal, to be supplemented on the website. It is my hope that this will be an exciting new venue for us all to explore and discuss the things we love. Reviews will be posted on our website when accepted, and selections will be included in every print issue. Leif Milliken General Editor

the

myth

of

the

male

orgasm

James Mattson

sat at a bar in Nevada, a bar that advertised all-day service. I was very drunk and couldnt quite remember where I was, at what city I had stopped. Somewhere in Nevada, I knew, but that was it. Everything was a blur. I looked at my watch and saw that it was five-thirty. Two men in shirts and ties sat at the tail end of the bar, laughing and clapping each other on the back at regular intervals. They seemed out of place in the low, red light, their shirts freshly ironed, their faces youthful and healthy. One of them had exceedingly broad shoulders, his width taking up nearly two whole chairs; he did most of the talking, most of the slapping. His comrade looked weaker but slyer, like a swindler in professional clothing. His laughs were louder, slightly ominous, and I felt, at times, that they were directed at me. Another! I shouted down to the bartender, whose eyes were distant and bored. He was drying a daiquiri glass with a white towel, kneading his fingers around the swollen section of glass at the bottom. He looked at me and said nothing. Bartender! I cried. Id like another! He was a paunchy little man, with a close-cropped beard and a moustache that looked, even in its tidiness, somewhat unruly. When he walked, he hobbled, his stubby legs moving not forward but side to side, like a jockey after a long race. He looked too tall, like he had been born a dwarf but had then somehow, through some medical mystery, shot up three feet in his early twenties. I liked him all right,
forge

1:2

winter

2007

had exchanged a few amicable words with him throughout the day, but he was slow with the drinks. I sometimes had to ask four or five times for more whiskey, even now when the only other people in the bar were the two laughing businessmen. He finally put down his glass and walked to me, his face serious and unamused. I think Im gonna have to cut you off, he said. What for? I cried. Im not causing any trouble. But youre about to. I can tell. Once this place gets hoppin, youll be in the thick of it. Bullshit! I shouted. My face felt hot. Listen. Just give me another drink. I wont cause any problems. I promise. Just give him a drink, Burt, the broad-shouldered guy said from the end of the bar. He looks harmless enough. Burt ignored the man and continued staring. I tried to keep my gaze steady but my eyes faltered. I looked down at the two men. They had stopped laughing, but still wore very wide grins. What? I said, raising my arms to my sides. I dont need your goddamn help to get a fuckin drink! Take it easy, buddy, the broad-shouldered man said. No need to get like that. I turned back to Burt the bartender, and was surprised to see that he was already mixing me another drink. From the way he looked his mouth open, his tongue lolling from side to sideI could tell that he really didnt care, that he didnt feel the desire to get into a shouting match, that he was simply working a job and felt that it wouldnt be right to pass over at least some modicum of responsibility. I felt instant warmth toward him, a warmth that was a product not only of my inebriation but of a genuine empathic love for all bartenders who, after giving in to their customers desires, felt nothing but a hollow disillusionment with the world, a placid desire to keep even their most rebellious constituents happy. I wanted to put my hand on the large dwarf s shoulder and tell him he was a very good man, that he was contributing to dysfunction in a very positive manner, but before I had the chance, before he had finished pouring the shot, a woman walked in. She took a seat two stools away from me, rummaged through her purse, brought out a fingernail clipper, and slammed it 8
j a m e s m a t t s o n

hard on the bar. You left this, Burt, she said, her voice low and foreboding. Christ, Sarah, he said, my drink still in his hand, Get a grip. Get a grip! the woman shouted. Get a grip on what? What the fuck am I supposed to grip? The two men at the end of the bar once more began to laugh. The sly one whispered something into the broad ones ear and they both howled. You two need to shut the fuck up, Sarah said. This aint none of your business. Last I heard this was a public place, the sly man said. Last I heard you could laugh in public places. Last I heard your momma blows goats, Sarah said. Oooo, sly said, You should be the last person to talk about blowing anything, Sarah. She wasnt the most attractive of womenher long brown hair looked tangled and unwashed, and her thighs and ass hung over the stool in big gelatinous moundsbut she certainly looked like she could do better than Burt, the overgrown dwarf. That she had come to his place of work to drop off a fingernail clipper intrigued me, made me interested in their story. Suddenly, drunk or not, I was able to focus. I was able to see clearly and felt like another drink might possibly be unnecessary. This was good as Burt still hadnt put my drink down on the bar. Burt, cant you get rid of em? Sarah said. Theyre customers, Sarah. I cant just kick em out. But they aint real customers. Theyre Joe and Yeardley for fucks sake. They dont count. They pay me. That counts. But I gotta talk to you in private. I really need to, Burt. I got so much to say. Listen, Burt said. I wont be off for another few hours. Why dont you just go on home and when Im done Ill give you a call, all right? In the mean while, you can go ahead and take that clipper with you. No need bringin that here. Sarahs face contorted and I knew, before she even started speaking, that whatever came out was not going to be good. I leaned forforge

1:2

winter

2007

ward in my chair. You selfish prick! she shouted. You motherfuckin selfish nogood stupid flaccid prick! My mother was right. She always said if a guy couldnt get it up, he was no good, he was a fuckin two-timin cheat. I know all about you and Chelsea. I know all about it. The whole fuckin town knows all about it. The whole fuckin state of Nevada knows about it! Sarah, Burt said, listen to yourself. Cheat? You accuse me of cheatin? You see the wrong in that? Its, whatchamacalit . . . its ironic. Joe and Yeardley doubled over with laughter. From where I sat, they seemed like mere sketches of men, men whose only role in this drama was to act as some reactionary audience. While Sarah went on with her expletive-laden exclamations and Burt continued on with the irony of the whole situation, I wondered why they were even there, why they bothered to exist at all. They just didnt seem like functional players of life. Burt still had my drink in his hand. As he listened to Sarah talk, he waved it around in the air so forcefully that some of the whiskey spilled over the sides. I hated to see good whiskey go to waste, so I said, amidst Sarahs hollers, Hey. Ill take that drink now. Sarah stopped shouting. They both looked at me, shocked, as if I had just appeared. Then Burt, his face grim and tight, set the glass down hard in front of me, spilling even more whiskey and leaving me with only a few sips. Thats three bucks, he growled. You know what? I said. I think Im good. Ill be going now. Burt glared at me, then shook his head. No matter how tall he was, it was difficult to be intimidated by a dwarf. I got off my stool, glanced over at Sarah, smiled, then left the bar. The white sky struck my eyes like small daggers; I instantly shielded them with my hands. I had been in darkness all day and this sudden onslaught of light made me feel tired and depressed. Whiskey rumbled around in my gut and squeezed at my scalp; I wasnt sure if I was going to make it to my motel room without vomiting. I walked half a block before I doubled over and retched, my throat coated with acid. Once I was finished, once the last dry-heave escaped, I sat by the side of the road, next to my puke, and breathed in the dry Nevada air. 10
j a m e s m a t t s o n

Traveling cross-country had been Carries idea. We had just finished graduate school, me in social work and her in psychology, at the University of Florida and had decided that we would get married the next year, before she started applying to PhD programs. We had been dating for three years and, for the last year, had shared a small onebedroom apartment off of University Avenue in Gainesville. The year had gone by pretty smoothly, our domestic disputes nothing too dramatic or irreparable, and our living habits were surprisingly similar, her fastidiousness paralleling my own obsession with cleanliness, her cooking in direct alignment with my tastes. When we did fight, it was usually about something trivial, something like her desire never to be late for anything contrasting with my tendency to lose my keys. Our arguments never lasted more than an hour or so, and when they were done, it was as if they had never happened, as if our lives together had never come across that very slight patch of turbulent air. When I had asked her to marry me, she had said Of course, so matter-of-factly that I almost thought she had known I would ask right then. And perhaps she had. After graduation, she approached me with the idea of driving to California and back, hitting as many states as possible. We had a little gift money and a lot of time, so I agreed, thought it would be fun. We drove up the east coast, all the way to Boston, before turning west and south, following the Great Lakes through New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan, and Wisconsin. In Wisconsin, we met up with my parents, and stayed with them for three days, resting and relaxing, letting my mother pamper us with her hearty Midwestern cooking. Spry and refreshed, we headed south through Chicago to Iowa and west to Nebraska, where things fell completely apart. We had pulled over and walked around downtown Lincoln, finding a sports bar on P Street that we both agreed looked okay. As we chomped on our burgers and fries, Carrie commenced a rapid-fire questioning session, her voice a non-stop barrage of inquiries. Why does your mother hate me? she asked. Hate you? She doesnt hate you. She loves you. She doesnt think Im wholesome enough, she said. I know this. What makes me so unwholesome? Is it because Im from LA? Does
forge

1:2

winter

2007

11

she have a thing against Californians? What is it? Why does she hate me? Carrie, I said, putting my hand over hers, you dont have to worry about her. She thinks youre great. Shes told me so many times. But I dont know what Im doing. Im directionless. Even with this fucking graduate degree Im directionless. Do you think Im directionless? Do you think I dont have a future? Tell me, Ricky, what do you think? She only called me Ricky when she was upset about something. She knew I hated the childhood name, thought it sounded like it belonged to an animated beaver on a Saturday morning cartoon. Whats gotten into you? I said. Of course you have a future. We both do. Together. I said this last because I feared she was suddenly getting a case of cold feet. Which she was. Except it wasnt just about our engagement. It was about everything. I suddenly dont think Im all right, she said. Are you sick? Would you mind terribly if I left you right now? My heart dropped to my knees. What? Would you mind terribly if I left you right now? she repeated, as if it was the most normal question anyone could ask their fianc. Mind? Carrie, what the hell is going on? Whats wrong with you? Im experiencing anxiety, she said. Im experiencing cognitive strain. Something isnt functioning. Do you understand? Can you understand, Richard? No! I said. I cant understand. This is fuckin ridiculous! But I cant go on like this, she said. Im not right. Were not really right. Ive known it for a long time. Were too, well, were too easy. And now Im anxious. So please, Richard, just dont be upset when I leave you. Because thats what I have to do. Very soon. Like, right now. And then she got up and left. I threw some money on the table and followed her out. She walked to my car, silent to my constant questions. I tried to forcibly restrain her, but her feet kept moving, as if my hands on her shoulders were nothing more than a nuisance. She 12
j a m e s m a t t s o n

kept her eyes forward, her head straight, and the more I pleaded, the more I begged, the more distant she became. Are you going nuts, Carrie? What the fuck is going on? She said nothing, just kept moving, and when she got to my car, she stood beside the trunk and held out her hand. Youre not going anywhere in that car without me, I said. Im not going anywhere in that car, Richard, she said. I just need the keys so I can get my stuff from the trunk. Listen, I said, my mind spinning, lets just sit down on one of those benches. Lets talk. You cant just leave without an explanation. You cant leave me in the middle of this damn trip. Its not how its done, Carrie. What the hell is wrong with you? Ive already told you, she said. I am experiencing anxiety. And were not right like this. You know that somewhere inside your brain. You know that weve been playing some game all this time. Game? I shouted. Is that what you think of us? A game? You think of us that way too, she said. You just dont know it yet. I didnt, of course, think of it that way. I had never thought of it that way. Carrie was what I had. Carrie was my partner. The comfort we shared wasnt due to passivity on either of our partsit was due to our general level of devotion to one another, our unflinching and unwavering love for shared domesticities. If a game was what we had been playing, it had certainly masked itself perfectly as life. I need the keys, she said. Now, Richard. And if I dont give them to you? If I dont open the damn trunk? What then? She sighed, pushed back her hair from her face. She looked lovely like this, exasperated and steadfastly anxious, and I felt suddenly that the argument was over, that she would begin to laugh and tell me that it was all a joke, a ruse, a test. She would tell me that if I had let her go that I wouldve failed, that we werent meant to be husband and wife. She would tell me that I had passed, that I had done my share of groveling and that it was now over, that we could get back in the car and continue on our westward journey. I placed a hand on the trunk. It singed my palm, but I kept it there. Im not opening this trunk, I said, my voice heavy with resolve.
forge

1:2

winter

2007

13

I will not let you go. She bit her bottom lip. I kept my hand on the trunk, as if holding it down. Then she did something so unexpected, so surprising, that I leapt back and nearly fell to the ground. OPEN THIS FUCKING TRUNK!! she cried, raising her arms above her head, and mashing her fists into the back of the car. NOW, RICHARD! NOW! Over and over she beat the trunk, her small fists making small indentations in the metal. I did nothing for a while, just let her scream and beat my car, but then I saw blood, I saw her knuckles rip open and the skin around her fingers tear. I tried to pull her back, but she squirmed quickly out of my grasp and continued her tirade of punches. Small rivers of maroon traveled down the end of my car. The paint peeled where she hit. I couldnt breathe. NOW NOW NOW NOW! she screamed. Okay, okay, I said, my eyes watering. Please, Carrie. Just stop. Please stop. She eventually did, though not abruptly but in a sort of diminuendo. Her fists continued to hit my car, but less severely, bringing less blood, until they finally decreased to mere pats, as if the car was a candidate for purchase and she was checking out the exterior. I had to move her hands away. She let me. My hands shook as I inserted my key and opened the trunk. Carrie, I whispered as it opened. She quickly grabbed her suitcases and ran off. I once had a professor in college who told the class that human psychology was the most complex thing in the world, that the brain accumulated uncountable amounts of signals each day, that these signals were then converted into meaning, and that this meaning shaped the entirety of existence. I didnt understand what he was saying then, but I thought I understood it as I watched Carrie run off with her suitcases. For in those moments, the entirety of existence translated into the meaning I attributed to the loss of my fiance. There were no wars, no genocides, no corrupt politicians or scumbag lawyers or junkie prostitutes or greedy businessmen. There were no continents, no countries, no states, provinces, or cities. Nothing I had ever learned meant anything, nothing I had ever learned was really true. 14
j a m e s m a t t s o n

Blood didnt run through my body, my heart didnt beat, my skin did not have layers, my sight was not controlled by an optic nerve. Everything was mythic; everything reeked of fiction. The only thing that happened at that time on that day was that Carrie ran away from me, her suitcase rumbling on the cement behind her. I didnt see her again. Although I called her cell phone over and over, although I contacted her mother, her brother, even her grandmother, I wasnt able to speak to her. Her relatives grieved with me but would not reveal her whereabouts. They told me how awful it must be, how insensible and backwards things must have seemed for me, but when I pleaded with them to tell me where she was, they simply told me that they couldnt, that she had her own life to live, that their interference was not conducive to any sort of universal harmony. I slammed my phone shut every time I received one of these nonsensical responses, solidifying my newly held belief that Carrie had been raised in a sea of instability. After a few days, I continued driving west. It was difficult to concentrate on the road, the gently rolling plains of Nebraska, the rugged terrain of Wyoming, and by the time I got to Utah, I felt like ditching my car and taking the next flight back to Florida. Instead, I kept driving, stopping frequently at small taverns along the way, taverns that would not sell me a pitcher of beer because I was alone. State law, one of the bartenders told me. At that time, I couldnt remember which state I was in. Everything looked the same. I finally got the energy to stand up and walk to my motel. As the gravel crunched beneath my feet, I remembered the name of the town I now inhabited. Ports End, Nevada. I wondered how such a dilapidated town in central Nevada had come up with the name Ports End. Certainly there was no port anywhere near this place, and even if there had been, even if Nevada had been a coastal state, where, exactly was a ports end? Was it where the land began or where the ship stopped? I shook my head and walked up to the desk clerk. My head was still reeling from the alcohol. Am I close to California yet? I said. Please tell me Im close to fucking California. The young man looked at me and smiled. His pencil-thin mousforge

1:2

winter

2007

15

tache twitched as he opened his mouth to speak. Couple hundred miles, Id say, he said. You in a hurry to get there? Im in a hurry to get out of here, I replied. Well, for a guy whos in a hurry, you sure stick around here a lot. Whatre you talking about? Youve been here four days, sir. I have? Yeah. But I wouldnt expect you to remember that. Youve been drunk a lot. This comment made me angry, so angry that I reached across the counter and slapped the kid on the face. Except that my hand never hit skin; it simply waved around in the air, like I was shooing away a fly. I wish youd stop trying to hit me, the kid said. Ive tried hitting you before? Every day, sir. And then I started crying, not because I was particularly sad, but because I was frustrated, frustrated that I, who had drunk hardly a drop in my life, had suddenly turned into this person who could drink so much that he would black out every day. Apparently this outburst of tears was also familiar to the front desk clerk: he looked at me not with sympathy or pity, but with exasperation, his arms crossed against his small chest, his eyebrows drawn tight across his forehead. Just as I was about to reach over the counter and slap the young man again, the front door of the motel opened and in walked the woman who had so violently screamed at Burt the bartender. I need a room, Joey, and dont ask me no questions, she said. When she saw me, she pursed her lips, squinted her eyes, and said, What the hells wrong with you? I tried to blink away the tears, but they kept coming. In fact, as I looked at her pinched, wrinkled face, they came even faster. There was something about the woman that reminded me of Carrie. Every woman reminds you of Carrie, she said. But no woman is Carrie but Carrie herself. Excuse me? I said. I said you look like a fuckin mess. But you said Carrie. Carrie? Whos that? She the one who made you look like this? 16
j a m e s m a t t s o n

Lemme give you some advice: Women arent worth the trouble. Believe me, I am one. Shes the town woman, if you know what I mean, the young desk clerk said. Joey, I swear to God Im gonna knock you around some. And then Im gonna tell your mother you smoke dope. She knows, Joey said. We do it together. Figures. Just give me a room, okay? I need to be away with my thoughts. Away from who? I was still crying. The only resemblance this woman had to Carrie was that she was a woman. I saw this upon closer inspection. But lately, every woman Id seen looked like her, each female face a glint of hope for a future. Even this woman, this Sarah, this bighipped loud-mouthed woman who had apparently fucked every guy over eighteen in Ports End, Nevada, emitted a quality of femininity that Carrie (and all women, for that matter) possessed and for which I longed. I looked over at Sarah and saw that her face had softened, that the wrinkles I had at first seen were only reflections of dark light on her face. She was no more than thirty-five, if that. Get me a room, Joey, she said, looking at me. Yeah, he said, punching something into a computer. Room 108. Here. He gave her a set of keys and looked away. Room 108, she said, a little too loudly. Great. And I knew by the volume of her voice that I was to follow her, that I was to pass my own room, my room 106, and follow her to 108. It wasnt something I consciously did: it was more like sleepwalking, but I did it nonetheless. I followed her to her room and entered, the tears still falling from my face. I aint a whore, she said once I was inside and the door was shut and locked. Thats what people think, but it aint true. At that point I didnt care if she was a whore or not. I just wanted her to be naked. Id suddenly become exceptionally horny. I wiped my face and the tears stopped falling. Its just that Ive lived here my whole life, you know? And so I see people comin through, the interstate being so close and all, but theyre just on their way through and all I want is for them to take me
forge

1:2

winter

2007

17

wherever it is theyre going. But that aint gonna ever happen because they all have wives and children and all that sort of shit, so I stay here, with my cat, and I get so fuckin bored, and then the only decent man in town, you know Burt, starts makin moves on me but then I just realize I aint nothin but a joke to him too. Even in my state of intoxication, I could tell that Sarah was thoroughly drunk. We both, then, existed in an alternate plane of consciousness, a plane that consisted of rapid desire and quick friendship. We wanted, at that moment, the same thing, though the product of these things came in separate packages, hers through garrulity and mine through an unyielding erection. The female orgasm is a myth, you know, she said. So is the males, I said. Then we undressed. I never saw her again either. After our sexual rendezvous at the no-name motel, we had dinner at the diner she worked at, then I left Ports End and headed back east. I no longer felt like driving to California, as I knew that once I was there I would end up in Los Angeles, searching for Carrie. I would waste time with her family, with her friends, and I wouldnt find her, or if I did, I would cause myself further turmoil and hardship. A woman who leaves bloodstains on your car, I concluded, was not a woman who would return to you. So I headed east and south, back to Florida, and continued on with my life, secure in the knowledge that things never really happened in an orderly fashion, that the conventions of life were guidelines, but bad ones at best and damaging ones at worst. As it happened, Burt the bartender had somehow gotten a hold of my email address from Sarah, and one day as I was working my lowwage job at social services in Gainesville, he wrote me and inquired about my statement about the falsehood of male orgasms. Apparently, my admission had stuck with Sarah and she had felt compelled to tell her beau, who I learned had taken her back after the incident at the bar. The fingernail clipper, he explained, had been sort of a joke gift from him to her, hinting, not so subtly, at the cessation of her habit of fingernail chewing. After he had given this object to her, she had flung her arms around them and they had kissed. She had scratched her nails down his back, leaving welts. She had never used the fingernail clipper, had continued biting her nails, but had, for 18
j a m e s m a t t s o n

some reason, kept it by her bedside at night, looking at it before she went to bed and when she woke up. It was a reminder, she had told him, of something fun. His email was short, but concise, almost threatening. At the end of it, after he had told me the story of the clipper and how he had come across my email address, he wrote, How could you think that men dont have orgasms? There is physical evidence. We leave a mark. Sincerely, Burt from Ports End, NV. I didnt write back right away, so astounded was I by the email from such a limited acquaintance. At first I had difficulty remembering who Burt even was; I had been very drunk the entire time I had been in his town. But then, slowly, it came back to me and everything in all its dramatic glory tumbled to the front of my consciousness. I considered ignoring the email, considered simply discarding the thought of Burt and all he represented and going on with the process of my simple yet rewarding life. I had managed, over just a few short months, to secure a job that paid little but that made me feel, for the first time in my life, like I was truly advancing the lives of those whose destitute situations required the use of my services. So while I still lived an impoverished life by my parents means, the internal reward more than compensated. Furthermore, my job kept me so busy that any thoughts about Carrie or my horrendous trip across the Great Plains diminished in both scope and severity, so much so that there would be days when I would not even think of her name. But the email sent it all hurtling back, and I thought, sitting at my cramped desk, that it would be best to simply delete it. But of course I didnt. Instead, I hit the reply button and began typing furiously. When I was finished, an hour had passed, and I looked over what I had written. Dear Burt, I wrote, If by leaving a mark you mean that men ejaculate, then I agree with you. Men DO ejaculate and often it DOES leave marks. These marks, however, are only indelible if a life is formed, if procreation occurs, and given that most of mens ejaculations do not result in this, it is safe to say that very few ejaculations actually leave any sort of impression. As for the myth of the male orgasm, well, I said that because it seemed the right thing to say at the time. I dont wholly believe it, nor do I think that Sarah believes that women dont have orgasms. Its just one of
forge

1:2

winter

2007

19

those phrases of solace said during a time when everything seems to be falling apart. Its nothing to really contemplate. These meaningless things are said so often that we often forget that we have said them. Take good care of yourself, Burt. All best, Richard I hit the SEND button and felt an instant wave of gratification. It was as if I had purged the last remaining shard of grief from my system. It had been rather easy, had required me only to type a few words into a computer, but it nevertheless felt like the climax to a story that had seemed to take forever to conclude. The rest, now, was denouement. There is really no sense in things, I thought as I turned my computer off that day, and the more structured you make your life, the more difficult it is to untangle once things fall apart. I received no response from Burt, nor did I ever hear from Sarah again. I didnt take it personally. Sometimes its best to forget as much as possible, to leave things the way they are and not obsess over their unfathomable origins. The past remains imprinted forever, but conjuring it up is an act of will, an act that is too often exercised and usually only serves as an impediment to any sort of human growth. I do not claim to understand anything anymore, because once I do, it is proven wrong, or faulty, or simply obsolete. Thats not to say that I dont think about Carrie anymore. Certainly, every woman that resembles her in the slightest receives second glances from me, but I no longer spend my evenings wondering about the level of her mental instability, nor do I obsess about her well-being and her general health. Ive even stopped calling her mother. One day, I came across an object of hers in our apartment. As soon as I had returned to Florida, I had shipped everything of hers to Los Angeles, postage due, of course. I had raided every corner of our once-shared domicile, throwing breakable materials into a box like they were stuffed animals. Her mother, no doubt, received a whole bunch of shattered glass in some of the packages I sent. I scoured each room from wall to wall, my mind reeling with anger and hatred 20
j a m e s m a t t s o n

and sadness and grief, and after I had gotten rid of everything, after no objects remained for which I could look upon and remember, I had sat in the living room and had watched television for seven hours straight. There were times when I had cried (mostly during commercial breaks), but the dancing images on the screen seemed to quell these cries, numb them and make me feel, for those seven hours at least, as if my sanity was something that could be salvaged. The object I came across months later was a sock, a pink sock hidden deep underneath my own socks in my sock drawer. Its pinkness startled me, then made me angry, then made me cry again. I took the sock and balled it into my fists, squeezing as hard as I could, then letting go. Carrie had always had a propensity for garish clothing, clothing that wouldve looked too bright on most people but that had looked somehow affable on her. As I held her pink sock, I remembered her clothes, the way she draped them over her body, the way they clung to her as she walked, the way they sometimes fluttered around her on a windy day. I remembered how I sometimes felt embarrassed on the days when she would dress particularly flamboyantly, wearing outfits that not only hurt the eyes in their brilliance but also revealed a little too much skin. There were times when I had refused to go out with her until she dressed differently; these are the days that I regret. I took the sock into my living room and instead of throwing it away, I placed it beneath the sofa. In the ensuing days, I quickly forgot about it, busy as I was with my new job, but when I moved a year later, it showed up again, and I put it in my pocket as I lugged my furniture from my apartment to the moving truck. I wont say that I look at it very often, but I still keep it around, hidden, and while I never think much about it, somewhere in my mind lies its indelible imprint, its constant etch that has converted itself, astonishingly enough, into something tangible, something fun.

forge

1:2

winter

2007

21

cherry

blossoms

Julia Grawemeyer
There is great beauty in the laughing faces of these men just before facing certain death. Photo caption in the Peace Museum for Kamikaze Pilots in Japan

To the Japanese, a flower is the fiercest hero. I will blossom soon, a soldier wrote to his mother, woman with a kamikaze son. In the photo he sends, Death is courting Laughter, and has brought her a corsage. The delicate blaze, the soft blossom: The pushing towards sunlight in the veins of the pilot, rooting himself in the sky.

22

julia

grawemeyer

paradelle

Julia Grawemeyer
The butter melted like hearts droop at parting. The butter melted like hearts droop at parting. My eyes waited on a darkened room. My eyes waited on a darkened room. A darkened parting melted on the room. Eyes droop at my hearts like butter. I set a net inside to catch the falcon Love I set a net inside to catch the falcon Love Back left burner dial turned to high heat. Back left burner dial turned to high heat. Falcon turned to set the catch inside a burner. I left love net back to dial high heat. Feathers fell to the ground, words at birth. Feathers fell to the ground, words at birth. We are going to see her soon. We are going to see her soon. Feathers are going to see the ground soon. We fell to her words at birth.

forge

1:2

winter

2007

23

I set a net inside a darkened room, Dial turned words at birth to high heat. Like hearts droop at parting, Feathers fell on the ground to the back left burner. My eyes waited to catch the falcon Love We are going to see her butter melted soon.

24

julia

grawemeyer

toss

the

sausage

James Goddard

can only imagine what the construction workers thought as sausage rained down from the sky nearly hitting their yellow hard hats. Perhaps they thought back to the Israelites. Is this a plague of pigs rather than frogs? Or blessed manna from the sky? The train halted abruptly, causing me to drop my tomato and cheese sandwich. This type of fare is not my most preferred; however, when traveling it is often the most convenient and economical means of satisfying ones hunger. This is especially true for my fellow traveler and I due to the fact that we are both vegetarians. Travel as a vegetarian can be quite difficult, nearly impossible at times. Nevertheless, I try to maintain my non flesh-eating stance on the road. Especially when it comes to red meat. We had arrived in Warsaw after a nine-hour trek from Berlin. Both Jefferson and I were weary as one typically is after a long trip and the several cavity searches required when crossing the border between Germany and Poland. At this point a few more words regarding my travel companion. Many times even the closest of friends can become the bitterest of enemies due to traveling together. The stress of finding food, lodging, booze, and fending off would-be assailants in a foreign country can throw a wrench into any relationship. But Jefferson is different. There was no tension between the two of us, no mutual dislike upon parting. I attribute that more to Jefferforge

1:2

winter

2007

25

sons personality than my own. Difficult situations do not phase him, half rotten cheese is a sufficient meal, a park bench is adequate for a nights repose. This, and he has an uncanny nose for sniffing out cheap booze. Because of all these attributes I was glad to come to Warsaw with him. As I slowly descended the steps to the platform I scanned my surroundings. Every face looked like my preconceived definition of Polish: defined cheek bones, flat bridge of the nose, apathetic eyes. I was not the only person surveying the scene; many of these sad eyes closely examined me. The moment my feet touched the platform a man approached us. You need place to sleep? I have room, apartment, he said. This is a fairly common practice: the proprietor of a hostel/apartment seeking wealthy tourists to fill their vacancies. We negotiated a price equivalent to $9 per day. This bought us a room in an apartment where this man resided, or so it appeared. This Polish man whose name remains unknown to me led us down a set of stairs and into an underground labyrinth of shops. Many eastern cities, such as Moscow and Kiev, have these underground walkways due to the frigid winter conditions on the surface. These places are filled with smoke, bums, empty bottles, and unhappy people. One can procure almost any item in this maze of business: pantyhose, candy, shortwave radios, foreign currency, switchblades, and alcohol. Many unlicensed vendors set up shop on the sides of the walkways selling flowers or fruit in an attempt to eke out a living. With all the vending and bustle occurring in this underground mall I expected to hear more conversation, bartering, maybe even a laughing joke exchanged between friends. But silence reigned. When we finally exited the underground we entered the center of modern Warsaw. Grey. Foreboding. No laughter and no smiles; only a sense of post-communistic dreariness holding on tight. In 1944 the Nazis were occupying Warsaw while the Soviet Red Army pressed down from the east. Trapped between these two behemoths the Warsaw citizens staged an uprising that failed. After the uprising was squelched, Hitler razed the entire city to the ground, destroying nearly 85% of it. While Polish sovereignty was technically returned to Poland after 1945, the Soviet Union remained the de facto power in 26
james goddard

Poland for many years. Thus, much of what is present day Warsaw was put into place by Stalin and his communist architects. The city does not have the ancient, romantic feeling of so many European cities. It feels mechanized, cold, and sprawling. It seems wintry even on the burning summer streets. Rather than a city breathing with life, it feels more like a city sighing under the weight of tons of concrete and industrial smoke. Our new comrade took us to a fifteen-story communist-era building where his flat was located. The room offered to us was cozy, with a view of the rambling metropolis, including one of the Fang buildings erected by Stalin. There are seven Fang buildings in Moscow, each a mirror image of the other. The Warsaw Fang was a gift from the Soviet Union to the Polish populace. This building is a modern castle, made primarily out of concrete and projecting high into the heavens. It stands above you, watching you on every street and corner and in every bus; a reminder that invasion could be just around the corner, so dont smile, son. We paid the man for a five-day stay. He promptly disappeared, never to be seen again. What our Polish comrade failed to mention was that the apartment also housed his 75-year-old mother, Olga, who did not speak English. She did however have a couple of phrases at her disposal: dats good and too much. Olga simply beamed with satisfaction at our presence in her humble apartment. She decided she would do all the cooking for us for the duration of our stay. Olgas smile entered the room along with something that we guessed was our entre. When this mystery wrapped in a cabbage leaf was placed before me, I knew I had to eat it, whatever it was. I sliced into the enigma, swallowed down something that had parents, then did my best to feign a satisfied smile. Olga mirrored my smile. It was clear that Olga was pleased to have guests in her flat; she liked to have someone to cook for, to look after, to talk to, like so many lonely pensioners. Olga would speak to us in Polish for spells of forty minutes. When I say us, I really mean me. Though Jefferson was relaxed in the ways I already mentioned, he was not as indulgent as I was with Olgas soliloquies. When the talking would begin he would retreat to his copy of Crime and Punishment or stare out the window, avoiding the gaze of the Fang as best he could.
forge

1:2

winter

2007

27

I, on the other hand, listened to Olga, though I could understand practically none of what she said. Olga didnt seem to mind. She would smile, she would laugh, and once she even wept. As these daily conversations progressed, I translated (read: invented) what she was telling me. She told me about being a little girl and going with her family to a countryside covered in sunflowers. She explained how many friends she had lost in the Nazi invasion of Warsaw and how she managed to survive. She lamented her brother, a dentist in Baltimore, who never calls her on Christmas. She told me how much she loved her husband who had passed away a number of years before, and that she would see him again one day. And maybe, just maybe, this was close to what she actually told me; I certainly like to think so. The morning after our first meat meal Jefferson and I stealthily exited the apartment early, so as not to be impeded by long Polish speeches and potentially longer Polish sausages. We wandered from the building in a random direction. The Fang loomed overhead, ancient trams squealed as they drifted by. Walls of commuters owned the sidewalks, passing by tired and silent. Despite the apparent weariness of the passersby, many of them took the time to visually frisk us. From the looks we received it seemed Warsaw was not a heavily touristed city. It was as if these people had never seen a pair of white pasty legs protruding from shorts. With all this attention, one would hope to find a fleeting smile, soft laugh, some minute indication of friendliness. Yet not a smile was to be found. That evening dinner was served promptly at 17:00 hours. This time the fare was sausage and sausage soup, which presented a dilemma. My stomach had been in knots from the last carne stuffed meal, and I was not eager to find out what sausage would do to my bowels. I could not convey to Olga that I was a vegetarian and did not fancy Polish sausage. Yet I could not offend her by refusing to eat what she had so generously provided. Jefferson, characteristically calm, slyly conjured up a method to dispose of this flesh feast that would satisfy all parties involved. When Olga left the room I crept stealthily into the bathroom and poured the meat-laden soup down the toilet. Simultaneously Jefferson launched the sausages off the 13th floor balcony into an adjacent construction yard below. Olga returned to find our plates clean and a smile lit up her wrinkled face. 28
james goddard

 We engaged in this routine twice a day for five days: sneaking in the bathroom, tossing sausages, and trying to decipher long speeches in Polish. When the time came to bid Olga farewell I petitioned her through non-verbal communication to allow me to take a photograph of her. She flatly refused. But there was no need for me to have a photograph to remember that old Polish pensioner; her smile was the only one I saw in that city.

forge

1:2

winter

2007

29

s h es

h e,
arvo

or

h es
et

s h e,
retiro

s h es h e
park

prt

Andrew Hill
little energies . . . people are fingers on a hand broken cracked pieces.

he door opens into a closet. the birds chirp the tune of a long forgotten ballad. the stairs unfold with gravity pulling them down a spiral onto the ground floor where the dogs bark without cease. their owner yells at them to stop but they do not understand the human language. to them, the owner is barking. we must try to communicate to our nincompoop master, they concur, but his barking is so loud! what racket! snarling their teeth doesnt help. it gives the master a nervous grimace, one of immeasurable consternation. his avid report is almost finished, he thinks to himself. his initial response when his boss asks him to file a complaint in writing against a company policy is one of surprise. why me? he confoundingly questions. he has just started a new position at the company that has no relation to this request from his superior. but because his supervisor orders him to write the complaint, he obliges willingly and completes the assignment by the end of next week. he has many questions concerning the assignment during its completion. his boss answers all the questions thoroughly and without glitch.

30

andrew

hill

however, there is one instance in which his boss begins shaking his index finger, uncontrollably it seems, to the beat of a jazz standard that echoes through the corridors of the office building. the paperwork too seems to jostle in his hands. the room is shaking? how odd!? he mumbles. this rumination falls short when he decides to leave for the day, to go back home to rest. he asks his boss for permission and, with a signature, he grants the new employee leave for the remainder of the afternoon. upon arriving home, the new employee is confused, disturbed by the odd gestures of his superior. why, the superior doesnt even notice it! shall i tell him of it? shall i return immediately to confront him of it? is it worth it? later the next eveningafter a strenuous day at his new position the new employee turns to himself in the mirror to ask a few questions: are the twitchings finished now? is my superior going to convulse again? is he noticing them now? is he seeing a doctor now? these questions come painfully for him and he is tired too from the workload from that particular day. he gives up for the time being, and returns to his bed for restat this moment being quite necessary and a rejuvenating force of energy for the days to come. a noise in the night startles him. he scratches an itch. he hears the rain outside of his bedroom window; the crickets. he crawls inside a shella very slow tortoise creeping along the sand particles of the Normandy beaches. the harbor is quiet this night, tense with the nazi occupation and the military destruction of the city years ago. a halfcentury later, it is not forgotten; remnants. Remnants. what is left? where will the people go to live? in the old fortress protecting the city, iron bars are still in place. bullet holes, little nooks to point a rifle out of. bunkers. cement, concrete covered in tattoos. gibberish mix. a melange of destruction, reconstruction, castle-like abodes, and staircases that are the veins through which the people walk, up and down, mounting and descending. the funiculaire cuts a hole through the hill, connecting the upper city and the lower city. broken down walls of stone, crumbling. cemeteries with rusted doors once locked but now
forge

1:2

winter

2007

31

open, and he sees an empty room. the tombs are above the ground, swinging over the earth with strings attached, swaying. a small rodent scurries into a hole but the darkness prevents him from seeing the escapade. he instead concentrates on the decision of the night: to answer to the knock. tap, tap, tap. clicking, it echoes into the corridor he is standing in. she is there. her only setback is the confusion of gestures, words, and movements never quite in unison. to her it means difficulty in finding a new job. it could also be problematic for her current position with the state. her job security is high but one never knows. she stares into space not noticing the new worker. his first day is beginning well but the woman in the office next door pays no attention to him. he feels strange because he gestures to her in a friendly manner and even says good day! the words roll enthusiastically off his tongue and into the air between the two rooms. she is however in no mood to be haggled by a new worker. when he decides to confront the developing problem, she says that he is wasting his time and that if he wants to get along with the workers, he will have to adjust to their way of thinking, of seeing the world. but i have no world view, he jumps in. she stares out her window. he leans into the space between her and the window. she stares at his waist. he is troubled but conceals it by adding, i am beginning to see the world. she laughs. he grimaces. she is seeing him as he is. he turns to leave as she slithers to the floor, begging him to stay for two more minutes, but he refuses. two workers escort him back to his office across the corridor. the hall is a maze. waiting for him is the attendant who hired me. why have you refused her? he demands. i am unable to respond, he answers with rigor and confidence. he nods his head slowly and exits my office. back to work. after some time, he thinks of a time of great peace and the land of medieval castles. the gothic cathedrals are as well inspiring in the theme now undertaken. before his thoughts accumulate in a summit of immense splendor, his eye catches a glimpse of definitive agitation. the straw hat of his co-worker is rather confusing, undermining his static notions into dynamism, the wheels churning on the machine. in the distance, his new supervisor 32
andrew hill

grins and nods but not at him; its aim is the old man rocking in the chair next to his desk. perhaps his first day would end soon, the work being extremely boring (in his view). when he attempts to punch out, the other workers hold out their hands, imploring him to wait two more minutes. he relaxes and waits. as they greet him at the punch clock, he grows impatient with the indirect communication taking place. the scuffling of the floor by all the shiny, fancy shoes is getting under his pale skin. he explodes, why do we spend so much time performing the formalities of life? the workers gather around with muffled voices to chant to him it is useless to ask such questions. it is a formality itself. no more questions, they sing together. but he cannot help but wonder at their response, if it could be considered a response, because he feels that they can not answer to his outcry. on the other hand, the woman in the office next to his is working overtime. she hears his question and responds in unison with the others. in order to deeply reflect on the matter at hand, the man buys good tea to soothe his angst. he believes very much in this. after two cups of very dark tea, his forehead begins to have the sensation of floating. his liberation is now very near; yet as the teas effect diminishes, he realizes that to deeply reflect on the formalities of life is tiring and not always fruitful. in fact, tonight is better if i ignore entirely the events from earlier this afternoon. instead of remembering them again and again, he decides to ignore them. outside his parlor window, he now sees the woman from the office. ah, she must be returning late from the office, he thinks out loud. she waves her right hand with an odd jerk and scurries into the night. he sighs to himself. when he awakes, the clock is striking midnight. in six hours i must wake up, he mumbles. he opens his eyes to the dark morning, no sun yet. he immediately thinks of the woman near his office, yet does not dwell on it. [shame] later in the afternoon, sitting in his chair at work, he imagines a walk through a park. behind the trees are ponds of quite small proporforge

1:2

winter

2007

33

tion. in the ponds, at the bottom, are large rocks shining in their reflection of the sun. it seems the new officeits atmosphere and peoplegive him little to occupy the time. his smile catches the eyes of his supervisor. what are you smiling at with such melancholy? he inquires. well, give me one good reason, i continue jokingly for giving you a hint. he returns to his work, adjusting his shirt as it has become untucked, and the buttons no longer match the vertical line traversing his body directly down the middle. his vest too is a bit wrinkled from sitting so long, almost entirely motionless, in a chair. the chair gives in to his weight with little resistance, cushioningdelicately and with comforthis nether regions. he thinks the new worker is a bit deformed but not in any physical way. this makes it difficult to pinpoint a tangible expression for finding a reason for his melancholic smile. despite all this, his first day is over, the second one beginning. he is finding the work more enjoyable in this moment; it is easier, he states without a sinister tone whatsoever. by the end of the day, he conquers his battling thoughts without allowing the woman in the office next door to see his inner struggle. his work continues. he has a question for his supervisor, but he hesitates because of his precarious position as a new worker. what if i ask the wrong question, he worries. in reality the supervisorfor he loves his vocationenjoys fielding questions in a very polite fashion. he goes into his office to ask, what of these formalities at the punch clock? this question sours the superior into a bout of incisive criticism for half an hour. all seems quite doubtful in terms of his future at the new job. his hopes are falling. at the same time, he believes his situation not entirely lost. for example, tonight is to be slept in peace under his sheets and blankets. when the supervisor finishes reprimanding his new worker, he thinks of his pressing responsibilities. later, he eats his ham sandwich for lunch. this would be followed by a snack at two in the afternoon. the music glides softly from the streets below. the style is difficult to discern, but there is an unmistakable rhythm to it, a beat to which 34
andrew hill

even the deaf are listening. very good, states a passerby who believes himself a good judge of music. i know music, he confides into the air outside, very near his lips. after time passes, the woman next to his office finds her keys. she is in a hurry to leave tonight. she is having a small problem, one of potential growth if not nipped in the bud. as she mounts the city bus, she startles a young boy on the bus. today i am fed up with a notion of solidarity, she exclaims loudly. the young, frightened boy tries to ignore the woman. she looks directly at him, into his eyes and repeats herself more loudly. he snaps, give it a break and leave me alone, maam! she reaches her stop and quickly descends, scuttling down the steps. she continues in the direction of her destination until she is interrupted by a slight tickle in her throat. her left thigh as well begins to twitter. she stops, aghast at the force of reflexes. as she soothes her malcontent body, she sees her new co-worker across the street. he is deeply involved in a conversation, paying little attention to her twitching legs. he suggests to his friend a goodin his opinionlocation for completing a game of chess. for the next conversation he thinks of mentioning the same location. given it, the two part. he hums to himself, and she turns the corner on the sidewalk paving itself around a building. he grins, wickedly recounting the events. his mind makes leaps and bounds in no particular direction. his face stinks. she rises as the steps ascend to the top of the landscape. her fingers tingle. above all, there is a fog in the aira fog of complex lines, connecting to un-seeable counterpartssometimes deep in the earth and other times near the sky. her destination comes upon her suddenly. afterward, she returns to her office. he sees her troubled throat. he sees her reenter the office because she makes disturbing noises in it. his third day at a new job is clicking along in a stern and prudent
forge

1:2

winter

2007

35

manner. his eyes are fixed on his work. the supervisor glides past his desk and remarks, yes, he is doing a fine job! . . . he checks the box labeled excellentwhat success!i have hired a very intelligent one, i have! [meanwhile, she collects her thoughts to be able to contemplate her situation apart from her psychology. finding this to be quite difficult she consults a dictionary to clarify the meaning of a word. she probes her interior feelings yet is surprised by the lack of content. what is happening? she asks with no response. in the future, she is deciding to confuse the real and the imaginarywhat confoundment of sizeable proportion! the folly of it! great nuisance that is not expressed! the collective assemblages gather the energy and find bodies and mouths through which to make expression. the visible blocks the invisible with eyes being quite a culprit as well as the other senses. (remark that this is nothing new. how is it possible to live a metaphysical existence?)]

36

andrew

hill

lot

can

happen

in

five

minutes

Joseph Hergert
Entering the hotel, I found myself wiping off fog that had formed on my glasses due to the sub-zero tundra. Across the room I saw you sitting on a couch waiting for someone most likely. Can you believe this weather? My sorry attempt at a conversation starter must have worked. Our eyes locked and my face turned red, always a good sign. I sat down. And suddenly the laws of chemistry changed. Conversing with you, a stranger in a hotel lobby made me feel lucky and attractive in some important way.
forge

1:2

winter

2007

37

Those eyes with their piercing blues and grays, oozed with mystery and complexity, invited me to dinner without you even having to open your mouth. You looked young. Invincible. Poor. You must be tired of being sexy. Can I sit down? It took us about five minutes to get comfortable.

38

joseph

hergert

hidden

messages

Joseph Hergert
The heart beats and the whistle blows as the referee of the day to day takes a last minute look at his watch. His thick rimmed glasses cover face and brain, altering the images coming in and dictating their hidden messages back to the audience of one, twirling rainbows and bursts entering ears and exiting again straight as lines drawn by a ruler. The man stares back at me with pregnant eyes as if to tell me the hidden secret of this mess of abstraction and color, but holds back as if not to frighten me. But why should
forge

1:2

winter

2007

39

I be scared of something so familiar? Is there something hidden in that demented stare that should lead me to believe otherwise?

40

joseph

hergert

l.

Alexandra Barth
We sat on broken couches smoking cloves and drinking rum from the coca-cola bottles youd brought. I watched the scraggly kids while you cut in line to the bathroom to pull back your angel hair. When the show started we teetered at the edge of the stage, taking photographs, trying to seduce the boys and girls through khol-lined eyes. Driving home you turned the music loud, moving your skeleton hands to the beat and throwing your cigarette out the window as we flew onto the empty highway. We talked about our legs and waists and counted each orange streetlight through the airchilled window glass. When conversation grew thin, we grinned and licked our smoky lips.
forge

1:2

winter

2007

41

the
a

road

to

hell
tale

cautionary

Pippi van Slooten

three rulers of Zenith watched on their numerous monitors as screams rose from the flames engulfing the cities of Eutop. How had this happened? Eutop was more advanced than Zenith, not technologically, but culturally, spiritually. Eutop had always been a garden of learning where men played complex symphonies on stringed lyrs while women sang songs of heroes and love to eager young children. It was the children of Zenith who had always shielded themselves behind protective acres of strontium and ironex. Zeniths men had danced to the tune of a hammer against metal; its women practiced sniper skills, their silent babies strapped to their backs. Years before the bloodshed began, Julia, a Peacekeeper among the philosophers and artists of Eutop, warned the Council of Five that if they didnt build a properly trained army they would be prey to every distant land bearing even an inept warlord. After far too much deliberation by Julias standards, she was at last given funds to build a small self-defense force. But the army grew bored with drilling and training, so once more Julia, their patron saint of fire, went before the Council. No! Cisera, the eldest council women, looked to the heavens above the columns of the open air chamber and watched the fleets of Zenith-made warcraft perform complex aerial maneuvers. No, we are not conquerors. We are more . . . enlightened, more civilized
he

42

pippi

van

slooten

than our armor-plated cousins. Julia, being a holy warrior and a flyer herself, tried to stiffly humble herself before the Council. For her troopsand for her armorplated benefactorsshe bowed before the Council. Someday shed have to pay the piper for this, but not today. Then let us use our forces to intervene in other places, other wars, for humane relief. Cisera leaned forward in her marble chair. Dont you know, dear child, that once you ring the bell of violence, you cant un-ring it? Of course, dear councilwoman, but we are liberators, not conquerors, Julia stated easily, waving off the implications of power. Why let suffering continue to befall our kind when we have the ability yet not the will to stop it? Cassia, Ciceras younger sister but also a councilmember in her own right, tugged reluctantly on her elder sisters robe. You have lost this round, Sister. Let the fleets go free. We built them up; logic dictates that we might as well use them. Cicera absently nodded and waved the young Peacekeeper away to do as she would. That was ten cycles ago. They live in a world of fantasy, Bruston, the eldest ruler of Zenith shook his head, yet he too felt cold at the sight of Eutopi men slaughtering whole families. They were nave, despite the age of their culture, Raev, the youngest of the three lit a plantar bowl and slowly smoked the blue flame. Beauty is fleeting, only the strong survive. They were foolish, Chyniaus, the central ruler of Zenith said as he rubbed the festering scar along the side of his chest. He longed for the knowledge to save his own life that now would be lost forever. But we must save them. Raev stopped smoking his flame, and Bruston shifted uncomfortably in his metal throne. The darkness buried their shock, but the light of the monitor wall gave them a false illumination. Save them from what? Raev shook his head at the dying man. Everyone dies and then is replaced. Leave them to their own fate. Save them from whom? Bruston waved off the dire remark and tried to remain practical. They do this to themselves. We cannot sepforge

1:2

winter

2007

43

arate them like willful children. They must figure this out for themselves. We must save them . . . for later, Chyniaus laughed at the shortsightedness of his co-regents. He then wondered if Julias heart was a good match for his decaying body.

44

pippi

van

slooten

e p i s o d e

Elisabeth Melander
Previously in Erins Castle:
n her way home from work late one night, our protagonist Erin Michelson is kidnapped by two mysterious furry creatures. Rendered unconscious, she wakes to find herself face to face with a woman dressed in lab coat and goggles and holding a large syringe. Angry, bewildered and exhausted, Erin demands to know what is going on. The syringe-wielding woman introduces herself as Luciana Delorista Agrafena Nikolevna Sturmstein von Grunwald Zharinov Jones and insists that although she is a Mad Scientist, she isnt particularly evil. She offers Erin a job: that of castle mechanic. After receiving assurances that this isnt too evil, Erin agrees. Apparently the lazer-eyed robots of death are just fine, but the boiler needs work. Exiting the lab, Luciana calls for someone named Michael, and Erin is shocked to see a wolf creature similar to the ones that kidnapped her. Still, shes tired and Luciana seems honest, so Erin is willing to take things in stride. Hey, things may be weird, but at least theyre safe, right?
forge

1:2

winter

2007

45

46

elisabeth

melander

forge

1:2

winter

2007

47

48

elisabeth

melander

forge

1:2

winter

2007

49

50

elisabeth

melander

forge

1:2

winter

2007

51

52

elisabeth

melander

eggs

Sarah L. Schroeder
What would happen if I planted a fertilized dog egg in my uterus? Would a fuzzy little puppy grow in my tummy? No. Your immune system would dispose of the egg as if it were a dangerous bacterium. I dont believe you. Ill bet youve never tried it. No I havent, but I once tried to lure a baby emu out of its egg. I sat on that egg for nine weeks only taking breaks when I needed to use the bathroom. On Tuesday of the tenth week I gave up because it had been too long, and the egg smelled like rotten emu.

forge

1:2

winter

2007

53

at

work

Sarah L.Schroeder
Zookeeper, zookeeper. Im the zookeeper. I wear khaki shorts, a khaki shirt to match. Wind a brown belt around my hips, wrap my feet in hiking boots and tube socks. Zookeeper, zookeeper. Im the zookeeper, in charge of all the creatures here. I feed fish to seals and froggies to ducks, sneak under the stars to sleep with zebra-beasts. My sister was a hippie girl in shaggy skirts and unkempt braids. She said my love was a life of wrongs, that none of Gods creatures belonged in a cage. Zookeeper, zookeeper. Im the zookeeper. I throw my tigers flower child steaks. Now that woman makes justice from the big-cat droppings in which she doesnt live.

54

sarah

l. s c h r o e d e r

bubonic

plague

Sarah L. Schroeder
crops up like this: Some kindly widower manages a quiet farm. Where red barns shelter pink pigs and green tractors. In the beginning he owns a dog, but he usually stops loving that pet when it devours a she-rat, orphaning a nest of her babies. The widower takes his dogs brutal behavior personally. Age has made the lonely man so grey and strange that he is practically a rat himself. Enraged, he shoots his dog and tackles the task of raising those poor, motherless ratlings. He becomes a champion of their species. Soon his farm is so friendly to rats that they live everywhere: in the barns, the silos, the tractors, and even in the house where the old man sleeps. Of course this situation is rather dangerous. Luckily, the kindly widower lives in an age of antibiotics.

forge

1:2

winter

2007

55

the

bones

of

knight

harris

chapter

1:

anthem

Grant Anderson
he parade rounded the corner like a glittering, cacophonous serpent, the veterans at its head. They ranged from middle aged to ancient, male to female, and human to alien. Some wore crisply pressed new uniforms and kept perfect step with the echoing beat of the marching band. Others wore their threadbare vintage service issue with equal pride, and followed no step but their own. A smiling human man strode with his peaked cap tilted at a jaunty angle, waving some sort of riding crop at the restless crowd. Shining medals on brightly colored ribbons bounced against his chest with each step. The people gathered on either curb did not know or care whether he was a general or simply an overdressed private. Behind the dapper human marched an Aldren fellow in a wrinkled olive uniform that smelled as if it had been in a damp attic since the end of the war. He was both shorter and leaner than the human, with a rounded, hairless cranium and skin the color of a summer storm. His wide blue eyes sparkled like a troubled sea, revealing an inner turmoil. He marched rigidly, unaware of the fanfare about him. A close observer might have noticed that his long, slender fingers clenched often, as though they longed for the comfort of the weapon they once held. He stared straight ahead, as if he were marching to the sounds of gunshots and screams instead of music and ovation. Behind the strolling, shambling, and occasionally marching veterans rumbled a ground tractor with a Martian flag mounted next to

56

grant

anderson

its shaking smokestack. The growling machine towed a wide flat trailer festooned with the national colors. Veterans who had lost arms, legs or their minds to the war sat on precariously balanced chairs that wobbled every time the tractor lurched forward, threatening to dump their occupants. The leathery hands of the veterans dipped into buckets of treats, which they showered liberally on the delighted crowd lining both curbs. Children darted out onto the street to collect the candy, toy badges and small Martian flags, but retreated just as quickly from the sharp crack of the firecrackers that fell from the back of the trailer. A whole box of the small explosives sat in the lap of a one-legged Lieutenant who sang and shouted as he lit and tossed his miniature warheads. He had spent the war behind a desk, and lost his leg in a factory accident years later. The veterans who had seen combat, or had at least been shelled a few times, revealed themsleves by involuntarily flinching each time a firecracker exploded. But not a man or woman among them made any attempt to dampen the desk warriors spirits. Though the veterans may not have had two matching uniforms among them, they all wore an identical smile. Behind the flatbed marched a color guard of fresh Martian recruits in matching red-trimmed olive uniforms. They marched in perfect step with serious looks upon their faces. They were mostly young, male and human, lacking the diversity that necessity had forced upon the Martian forces during the war. The color guard held aloft the flag of the Martian Republic, a red sphere trimmed in blue and set against a black background. Next came a series of variations on that theme, each representing the army, space navy and home guard units that had served. A few of the units were still recruiting, but many had been disbanded during the years of peace. The last few men of the color guard carried flags captured from Terran units, tilted down across their chests to trail on the pavement. Behind them, a garishly overdressed military band struck up the Martian Anthem. Red for our soil and Blue for our sky, Black for the honor of heroes who died, Never to forget those spirits who roam, Who gave all for family, planet and home.

forge

1:2

winter

2007

57

 From her office window on the second floor of the Terran Embassy, Lady Lince Voorhaven watched with interest. She had heard the Martian Independence Day parade every May Second since she had been assigned as Earths ambassador to Mars. But this Independence Day, the twentieth anniversary of the Treaty of Towns End, was the first time the parade had marched past the Embassy. The crowd of revelers lined the street as far as the eye could see, except for the sidewalk in front of the Embassy. The entire planet had once been the domain of the Earth, but now only these two acres remained under Terran control. As such, they were an unwelcoming place for displays of Martian national pride. A tall fence surrounded the embassys lawn, and a pair of greyuniformed guards faced eachother across the only gate. They wore round caps with black bills and held rifles with chromed bayonets gleaming in the midday sun. As Lady Voorhaven watched, the flatbed full of disabled veterans crawled past the gate. The firecracker Lieutenant made a rude gesture towards the guards, and lobbed one of his noisemakers in their direction. It landed a few inches away from the polished boots of the soldier on the left, who did not so much as blink when the firecracker burst. Lady Voorhaven imagined his thoughts. You go right ahead, sir. March along waving your flags and singing your anthem. In less than five years, the Terran army will land in overwhelming force, and blasts more formidable than a firecracker will herald our arrival. Well march down this very street dragging your flags in the dirt. Like the grey uniforms, such sentiments were issued to all Terran soldiers who enlisted. Since the Anthro Socialist Party had come to power five years ago, earth had started a program of mass rearmament. Turning her chair away from the window, Lady Voorhaven glanced at the portrait of Lewis Themond, the Domnus of the new government. He had handpicked her for this job for two reasons. The first, as he had told Lady Voorhaven personally, was that as a diplomat, she had a very light touch. She seldom spoke much above a whisper, and made no demands of the Martian government. Her mannerisms were regal and refined, but without the overbearing attitude that often accompanied nobility. She was tall and slender, with blond hair formed neatly into a bun just above the back of her neck. When she was at a conference, she wore linen robes of soft neutral colors. The 58
grant anderson

fine facial lines of middle age completed the image of a kind but resolute ancient Roman matron. The second reason that Domnus Themond had sent her to Mars was her ability to quickly and accurately judge the character of her professional opponents. If she found any weaknesses in Mars diplomatic team, she could pass them on to her successor. For the moment, her objective was to placate the Martian government, and perpetuate the lie that Earth was still in full compliance with the Treaty of Towns End. In many ways, she felt that she was the last hope for reconciliation between the worlds. She had made some progress toward that goal. Trade between the two planets was at an all time high. Lady Voorhaven had helped persuade the Martian Parliament to reduce tariffs on goods imported from Earth. She had convinced them that they simply could not afford to withhold trade with Earth. What other market did they have that was only a fraction of a light-year away? Despite the mutual economic dependence between the worlds, today the Martian people were making a clear demonstration that they were proud to be independent from Earth. From somewhere in the sky over the parade, red, black and blue pieces of confetti began to fall on the crowd like discolored snow. It landed on the embassys finely cut lawn, and on the hats and shoulders of the motionless guards by the gate. Everyone along the street craned their necks and waved at the sky. Lady Voorhaven had to leave her chair and lean out the window to see what they were waving at. It was an old Martian escort tempest, spewing confetti out of a hatch on its bow that had once been a gun port. Suspended in the air by its lift-gas system, the armored war machine floated along with an ease that belied its seventy-ton weight. Like most tempests, it was built along the lines of a water-borne ship. Its underside was smooth and rounded, featureless but for some hatches that had been painted shut years ago. Their original purpose had been to drop explosives or other nasty things on the ships hapless victims below. Lady Voorhaven could not see the top of the tempest, but she knew that it featured either a smooth armored shell, like a turtle, or an open deck arranged to house mortars or other large equipment. The retired warships current paintjob was a friendly candy apple red, and she could see through the chips and scratches that it had been a bright yellow
forge

1:2

winter

2007

59

before that. But she also knew that somewhere, beneath all the cheerful civilian coats of color, was the cold, neutral gunship grey that the tempest had started its life with. That sort of paint could never be removed. As the vessels shadow passed over the crowd, so too passed a shiver of nervous energy. For the young, it was the grisly thought of the meaty pancakes they would surely become if somehow all six of the tempests lift-gas tanks lost their pressure. For the old, it was the memory of the terrible purpose the machine had been built for, and the fate of those who fell beneath the shadow of a tempest twenty years ago. With a hissing blast from the propulsion jets in its stern, the vessel coasted past the embassy. Lady Voorhaven could see a banner hanging from its stern, wishing everyone in the crowd a Happy Independence Day, and reminding them that for a reasonable rate, the Vogelman moving company was at their service to move entire houses wherever they wished. Above the banner was an open deck sporting large cranes and spools of thick cable. In a strange way, Lady Voorhaven found the sight comforting. She remembered her last official visit to a Martian army base near the city of Harlanding. Most of the weapons and equipment that the Martians carried and trained with were of the same sad vintage as that now harmless tempest. The parade was a hollow display, touting a military might that no longer existed. With all her work on disarmament treaties, Lady Voorhaven supposed she could take a bit of credit for that. After the tempest passed, a squadron of ground-rolling street sweepers filled the air with the whine of their vacuums. As if disheartened by the noise, the crowd began to disperse. The confetti, burst fireworks and uncollected candy vanished in the wake of the shining white machines of civil cleanliness. The street cleaners were so thorough in their ministrations that little evidence of the parade remained in their wake. Only the Terran sentinels were still generously flecked with the confetti, but true to their nature, neither man made any move to brush it off. Perhaps to them it was just like snow or rain, a natural element that existed only to be stoically ignored. The more professional elements of her mind recalled the stack of extradition requests on her desk that needed to be individually read 60
grant anderson

and approved, and she was about to leave her window when an unusual sight caught her eye. As if they had been a part of the parade, but couldnt keep up, a horse and rider rounded the corner. Out in the Martian countryside a horse would have been a familiar sight. But whether used for work or recreation, most horses that Lady Voorhaven had seen were well-groomed and fed. Even from this distance, she could see the poor creatures ribs. The dapple grey ambled down the street swaying as if drunk. It was still too far to tell, but Lady Voorhaven could imagine that its hide was mangy, flea-bitten, and surrounded by a perpetual cloud of flies. The rider didnt appear to be in much better shape. He looked as though he may have been a tall man at one time, now hunched over and humbled by age or sorrow. He wore a round hat with a wide brim that extended out to his shoulders, concealing his face from her second story vantage. The hat may have been brown once, but the sun had faded it to the color of sand. The atmosphere of Mars was thinner than that of Earth, and the effects of solar radiation on clothing and skin much stronger. Lady Voorhaven herself never so much as crossed the street without a parasol during the day. The riders long coat was patched with mismatched material on the elbows and shoulders, and frayed along its bottom edge. Like his hat, it had been bleached from black to a pale grey. Beneath it hung a pair of leather boots, caked in rust-colored mud that was quickly baking in the midday sun. Must have gotten lost, she thought to herself as the rider approached the embassy. Curiously, he did not pass by. Instead, he seemed to be guiding his sorry steed directly to the gate. He swung himself down easily from the dingy saddle and turned to face the building. He looked up directly at Lady Voorhaven and pinched the brim of his hat. She pretended not to notice, but her mind recorded the image of his white beard and sharp brown eyes. The man then turned his attention to the guards at the gate. He asked the man on the left a question and was predictably ignored. He repeated his question with a few gestures, pointing towards the embassy. When he was again rebuffed, he turned to the second guard. Looking the soldier up and down, he remained quiet, unwilling to waste his breath. He took the horses reins in one hand and looked about for a place to tie them up. Not seeing any hitching posts handy, the man looped the reins
forge

1:2

winter

2007

61

over the soldiers shining bayonet. With a precise, mechanical motion, the sentinel removed the filthy leather strap from his rifle. As he did so, a flurry of confetti fell from his arm and shoulder. The homely man peered closely at the guard. He reached out and brushed some more bits of paper from the mans shoulder, shaking his head and muttering as if he were a drill sergeant scolding a private for a dirty uniform. The neglected horse wandered up onto the curb, and began helping itself to some much needed nourishment from the section of lawn that extended past the embassys formidable fence. Lady Voorhaven lifted the heavy receiver of her office phone, and dialed her secretary. Legend suggested that long ago on Earth, men made phones so advanced that they fit inside your ear, and let you talk to anyone in the world just by thinking about them. Lady Voorhaven didnt have much faith in these legends. Such stories also held that ancient man walked on Mars, and found it a dead planet with nothing to drink or breathe. After one and a half rings, the man in the next room picked up. Terran Embassy, Rafe Skinar speaking, He had been her secretary for over a year now. Mr. Skinar we seem to have a beggar at the front gate. Would you please go direct him to the shelter over on Eighth Street? She didnt need to tell him that the guards wouldnt do it. Their function was almost purely ornamental. The real security for the embassy was stationed inside the building. Ill go take care of it, Madam. This wasnt the first time that a Martian passerby had failed to take the hint from the stony countenance of the guards at the gate. Lady Voorhaven placed the first of the extradition requests in the middle of her desk and began reading. She was working on the third page when the phone rang. This is ambassador Voorhaven. Madam, its me again. We may have a problem with the beggar. Rafe Skinar sounded very unsure of himself when he spoke. Am I to understand that security cant resolve the problem? Well, I could have them haul this, uh, gentleman, away, but Im not sure it would be a good idea. Rafe, speak freely. 62
grant anderson

The man at the gate says that hes an emissary. I asked him whom he represents, and he wouldnt say. But he handed me an envelope labeled Terran Violations of the Treaty of Towns End and asked me to give it to the ranking security officer. So, I turned it over to Lieutenant Vaughn. He started reading it and his face turned red. Vaughn told me to tell you that we may have an intelligence crisis. Krikor Vaughn is an intelligence crisis, she thought to herself. So, shall I assume that Lieutenant Vaughn is wiring a copy of this letter to the capital? He didnt say. You know how these TerSec boys operate. Did this emissary make any demands? No Maam. But he said he wants to speak to you. I suppose he intends to take his conspiracy theories public if you refuse to see him. That was no surprise. Threat of scandal was always a good way to gain attention. Lady Voorhaven decided that the mans list must be taken seriously for now, until Terran Security could get a look at it. Rafe, have the man escorted up to my office. Rafe didnt answer right away. Youre sure you want to see him? Yes. I want to size him up. I can smell a lie at thirty paces. And, Rafe? Madam? Make sure he wipes his boots before he comes in. Lince Voorhaven took a quiet moment to gather her thoughts. If this man really was a serious threat to the Terran State, she would soon know. She had made a few mistakes in her lifeher marriage, for onebut misjudging the character of an opponent had not been among them. She put the extradition request on her desk back on the stack it came from, and put the entire stack in one of the cavernous drawers on her oversized desk. The desk had come with the office. Her predecessor must have been a man who felt that size matters when it came to furniture. She heard the muffled squeaks of footsteps on the hallway carpeting. Here we go. There were two heavy knocks on the door. Come in. The first thing she noticed was his pure white hair, gathered into
forge

1:2

winter

2007

63

a single ponytail that terminated somewhere beneath the back of his collar. His beard was the same color, but more conservatively trimmed. The man held his hat in his hand, displaying fingers that looked like no amount of washing would ever get all the dirt out of the cracks. His brown eyes sparkled from darkened sockets under a heavy, wrinkled brow. His complexion was very dark, but whether his heritage or the merciless effects of Martian sunlight caused that, she could not tell. She met his gaze, and immediately made up her mind that whatever else he may be, he was not a foolish man. He spoke first. Lady Lince Voorhaven, Terran Ambassador to Mars. His voice was low and gravelly, and the tone was not quite correct for either a statement or a question. She decided it must have been a question. Yes, I am the ambassador. Ah, good! The man helped himself to one of the chairs in front of the desk and propped his feet on the other chair. Lady Voorhaven could see that he hadnt wiped his boots very well. And you are . . . ? Tired! Its a long ride from Planum Town for an old man. Anyway, I suppose youd like to know why Im bothering you. Her first instinct was to say that it was no bother, but since that really wasnt the truth, she simply replied, Indeed. I need you to arrange a nice civil-like meeting between myself and General Naka of the Human Improvement Division. That was it, then. He wanted to skip the representatives and public relations and go straight to the boss of Terran government research. Lady Voorhaven knew things were never that simple with the Anthro Socialist Government, and she was sure that this man knew so as well. I see. You mentioned that you are an emissary. Whom shall I tell General Naka you represent? Some folks who wish to remain anonymous. He smiled. His teeth may have been the only clean items he possessed. Sir, if you wont tell me who you represent, could you at least tell me what you wish to discuss with General Naka? He nodded and spread his hands in a gesture of conciliation. Im not giving you much to work with, am I? I want to see General 64
grant anderson

Naka about the release of a certain prisoner of war. The diplomatic answer to that was one that Lady Voorhaven had memorized. It came out sounding almost rehearsed. The Terran government is not currently holding any prisoners of war. In accordance with the Treaty of Towns End, all prisoners were returned Actually, he interrupted, earth does have a bunch of prisoners that it has no right to hold. He withdrew a few folded sheets of paper from his coat. Its all right here. Murders, sabotage operations, informants and spy rings. Prisoners are on page two, I believe. She unfolded the paper and took her first look at the list of allegations. It read: Partial List of Illegal Activities Carried Out by the Pact Anthro Government of Earth: 1 Martian Parliament minority leader Lew Sahak kidnapped by Human Universal Nationalist agents on April 12th. Shot twice in the head and buried under the corner of 77th and Dornis street in the city of Harlanding. 2 Second Class General Jaroslav Treminsky of the Martian Armys Forty Second Infantry division is a Terran sympathizer, whose parents were loyalists during the war. He has used his own base radio to transmit military secrets too other Terran agents both on Mars and in orbit. 3 Lieutenant Commander Emile Dachiross of the Human Universal Nationalists will be leading a mission on Martian soil sometime this month. The objective of his unit is to destroy the battle cruiser Ares Wrath which is currently under construction at the Holman shipyard. If any these allegations were true, they could could be easily investigated. She set the list on the desk and returned her attention to the man, who was examining his fingernails. So if you are not granted audience with General Naka, you intend to take this list to the press? He raised his eyebrows as if the thought had not occurred to him. I suppose I could do that. But if I dont get in touch with Naka, I plan to give the complete list to the Martian Internal Security Bureau, and a copy to the Galactic Union.
forge

1:2

winter

2007

65

The moment of silence that followed was tense enough that when the phone rang, they both jumped. Please excuse me for a moment. Lady Voorhaven picked up the receiver. The white haired man rose and gave a stiff-backed bow before ambling to the other side of the office, his boots leaving a trail of crumbled red dirt on the carpet. He came to rest next to the portrait of Domnus Themond, and appeared to study it with distaste. It was Lieutenant Krikor Vaughn on the phone. What do we know? she asked him in a low voice as she watched the old man out of the corner of her eye. The capital wired back. TerSec Master Command has authorized the immediate arrest of the supposed emissary for questioning. Her mind raced as the security chief spoke. Whether completely accurate or not, the list was an indicator of a serious breach in TerSecs communications. If she could keep the white haired man talking, she may learn more. She lowered her voice further and cupped a hand over the receiver. May I remind you, Lieutenant, that all emissaries on embassy property are under the protection of diplomatic immunity? Has he told you who he represents? No, he has not. Well then, the Terran State is not required to recognize him as an emissary. Is the man still in your office? Yes, she said as quietly and calmly as possible. She hadnt given much thought to her personal safety up until this point. Well come get him, just stay calm. He neednt have told her that part. She raised her volume and casually said, Very good, thank you. She returned the phone to its receiver, and the man turned and walked back towards her, with a quizzical expression upon his weathered face. He raised his arms and spread them wide with open palms to the ceiling. That list of his is a big hoax! Throw that filthy bum back out on the street! Is that what he told you? Lady Voorhaven was taken aback by the mans sudden theatrics, and simply stared at him with her mouth half open. He continued forward until he was leaning over her desk with his wrinkled hands on the polished wood. Much more softly, he continued, Or did he tell you that every word is true, and 66
grant anderson

there will be hell to pay if it falls into the right hands? Before she could think of an answer, he turned his head sideways. They could both hear the muffled thuds of heavy, booted feet pounding down the hallway. The man straightened up to his full height, which was a few inches more than Lady Voorhaven had estimated. With his shoulders back and feet squared, he assumed a posture not at all unlike that of the stone sentinels at the embassys gate. Maam, that simply will not do. He reached towards the back of his neck, under the collar of his coat. He gripped something and began pulling upwards. Its a weapon, she thought, didnt security think to check him for a weapon? A black cord-wrapped handle with what looked like a small flask at its end rose from behind his white mane. Then a blade emerged, the color of a coal mine at midnight. The cutting edge gleamed a dull titanium color under the office lights. She was beginning to think that diving under her desk would be an excellent idea, if only her nerves could convince her muscles to make it happen. But the man whirled on his heel to face the door, and arrived there in the time it took her to blink. She expected him to charge into the hall with sword raised, to meet the tide of Terran Security men head on. Instead, he pushed the door shut and locked it with his free hand. Taking a step back, he raised the wicked looking weapon above his right shoulder in a ready position. The tip of the blade hit one of the hanging lights, which swung crazily. Lady Voorhaven noticed a small nozzle near the tip of the sword, facing away from the cutting edge. She had seen a demonstration before with a similar weapon. She couldnt remember what that type of sword was called, but she did remember to cover her ears. As the man began his downward swing, his thumb pressed a trigger on the weapons hilt. With a terrific report, a gout of blue-white flame issued from the nozzle on the back of the blade. Aiding the mans effort, it burned an arc of light into Lady Voorhavens retinas. When she opened her eyes, she saw that the sword had buried itself deeply in the thick wood of the door and the doorjamb. A thin wisp of smoke curled from the weapons ignition nozzle, and the acrid smell of combusted metoline filled the office. She realized that she was trapped in here with him. As the ringing in her ears subsided, she could hear shouts in the hallway, and the thumps of rifle butts hitting the heavy door. The
forge

1:2

winter

2007

67

man straightened up and turned to face her, his face dancing in the glow of the still-swinging light fixture. She half expected to see a gun in his hand as he advanced on her, but instead he pointed an accusatory finger in her direction. His took a slow, deep breath before he spoke. Lady Voorhaven, I fully expected you to be rude or condescending. But I would not have come here if I thought you were stupid. I specifically told you that I am here representing certain persons. These certain persons are even now awaiting my return. If I dont report back to them within the hour that I have a meeting with General Naka, they will convey the complete list to the Martian Government. I know you think that Earth can lick the whole galaxy one planet at a time, but youre not ready for everyone all at once! He was shouting now. Threats and rhetoric were familiar territory to Lady Voorhaven. She leaned over her desk and returned his cold-eyed stare. You are bluffing. He seated himself in the chair that he had started in. Thats possible. But what if Im not bluffing? That, Maam, is a chance that a woman in your position simply cannot afford to take. He reached to the desk and slid the phone a few inches closer to her. Its your call, Maam. With that, he folded his hands in his lap and studied them. Hes right, she thought as she dialed her secretary. Damn him for it, but hes right. When Mr. Skinar answered the phone, he naturally assumed that she was being held hostage. It took several minutes of patience and some carefully repeated code phrases before he agreed to pass on Lady Voorhavens orders to the Security Chief. The voices in the hall dwindled to murmurs and the door pounding ceased. She put the phone back on its hook. She allowed her contempt to show as she addressed the man. Youre holding a knife to the throat of Mother Earth, and all you want is to speak with General Naka? What are you really after? I want a certain prisoner released into my custody. On Earths continent of Merca, there is a vast desert in the southwest corner. In the center of that desert is a geological mystery known locally as the Sea of Glass. I will meet General Naka there at noon on Friday. Ill be coming alone. He can bring an army if he wishes to, but those I 68
grant anderson

represent will expect me to return unharmed. Lady Voorhaven pulled a scheduling form out of her desk and began filling it out. If you wont tell me your name, whom shall I tell General Naka he is to negotiate with? The man stroked his beard thoughtfully. Truth be told, Ive never been good with names. Just make up something mysterious sounding. He glanced at the wall clock. Id better get going before they get anxious. I hope we meet again under more pleasant circumstances. He rose from his chair slowly, almost regally. For a moment, Lady Voorhaven thought that with the excitement over, his age had caught up with him. But he moved with ease to the door and put his shoulder under the handle of the sword to pry it loose. The weapon squeaked as it came free, dropping splinters onto the carpet. Sorry about your door, Maam. It would have been civil for her to say something by way of parting, but she couldnt think of anything appropriate, and this encounter had not exactly inspired civility. As the door swung open, she saw the security men lining the hallway, leveling their clean, modern machine pistols at the white haired man. They parted like the Red Sea as he passed through and disappeared around the corner. A peculiar numbness manifested in the base of Lady Voorhavens neck, and began spreading upward from there. She put her elbows on the desk and her head in her hands. She could feel her pulse pounding in her temples. Krikor Vaughn had entered the office unnoticed, and finally decided to speak. Youre going to tell me we cant follow him either, arent you? Lady Voorhaven peeked out from between white knuckled fingers, looking at the paternally stern portrait of Domnus Themond. We had to let him go. There was no other option. That information could destroy everything weve worked so hard to build. Lieutenant Vaughn folded his arms. TerSec will be howling for that mans blood. I am not taking responsibility for releasing him. Nobodys asking you to. Ill fill out the reports myself. We did the right thing. You dont have to like it.
forge

1:2

winter

2007

69

He followed her gaze to the portrait. Im more worried about whether or not he likes it, muttered Krikor Vaughn, mostly to himself.
end of chapter

70

grant

anderson

the

barn

Elizabeth Milliken
p ril 18, 1996. Around me lies a scene of utter desolation. Piles of straw still smolder here and there; blackened and twisted pens are hard to distinguish from charred skeletons. The air is thick with the scent of roast pork: not the pleasant smell of a church picnic, but the nauseating stench of 200 pigs burned alive. The agonized, dying squeals of those pigs still ring in my ears; and yet there is a strange, eerie silence. Shadow, a wiry old gray cat, meows and rubs against my leg. I am relieved to see her. I was afraid the old girl had been in the barn. I reach down to pet her soot-covered fur and am transported back to the past when the majestic barn dominated the farmyard. My memory walks across the yard to the barn. As usual I am soon joined by my entourage of kitty followers, their soft little faces gazing up at me expectantly, waiting for the pat and the scratch under the chin that they know is coming. As I reach the sewage ditch I hold my breath and walk across on the plank provided expressly for this purpose. My shadows, of course, follow me, their friendly tails held high as they trip lightly across the narrow board. I now begin winding my way through the maze of fences toward my destination. Dad sees me coming and waves. He looks like a typical farmer: dirty gray coveralls, mud-encrusted boots, and a seed corn cap. He is fixing a fence of some sort, using bailing wire and duck tape, a farmers most versatile tools! Mickey, the dog, ecstatically comes to greet me, scattering my friends of the feline persuasion.

forge

1:2

winter

2007

71

Mick likes cats, but cats dont like him. Mickey is a funny looking mutt. His stubby legs work furiously to propel his rotund body. His long black fur is matted with a smelly substance (I dont care to guess what), yet his warm, chocolate eyes and a wide, doggy grin make the filthy thing irresistible. He happily trots beside me as if to say, Im so glad you could join us today; let me show you around! He is a fitting guide, for I am unable to separate my animal friends from the entire atmosphere of the barn. As I finally reach the barn I notice that it needs a new coat of paint, but the pigs dont care what it looks like so painting never seems to get done. I lean all my weight into pulling on the huge, heavy door. It slowly groans open, releasing a cloud of dust and a sparrow or two who scold me for disturbing their home. As I step inside I am assaulted with the overwhelming and unmistakable odor of pig. Looking around, one can tell that this was once a very profitable farm. The barn is immense. In the past there were stalls for draft horses and dairy cows, but they have been converted into pigpens. One side is for young, newly weaned pigs and the other for sows and their new litters. Most people think of a farm as quiet, but a barn is actually one of the noisiest places I know. My ears are bombarded with a chorus of squeals and grunts. There is a constant stirring and rustling as a sow shifts in her sleep or piglets struggle for a spot at the milk bar. I walk down the aisle, looking into the pens on either side. In one the family is asleep. I am unable to determine which head belongs to which foot or tail in the tangled pile. In the next a fight breaks out as brother piglet steals sister piglets favorite nipple. At the outraged squeals that ensue mama sow grunts sternly as if to say, Dont make me come back there! Across the row there is an eruption of scattering piglets as mama stands up to get a drink. I leave the nursery and head over to the newly weaned youngsters. They come forward in their pens, making inquisitive noises as to who has entered their domain. I stick my booted foot through the bars and let them nose and chew on it gently. Mickey licks ones nose. The surprised pig grunts and runs to the back, then glares accusingly at the grinning dog. This starts a stampede of pigs running every which way. They arent quite sure why theyre runningbut there must be a reason. 72
elizabeth milliken

I step out the back door and am greeted by the steady clang, crash, clang, of the feeders. This sound continues twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Again, whoever says that farms are quiet has obviously never been to one! I begin to climb the ladder to the haymow, my favorite place. Mickey gazes up at me sadly and slowly trots back to Dad (he has never quite mastered the art of climbing ladders). As I reach the top I inhale the friendly scent of hay and promptly start sneezing. I am allergic to grass and dust so the haymow always makes me sick, but I dont care. I still love it! Shadow hears me sneezing and sleepily emerges from the nest she has made for herself and her kittens. She slowly stretches in every direction and gracefully hops down to see me. She seems pleased that I am here. She has been lonely. But she isnt the only reason I am here. I know that she has a new batch of kittens hidden somewhere, and from the tiny mews emanating from the hay bales in the corner I know I have now found them. I peer into the nest and see a ball of soft bodies. Here and there a sleepy eye peers out at me. I estimate there are around 5 or 6 kittens, but curled up as they are it is hard to tell. As I reach in to pick one up, my hand is met by an explosion of spits and hisses. I dont mind; ignoring the needlelike claws digging into my hand, I take one by the scruff of the neck and start petting it. It soon decides that this isnt scary, its actually quite pleasant, and settling in my arms falls fast asleep. Shadow insistently bumps her head against my leg. I am not paying enough attention to her. As I stoop down to scratch her ear I realize I am no longer in the pleasant haymow of the past, but back in the nightmare of the present. The charred remains of the barn of my memories smolder around me. For the first time in my life there is silence here; it all seems strangely unreal without the clang of feeders and the grunts of pigs. I am still in shock. Was it only yesterday that the barn caught fire? It feels like years ago, and yet only minutes. I shade my eyes as I gaze across the charred barn yard. Dad smiles sadly and waves, then stops short as he finds himself heading to a phantom barn to get something he no longer has. Mickey, happy at merely being allowed to follow his master around again after being shut safely away yesterday bumps into dads legs and grins at him sheepishly. Well, I guess some things always stay the same.

forge

1:2

winter

2007

73

september manchester

11, 2005
england

Jonathan Winston Jones

Breakfast will be served in 7 minutes: Beans slopped onto plates, Running onto and mingling with The pink ham and fried eggs While the folks shove the beans, The eggs, the ham into their mouths And wait for the next moment of Breathing, then munching. They taste without understanding Why what they are chewing is Coarse and fleshy, delicious and filling. I knew then what drives hunger, Pain, and desire for every bite Brings us back into the body to Haunt the minds true presence, The veins pulsing with our old blood, And the heart brought low with The debts of love. 74
jonathan winston jones

But we can eat beans and ham, Bread smeared with jelly and Oatmeal topped with honey. We let the milk dribble down Our collars and sample yogurt While it drips from the spoon.

forge

1:2

winter

2007

75

blues
chapter

from

gun
punchline

1:

t h a t s

the

Bryan Pedersen
a lking through the glass door, I trade the chilly night air for the smoky din that is The Ellipses. Its early enough that one of the booths against the back wall of this narrow dive is still open, but I make my way to the bar first. My man, Elton, the bartender with the old time pompadour, greets me. I order my beer and ask him how his night is going. Right here is good, Wex. You know, put me behind a bar and stuff makes sense. And the rest of your life . . . I lift my glass. Is complicated. Elton pulls a towel from a belt loop on his denim jumpsuit, the kind gas station attendants wore fifty years ago, and wipes wet rings and dirty ash from the counter top. And I fucking hate complicated. I watch him and wait, take another drink. Finally I say, You need help with something. Its not a question. He makes this half shrug and meanders down the far side of the bar. Spends the next few minutes dumping more ash trays, clearing empty bottles and mugs, pours a beer for a young hipster straining to evoke Elvis Costello with his plastic black frames. I take another drink and continue to wait for him to work his way back here. Checking my watch I see its still early enough. Elton wastes a little more of my time. He pours a few more drinks

76

b r y a n

p e d e r s e n

and changes a couple of bills for the guys hogging the pool table, so I let myself enjoy the music. This is the only bar I know of that ditched jukeboxes and in-house DJs for the radio. Not just any station, though, but 89.1 KXYZ, The End. And I dont tell Elton this, but thats easily the best part of his bar. Im halfway through my beer when he finally finds his way back. He points at my drink. Now you see your glass there, he says. Some people would see that and think its half full. Others, they think half empty. Okay. Me, I look at that glass and what Im thinking is my accountants fucking me over. And now weve gotten somewhere. You spend enough time around the same sort of people and it doesnt take much, but eventually the little stories paint a picture for them of who you are. For people like Elton, Im the sort of guy that can maybe help him out. I see, I say. Elton bought this bar about two years ago. Before he did so I knew him only as the likeable rockabilly bartender with unrealistic superstar dreams. Truth is I didnt care too much for this place back then, before Elton took it over. Id only stop in occasionally to meet someone for work. The Ellipsis was too trendy, too busy, packed with the sort of college kids that spent too much time in the gym and not enough in the classroom. It was an annoying crowd, bad music, simply your shitty and generic college bar. But that changed when Elton quit his band and bought this place. He yanked out the Top 40 infested jukebox, got rid of the weekly karaoke train wreck and the nightly drink specials, basically made it customer unfriendly. Now, I love it. Sure, it may have cost him half his business, but it made me a regular. Well, that and the music. I mean, I know Im not making money hand over fist here, he says, but Christ, Wex, something aint right. He leans forward and lowers his voice. Ive got checks bouncing. Beer distributors getting pissed. If I cant pay those guys . . . You tried talking to him? Sure, but hes got excuses and I got no proof.
forge

1:2

winter

2007

77

Maybe you should do your own books. Shit, man, thats not really my thing, you know? Me and numbers? Beside, Im already parked behind this rail fifty hours a week as it is. Fire him. Hire someone new. I tip the mug back, finish it off, watch him fidget, see he doesnt like that idea. But how would you know you could trust the new guy? Plus, you know, this fucker, way I figure it, he owes me. I dont know how much, but I figure its gotta be plenty by now. So you want me to talk him? Talk? Shit man, if thats all it takes. I dont know what to do, just thought that you might, maybe you might know. Theres part of me that wants to look him in his needy hound dog eyes and simply say, Whats in it for me? But I dont. Not because Im a giver, but because those desperate eyes say plenty, beginning with how Ill never pay for another drink in this place again. So I give him a nod and tap my empty mug, wait for him to refill it before telling him that Im going to need to know who hes talking about. Elton answers by pulling the mans business card from his pocket. The fact that he had it ready like that pisses me off a little bit, but I take it and move to the empty booth. The sound of thank-yous bounce off my back as I go. Im still early so I wait, but its not so bad. I planned it this way. Besides The End is here to keep me company. I sit and wait, sip my drink, making it last, and as the songs shift from The Jesus and Mary Chain to The Walkmen I check out the rest of the people in the bar, always staying conscious of the door. Its not too long before Jumble walks in, and Im a little surprised to see hes still wearing the jacket and cap. He sees me and smiles and anyone else would look in his eyes and swear hes high on something. But I know what it is, young kid like that, night like his, its pure adrenaline. You can tell hes trying to play it cool but hes a hell of a lot closer to giddy than smooth by the time he sits across from me. Sup, Wex? Hell, hes practically beaming. Take off that hat, I say under my breath. K. Underneath it his bleached and brittle blonde hair juts in all 78
b r y a n p e d e r s e n

directions. He runs his hand quickly back and forth over it a few more times to get the look just how he likes it. Better? You kept on the hat and jacket? Its cold outside. Like, twenty degrees, man. You couldnt find anything more distinctive, anything else that might stay in peoples minds? His smile starts to fade and I stop. Not because Im harshing his buzz but because lessons are pointless now. Take it off. Jumble strips off the red satin jacket with the big pizza on the back and lays it over the bright red ball cap next to him on the bench. Sorry, Wex. You wanna know how it went? If youre here now, with me, there had better be no doubt as to how it went. Tina walks by and glances at me so I order for the kid. When she comes back I tip her a five for the free drink. Just because Elton owes me now doesnt mean Tina does. After glancing around to make sure theres nobody that might overhear us, Jumble says, That was my first, Wex. I know it was, kid. The kids name is Maxwell Besson, Junior. His dad had been a coworker of mine for quite some time, and all of us at the office got to know his son with the stammer, Little Max, which is what we called him when he really was just a kid. But that eventually became Junior, and then Junior became June, and then one of Bobbys meaner twists took to calling him Jumble because of the way the kid used to stutter and jumble up his words when he was nervous. His dad hated that name, so of course its the one that stuck. See, the kids dad, Maxwell Besson the Senior, he was a prick. After Jumbles dad died he kept coming around. Hes one of those kids that spent so much time around adults, not being taken particularly seriously. All he ever wanted was to be liked and accepted, so he tried real hard, smiled, took lots of shit, and eventually became respected as a highly functioning lap-dog. Lately Jumble has started getting more legit jobs to handle, and ever since hes become a little bit annoying. His eyes a little too bright, his tail a little too bushy. Its not unique to him, its what happens to pretty much anyone once they start getting real work from the higher
forge

1:2

winter

2007

79

ups. A real assignment and you start to feel some self worth. Plus, the work itself can be exciting. But eager beaver behavior like that annoys us longer term guys because it reminds us of the way we were, of the enthusiasm we no longer have. See, our job can be quite a grind, and the work we do, like anything I suppose, eventually grows old. Eventually the novelty wears off and the adrenaline rush stops its flow. So you examine yourself and this load you carry around, and you realize that the old novelty had been doing most of the heavy lifting. At this stage, professionalism is the key. You may not like what you do anymore, may even hate who youve become, but you hide those sentiments from guys like Bobby, from your coworkers, and definitely from yourself. You hide it with booze or whores, whatever it takes. Because if you cant its bound to turn into loathing. And from there its a short trip to an early and forced retirement, and to a hole in the ground alongside Maxwell Besson, Sr. We see it a few times each year, a guy that used to be efficient and reliable suddenly loses his stomach for it. You try not to watch as dark rings grow under his suddenly hollow eyes. But soon you open up the morning paper and find a story about your former coworker, about where they found his body, what the accident was, what the circumstances seemed to be. So no, you dont have to love your job, you just cant let yourself hate it. Lie to yourself if you must, but do not hate it. It was five days ago when Bobby called me into his office. Bobbys about fifty years old but doesnt have the good sense to go by Bob or Robert yet, still likes to be called Bobby. It may be a Southern thing; Bobbys got some Texas in him. Or it could be an asshole thing; Bobbys got some asshole in him, too. Sit down, Charles. He says it and I do it. Unfortunately a pretty decent analogy of our relationship right there. What do you know about Harlan McCready? Its during Jumbles second drink that I can see it all start to bother him. To his credit, he fights it off, holds it back, says nothing and 80
b r y a n p e d e r s e n

hides it a while longer. Later, in the middle of drink number three, the alcohol punches enough holes in his wall to let words through. I suppose he had it coming, huh Wex? The right thing would be to tell him to be quiet. The wrong thing would be to answer him and discuss what he just did. But, being a Tuesday, the bar is still pretty empty and probably wont fill up much. Still I should tell him to be a professional and shut up, but problem is I like him. Hes a good kid, cant exactly say he never hurt anyone, but all hes ever wanted was to be liked and accepted and god, havent we all had a favorite dog like that? I suppose he did. Only makes sense, right? This doesnt happen just by chance. He mustve done something to someone, right? I feel like telling him that we all have. That we all earn it eventually, one way or another. But that wont help him, because then hell see that hes part of the club now, too. He fiddles with the straw in his glass, swirling the ice cubes around some. You know this was my first job, right. First real one. I do. Sorry about the jacket. And the hat. You were right. Tina starts our way again so I give a subtle shake of my head. She picks up on it and continues by without stopping. The kids good and numb now, and just starting to feel the effects. I dont want him sloppy. What, Jumble asks, What do you think he did? The judge? Yeah. Dont know. Dont even bother asking anymore. Spose youd have to see Bobby about that. Harlan McCready? I repeat. Why does that name sound familiar? Bobby puts his feet up on his desk. Black cowboy boots now between us. Boots and a suit, slight southern twang, Bobby may be a bit of a clich but he likes it, thinks it works for him. Myself, Im waiting for him to go the full nine one of these days, stick a hayseed in his mouth, maybe start whittling, perhaps don a black hat.
forge

1:2

winter

2007

81

He shoves a manila folder across his desk. Before opening it I steel myself against whats inside. Whatever it makes me feel cant be shown on my face. Surprise, shock, scorn, dismay, those arent the sorts of emotions you show to a boss like Bobby. He wants his men cold, calculating, professional. So I calm myself, open the folder, and within I find a brief packet on Harlan McCready. Theres a detailed itinerary, a hotel room number listed, and a plastic key card Im sure will open the right door at the right time. I flip through color photos of a vaguely familiar face and then come across one of him in a long, black robe. Thats why I know him. The honorable one, Bobby says. I set the folder back on the table. Should be easy enough. Spose thats why its not yours. Then why show it to me? Bobby picks up his letter opener and slides the tip of it under one of his fingernails. Whos doing the job? I ask him. Jumble spits an ice cube back into his glass. I just figure, you know, that if I knew why, if I had a reason, well, itd make more sense. You know? I nod my head, agreeing with him. Even though hes wrong. Not that Im upset about it. Hey, a jobs a job, right? He lowers his voice, says, And we all gotta die sometime. But, I dont know, not knowing the why, its like having the joke but not the punch line, right? No, I say. Its the punch line, but not the joke. He thinks about it for a second, then says, Right, exactly, exactly. Because, yeah. Exactly. I figure its about time to get our little show on the road so the next time Tina looks in my direction I nod and she brings us two more. Its getting to be that time where having Jumble slow and drunk isnt going to be such a bad thing. Thanks, Wex. Drink up, kid. Kid, I call him, even though hes barely ten years younger than my thirty, because no way am I going to call him Jumble to his face. Especially not tonight. You earned it. 82
b r y a n p e d e r s e n

You think you can trust him with this, Bobby? Hes still digging under his nail. Trust isnt really much of an issue, Charlie. Jobs dont come much easier than this. True. So what do you want me to do? Hold his hand? Not quite. As he tells me my job I keep my steady, stony faced exterior. Its harder to maintain this time. Its almost midnight when we leave and head to my car. During the hours inside the night has grown mean, the annoying slush of then has become the sneaky fast ice of now. Jumble is slipping and stumbling around a bit, having had seven drinks to my three, and Im a little worried hes going to fall. It takes an arm around his shoulders to get him safely to my car, but we eventually make it. Once inside hes still shivering so I let him put the jacket back on. Then I start to drive. Its either the alcohol or trust that lulls him, because he doesnt pay attention to where were going. When I slow down and pull over to the curb were in one of the seedier, abandoned neighborhoods just south of the old train yards. I slap him on his chest, rousing him from his stupor. Come on, get out. Where we going? Follow, I say, and lead him across the street to one of this areas handy, dandy dark alleys. When he speaks next, his teeth are chattering. From cold or fear, I cant say. Wh-whatre we doing, Wex? I continue into the alley, stopping next to an old, metal drum. Slowly, the kid follows me. I stop and wait for him to catch up. How much moneyd you get off of McCready? Wh-what, man? I d-dont . . . Hes nervous and rubbing his hands together now in the cold. Hey, shouldnt we get back, check in or whatever? Were not going back. Now how much money? He just stares
forge

1:2

winter

2007

83

blankly at me so I repeat. In your pockets, kid. Altogether. Right now. His lower lip quivers as he plunges his hands in, starts fishing around. In his left he comes out with a few ones and some quarters. No doubt what he had on him at the start of the night. His right fist opens to reveal a thick fold of twenties inside a silver money clip shaped like a gavel. Probably close to three hundred dollars. That would be what he took from the judge tonight to give his assignment the flavor of a robbery. He extends both hands, offering it all to me. I shake my head. Thats not going to be enough. I reach into my back pocket. He lets out a small yelp and flinches before he sees my hand come out holding my wallet. What? Whats the deal, Wex? I pull out a couple hundred more in twenties and hold them out to him. You gotta go, kid. Go? Did I do something wrong? Was it the jacket? Are you mad at me? Its not me. Its Bobby. Youve been used up. There was surveillance all over that room. He set you up, sent you out to be seen. Tonight. With the judge. I wave the money again. So take it. Theres basically two ways a person reacts to this sort of news. They either get pissed and fight back, blindly and immediately or coldly and calculating; or it crushes them. When they find out that their coworkers, their own extended family, set them up to take a fall, it changes their view of the world. Of themselves. Simply put, they get mad or they get sad. Now, Jumble being the sort he is, which route do you think he takes? Aw, aw shit, man . . . I really think he might cry. What now, Wex? What now is Im supposed to kill you. Im supposed to take the cash and leave the judges money clip so its all so much easier for the men in blue to piece together. Dude . . . Or, I tell him, Or you take this money and walk back to my car and you leave. You leave the city, the state, maybe even the country if you want to be really safe. And you do it right now, kid. 84
b r y a n p e d e r s e n

He looks at me and the money and back at me again. Take it. The cars still running, keys still in it. Get out of here. But I dont wanna go. Its either go and live or stay and die. Be smart. Hes hesitating, which isnt exactly a character fault on his part. His whole life just got fucked. Man, its like some bad joke. I know it is, but now you gotta go before we reach the punch line, right? Right, he says but still doesnt move. Got to get going, kid. I look him in the eyes and begin to nod slowly. After a few of my nods he picks up on the motion, starts nodding to himself, and finally takes the cash from my hand. Its not much, but itll get you on the road. Wex, man, thank you. This is . . . thank you, man. Then he stops and a look of apprehension comes across his face. But what about you? What are you gonna do? You dont worry about that. Man, how are you gonna get away with this? Bobbys gonna be pissed. I can handle Bobby. There are ways to beat the system, you know. You just get out of here. Okay, thanks again, man, I wont forget what you Go. Now. I say. So he smiles a sloppy little smile and does. And as he turns to walk back to the car I pull my gun from the small of my back and fire one neat round right into the back of his skull, because thats my job. A little cloud of pink mist peppered with small chunks of bone and brain erupts from a new hole in his face. His legs spasm, flopping about as if he just lost his footing on the ice, and then Jumble collapses. I wait for him to get done jerking about before I pull the cash from his limp hand, leaving only Judge McCreadys silver money clip. See, I lied when I said I could handle Bobby. When I said there were ways to beat the system. I shove the money in my pocket and get back in my car, turn the radio on and let The End keep me company on my way home. As I drive through dark streets I listen to the music and try to focus on it, try to forget. I wait at a stoplight at the intersection of two empty streets until the little pool of red reflected
forge

1:2

winter

2007

85

on the icy road becomes green. Later, when The Cures Prayers For Rain is followed up by a commercial, I switch the radio off. In the silence Im forced to face it: Ive begun to hate my job.

86

b r y a n

p e d e r s e n

my

nightmare

Joshua C. Udell
My Nightmare Far off speaking dead, In dungeons where I bled. Deep in a crack under the earth, Multiplying in number. Each chamber filled with speed, Coming out under the dust. Zombies holding roses, Painting pictures on the wall. Their shadows left behind, Death they cannot escape. One by one they crawl, Escaping under moonlight, Looking at my body, They go back underground. Sleeping creatures hovering round my bed, Silently I panic, Nothing more to do.

forge

1:2

winter

2007

87

predictability

A.J. Thomas
Rolling beneath the wind, a small banner raised its voice and clapped much louder than what was considered polite. A boy who was fond of obscure, obnoxious noises listened with glee as the instructors mumbled lessons were slain by the banners gusto. The instructor did not notice. He continued the lesson solemnly and without particular interest toward the material or the boys. This suited the boys well and they spent their time cautiously entertaining themselves instead of listening to inaudible histories. Their fathers, noticing a lack of instruction, blamed the instructor which resulted in quieter, more worried lessons. Predictions had been made that by the years end the smallest breath of God would produce enough volume to drown out the poor mans most confident subjects. The children, having nothing better to do, continued sketching diagrams of impolite things into the undersides of their desks with enough fervor that the janitor became increasingly depressed until, inevitably, he brought a gun to school and shot them all.

88

a. j. t h o m a s

my

deal

with

death

Witt Widhalm

was despondent. No, I was more than despondent, I was, well, suicidal. What else do you call a twenty-two year old man with a gun pointed at his head? It was Christmas Day, the annual time of great cheer. Yeah, right. Id been kicked out of school in September. The only work Id been able to find was a twenty-hour a week minimum wage job and even that was gone. And heres the kicker . . . but more about that later. So there I was in my tiny, unkempt, roach-infested poor excuse for a bedroom at one oclock in the morning on Christmas Day with a gun Id borrowed from my roommate, without his knowing about it, ready to end it all. I couldnt bring myself to bite the bullet so to speak, so I pointed the gun at my right temple and turned my head so as not to splatter my stereo, my only prized possession. I wanted my brother to have something to show for having known me. Or did I want him to have something to remember me by? Doesnt matter now, hes not getting it. No, I went through with it, I didnt chicken out. Put that gun right up there and pulled the trigger. And Id checked, it was loaded. I asked my roommate about it later; I didnt tell him Id tried to shoot myself, I told him Id seen a rat in the backyard. He said the ammunition was probably wet or something. Anyhow, it saved my life. And introduced me to my best friend. Okay, so there I was, raised the gun to my head, pulled the trigger, heard the hammer hit. Im still alive. Not even scratched. And then I saw him. Well, heard him, actually.
forge

1:2

winter

2007

89

Damn, I hate it when that happens. Oops, sorry Boss. As he added that line he looked to the ceiling. Then he looked back at me and went on. Well, now what are we going to do? Are you going to try again? Who the hell are you? Shocked barely scratches the surface in an attempt to describe my emotions upon finding I was not alone. Careful, the Boss doesnt like that kind of language. And besides, who do I look like? Death. The Grim Reaper. I told him so. Bingo. And I was here on duty, only something went wrong with your end of the deal. And I got careless and now youve seen me. He paused for a moment. I dont know how he did it, but he wrinkled his forehead, skull, whatever you want to call it, and managed to give the impression of Death deep in thought. I wish I was an artist. Ive always wanted to try to recreate that picture. Andy Warhol would have gone nuts. So then he said, So, youre not dead yet. What are we to do about this? I think he was really talking to himself, but I didnt like the sound of that yet. The moment had passed and I was no longer ready to die, which is what I thought he had in mind. And his just being there scared me to . . . lets just say I wasnt too excited about his sticking around very long. Actually, I was anxiously awaiting his departure. And I knew no one was ever going to believe this. So anyway, now Im ready for him to leave, so I said, No, Im sorry I bothered you, but I wont be killing myself tonight after all, so you can just go on about your business. Thanks for stopping by. Feel free to drop dead sometiI mean drop by sometime and well have a couple beers or a pizza or something. How was I supposed to know what Death did on his nights off ? I didnt even know he had nights off. And I certainly didnt know about his fondness for nightclubs. Like the night we met those two blondes and the redhead. Okay, so Pete said the redhead and one of the blondes were really brunettes, but I couldnt tell and he wont tell me how he knew. He says its a trade secret. So anyway, these blondes and the brunette come up to Pete and . . . but thats another story, I should finish the one I started first. So where was I? Oh, yeah, the night I met Pete. I almost told Pete to drop dead, then I told him to drop in and Pete saysWhats that? Whos Pete? Oh, thats his name. Deaths name. See, he used to be 90
witt widhalm

Peter Allen Turner before he . . . Im getting ahead of myself again. Be patient. Ill come to that part eventually. So anyway, I told Death to drop dead and then to drop by since I wouldnt be killing myself and he said, Its not that easy. If I go back short a soul from my quota Ill have to answer to the Boss. On the other hand, it is Christmas and He, looking up, is in charge. Then he looked back at me. We might be able to strike a deal. Hes, with a slight tilt of his head upwards, usually in a pretty good mood on His sons birthday, even though he always has to work. He, glancing down at the floor, sets the schedule and always makes Him, tilting up again, work Christmas Day. What a basoops. Sorry, Boss. As he said that he flinched and looked up again. Imagine that, Death flinching. Its an interesting sight. Ive got to stop doing that. What kind of deal did you have in mind? I was more than a little nervous at this point. Id heard stories of deals like this and most of them didnt work out very well for the humans involved. On the other hand, with the Grim Reaper sitting on the foot of my bed and talking about taking my soul, I didnt see where I had a lot of options. Well, Ill try and sweet-talk the Boss, glance upward again, into letting this . . . Whats that? Why does Pete keep saying Boss and looking up or down? Why doesnt he just come right out and say God or the Devil? Hes not allowed. I asked him about it once myself. He said he cant show favoritism to either side. It would cost him his job. I pointed out to Pete that by the time he stops to visit someone it was probably too late to make much difference, but he said it didnt matter. He said he didnt make the rules, he only followed them. And Im so used to it now most of the time I find myself referring to Them the same way. So anyway, Pete says Ill try and sweet-talk the Boss, up, into letting this one slide, and then you can live. Im still a little skeptical. Im making a deal with Death, and frankly I dont like my chances. So I said, And whats in it for you? Well, he says, what have you got here? He pointed at the blanket piled in a heap on my pillow at the head of my bed. An authentic Colorado Rockies blanket. That would do me nicely. You can have it. He laughed. I cant let you off that easy. He sat down on the bed.
forge

1:2

winter

2007

91

Are the Rockies really your favorite baseball team? He said this in sort of a mocking tone. I got defensive. Yes, why? What are you, a Cubs fan? Oh, hell no. Sorry, Boss. Up again. Did it again. Boy, am I going to get a lecture when I get back tonight. Anyway, no. Im a Mets fan. I hate the Cubs. Why do you think they always choke? With that he grinned. Choking is a specialty of mine. He went on. So whos your favorite football team? The Broncos. No, not the Broncos. Anybody but the Broncos. Once again, I got defensive. Why, what are you? A Raiders fan? You got it. He got this far away look in his eyes. He does that every time he starts reminiscing about life before the Job. Back in the seventies they were the meanest bunch of players. My favorite player was Jack Tatum. They called him the Assassin. Then he glanced down at himself. Who knew? At this point I finally began to lose it. I mean, there I was talking football with a skeleton brandishing a scythe. I just couldnt deal with it anymore. So I asked him, Is there any way you can change your appearance? Whats the matter? he asked. Uniform getting to you? Yeah, well its not everyday I get to sit and talk to a skeleton. It takes a little getting used to, you know? Then something registered. Uniform? Yes, well actually youre not sitting. Maybe thats part of your problem. Why dont you sit down. You are looking a little pale. And believe me, Im an expert on pale. With that he offered me a chair. I dont know where it came from. It wasnt my chair and it wasnt there after he left. But for the time being I had a plush, tan La-Z-Boy in my bedroom. I took the proffered chair gladly. Where did this come from? Sorry, cant tell you that. Trade secret. Then he walked up to my CD collection. Not bad, Soundgarden, Metallica, Sean Paul, Nickelbackwait a minute, whats with the Nick Lachey CD? Thats not my fault. It was a gift from my mom. She went into a music store and asked what was popular. She can be talked into anything. Notice the Britney Spears CD on the bottom. 92
witt widhalm

Pete said, Yes, I noticed, but I was afraid to say anything. Death afraid. What a concept. He sat back down on the bed. Thats not the reason you tried to shoot yourself, is it? What? The fact that your mom has no taste in music? Yeah, right, I scoffed. My mom gives me lousy Christmas presents, and I just couldnt take it anymore so I decided to blow my brains out. Whats the real reason? You mean you dont know? I guess I had thought he would know all that stuff. Of course not. Why would They tell me why you were killing yourself ? To do my job I just need to know who is going to die and when. I usually dont even know how its going to happen till I arrive on the scene. He paused for a minute. Then he looked at me again. So whats the real reason? Life sucks! And you think coming with me is going to be any better? That stopped me. I guess I hadnt thought about what would happen after I shot myself. I just knew that I wouldnt have to worry about my problems anymore. They never think about what comes next. Pete said this in a disgusted tone of voice. I was starting to feel guilty. So you thought you wouldnt have to worry about your problems anymore. Whats so bad about your life that you dont want to face? Everything. They kicked me out of school, and I dont have the heart to tell my mom about it. Okay, so I sounded a little whiny. Pete laughed. Yeah, I saw what you did in your file. Tell me, why did you pick the Chancellors car for your artistic expression? I didnt know it was the Chancellors car. It was the weekend of the big football game and I thought Id paint a car to say Go Cheetahs to see if it would make ESPN. Pete was roaring. Its not funny. Besides that, I lost my job. I just paid off Decembers rent on the fifteenth. I have no idea how Im going to pay Januarys. Yes, that was in your file, too. Great job you had, part-time minimum wage work as Santas elf. He looked my five-eight, one-forty frame over from head to foot. Of course, you do fit the part.
forge

1:2

winter

2007

93

Too bad Christmas had to come and end it all for you. Im sure you thought you had a real future in the business. What were you going to do, grow six inches and gain a hundred and twenty pounds and work as Santa next year? He was laughing harder than ever. What do you mean, you saw it in my file? What file? I get a file on all the people I pick up. Sort of a personal biography. I dont know where it came from, but all of a sudden he was holding a manila folder. Theres a lot of interesting stuff in here. Did you really wet the bed until you were eleven? Now I was getting mad. None of your business. And you were a virgin until you were how old? I lunged for the manila folder, but it wasnt there anymore. Temper, temper. The manifestation of Death was sitting on my bed, making a mockery of my life. I wanted to shoot him. All of a sudden he changed his tone. Between chuckles he said, Look, I shouldnt be teasing you like this. Im sorry. Death apologetic. This night was getting stranger all the time. Nothing youve told me so far is new. Why did you pull the trigger? He seemed genuinely interested, so I told him. Alright, heres the kicker. Guess what my girlfriend gave me for Christmas about three hours ago? He tried to compose himself. I confess, I dont know. A pair of extra large silk pajamas. I was getting pretty loud now, almost shouting. All my frustration was coming out at once. His laughter wasnt making me any happier, either. It seems she is leaving me for a football player. She said she wanted to be nice and do it after Christmas, but she accidentally switched our presents. He lost it. So there I was. The Grim Reaper in hysterics on my bed and my life story got him that way. It was quite a sight. Looking at him I couldnt help but laugh a little myself. After all, it could have been worse. The gun could have gone off. Thinking about that, and realizing again he was the Grim Reaper, I remembered something. Didnt you say something earlier about that being a uniform? Alright, yes. I let it slip. Thats another trade secret. He made a sweeping motion with his left hand, scythe and all. This entire getup is a uniform, something Im required to wear whenever Im on duty. I 94
witt widhalm

am only allowed to change on my days off, and there arent too many of those. He looked as if he were about to continue, but I interrupted him. You mean to tell me this is a job? You work as the Grim Reaper? This is a concept that was very foreign to me, and one I still wonder at even after seeing Pete in his street clothes, or what he calls his civvies. The idea that Death was a hired employee . . . I mean, I know hed referred to the Big Two as Boss, but it hadnt occurred to me that he was hired. Whats that? The Big Two? Thats Petes term for God and the Devil. You see, he cant say God or the DevWhats that? Oh, I told you that already. Sorry, didnt mean to repeat myself. Nobodys perfect. I mean that literally. I know everyone thinks Hes perfect, but Pete told me about once when even He messed up. It seems he wasthere I go again, trying to tell you a different story before I finish the first one. Now where was I? Whats that? You want to hear about when He messed up? It was no big deal really. He was late to work one night. Yeah, thats right. He was late to work. It seems He was watching the O.J. trial and lost track of time. So anyway, Pete tells me he was hired. Now thiswhats that? Didnt He know if O.J. was guilty or not? Yes, He did. But He didnt know what the jury was going to decide and I guess He was really into the trial. See, Pete told me one time that the Big Two know everything about the past and the present, but they dont know the future, which explains why Pete had been told to come get me when I wasnt going anywhere just yet. So Pete tells mewhat? Does Pete know if O.J. was guilty? Are you kidding? Hes Death. He was there when it happened. Did O.J. do it? How should I know? Its another of those trade secrets Pete wont let me in on. So Pete tells me he was hired. This was a story I had to hear. So I asked him, How did you get hired for a job like that? Being a fairly obliging fellow, he told me. And he is. I mean, thats not a characteristic I expected to find in Death. Then again, I was finding out a lot of things I hadnt suspected before. So anyway, he told me. It was in the early 80s. I was twenty-four. Id recently flunked out of college. Id never been a real ladies man. And I didnt have a lot of friends. I was unemployed, and heres the kicker, since
forge

1:2

winter

2007

95

I was no longer in school my student loans were coming due. He paused for a second. There was that wrinkled forehead again. Then he went on. Then one day I saw this ad in the paper for a job. It had all the classic stuff. Are your troubles too much for you? Get out. See the world. All that garbage. But I figured, what the he he stopped himself. What the heck. What have I got to lose? So I go to this out of the way warehouse for an interview. It was strange. It was like the interrogation rooms you see in the old war movies. Bright lights straight in my eyes. I couldnt see who I was talking to. Never have, for that matter. When They finally told me who They were, I took Them at Their word. He continued. It was a strange interview. The questions They asked were very personal, but I felt compelled to answer them. And, to be honest, looking back on the interview I think the questions were asked so that I could get to know myself better. Hed been looking around the room as he spoke, but now he looked me straight in the eye. I mean, face it, what answer was I going to give Them that They didnt already know. So anyway, Pete told me the interview was just a formality, that the Big Two had already decided the job was his. He accepted the job, walked out of the warehouse and got hit by a truck. Now I dont understand exactly how this works, but Pete tells me its true. As long as he keeps the job of Death he isnt actually dead, but as soon as he retires, he dies. I dont understand it, but Pete says it makes sense to him. Must be another one of those trade secrets or something. Anyway, Pete says the best part about getting hit by the truck is now he doesnt have to pay off those student loans. Whats that? So whats my deal with Death? You mean you havent guessed it yet? Im his best friend. See, like I said before, Pete didnt have many friends before he took the Job, and all of the people he meets now are dead. Pete says dead people arent much fun to talk to. Theyre too preoccupied with praising Him or cursing Him. Being the only living person to see him, I was the exception. And Pete was getting lonely. So Pete talked to the Big Two. Pete said convincing Them was easier than hed expected. Upstairs had no objections at all. Downstairs was initially against it. Pete said he was lonely and needed a friend. Pete 96
witt widhalm

added that loneliness probably contributed to the retirement of most Grim Reapers. Pete then added the kicker: if He would agree to it then Pete would stay in the job, if not then He would have to go through the interview process again. That did it. Pete said He hates doing the interviews because he has to be nice to the job prospects. Thus, the Big Two have allowed Pete to leave me alive. So now, whenever Death takes a break, he stops by my place and we crank the stereo. Pete likes 70s music. He even made me go buy some older cds so he could listen to them during his breaks. Theres one he listens to more than the rest. I guess its his favorite. Not very original, but appropriate I guess. Blue Oyster Cult. Dont Fear the Reaper. You know, my curiosity got the better of me that night. I mean, there I was, ready to die and Death shows up to take my soul. Thinking about it made me wonder, so I asked Pete, Just out of curiosity, do you happen to know which way I was headed? Meaning, of course, heaven or hell. Yes. Thanks, Pete. Real informative answer. Soooo? Be serious. Do you really think I could give you that information? If it were a government document it would have three tops and two secrets on it. Then he smiled. Im going to stop here for a minute because I dont think you get the picture here. Death smiled at me. The Grim Reaper. Try real hard to get a mental image of a wise-cracking smile on Deaths face. Okay, I can see by your cringe that youre beginning to get the idea. So Death gets this smart-aleck grin on his face and he says, Tell you what I will do for you, though. See this quarter? Heads, you were going up, tails you were going down. Then he flipped it in the air beside my bed. Heres the smart-aleck part. I saw the quarter bounce on the floor. Unfortunately, it bounced under my bed. Finding a particular T-shirt under that bed is an incredible accomplishment. Finding a quarter is impossible. I looked all over. No luck. Finally, I gave up. Looking up, I said, The quarters disappeared. So had he. He did leave me a note. I still have it. It says See you soon. A Friend Always. And its signed with a skull and crossbones.
forge

1:2

winter

2007

97

r
r e v ie w s
f o r g e

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly Dir. Julian Schnabel (2007)
Schnabel sits in the empty seat next to his son. Relaxed and content, Schnabel rests his arm on the back of his sons seat. The two share a brief but loving glance as the lights dim and the film begins. Showcased at the 34th Telluride Film Festival, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly beautifully envisions the strength of one man and his desire to salvage ties as both father and son. As director, Schnabel tells this story with care and vision as the narrative structure is told through the perspective of the films brave protagonist, Jean-Dominique Bauby, played by Mathieu Amalric. Based on the bestselling memoir of the same title, the film tells the story of French Elle magazine editor, Bauby, and his struggle to live with a rare condition known as locked-in syndrome. After suffering a crippling stroke, Bauby is rendered completely paralyzed with the exception of slight head movements, grunts, and the ability to blink his left eyelid. And yet therein lies salvation. Baubys mental state remains unharmed, and it is through the use of his blinking eyelid that Bauby comes to dictate his bestselling memoir, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. The process by which Bauby and an amanuensis, Henriette Durand (Marie-Jose Croze), dictate the book is long and tedious. By repeating a frequency-ordered alphabet, Bauby would blink once for the appropriate letter and then again for confirmation. While the book took about 200,000 blinks to complete, the films pace never lags. This effort is due in large part to the films master cinematographer, Janusz Kaminski. With the use of differing camera angles and a lapsed-time effect, the audience can appreciate the tediousness of the process without ever feeling jaded. But the true genius of the films visual artistry is the way in which Schnabel uses the subjective viewpoint of Bauby himself. Light and focus are rendered beautifully, especially during the sequence in which Bauby first awakes after having suffered the stroke. A second scene worth noting, one that achieves tension and utter involvement, depicts the subjective viewpoint of Baubys ineffective
ulian

100

reviews

eye being sewn up in order to prevent infection. But Schnabel doesnt limit the films scope solely to that of process or perspective. At the heart of the story lies the struggle of one man coming to terms with a new limited form of existence. In an extremely moving split scene between father and son, Bauby dictates his love via telephone to his ailing father, played by Max von Sydow. The scene is self-paced, never rushed, yielding to a rhythm that achieves utmost tenderness and sympathy. In the scene both actors, Amalric and Von Sydow, attain a certain level of authenticity that resonates throughout the entire film. Amalric never relies on caricature and never seems ostentatious in his depiction of Bauby. His embodiment of the role is so subtle and yet so powerful, the contrast between the former Bauby and his imprisoned state is truly tragic. In fact, it is evident that everyone involved in the making of the film insists on getting it right. Schnabel didnt set out to make The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. The New York native originally set his cap at adapting Patrick Sskinds 2001 novel, Perfume: The Story of a Murderer. But as the house lights turn on, all eyes stare at father and son, arm in arm, staring at a blank screen. And its obvious, this was the film Schnabel was meant to make.

Andrew Stewart
The Bands Visit Dir. Eran Kolirin (2007)
the barren yellowness of the bleak Israeli desert, eight walking pillars of sky-blue traverse the lone roadway, towing luggage and instruments behind them. The men are Egyptian musicians (members of the Alexandria Ceremonial Police Orchestra to be exact), and have gotten lost in Israel on their way to the opening of a new Arab Culture Center. In their blueish, buttoned-up attire, the bewildered ensemble wander through the very Jewish landscape, the incessant rat-atat-tat of luggage wheels on asphalt the only noise to be heard. A more endearing and unlikely template for a comedy there could not be.
g ainst
forge

1:2

winter

2007

101

But Bikur Ha-Tizmoret (The Bands Visit) is much more than an obscure laugh-fest set in politically-ironic surroundings, and applauding audiences understood this at the 34th Telluride Film Festival where the film screened in early September. I was lucky enough to attend the screening of the film, a Cannes Film Festival prize winner and international audience favorite. The praise is not misplaced. From the first creative shot in which the confused band steps off an airport van and stands motionless on the side of the road, its evident that first-time director Eran Kolirin has an eye for visual hilarity. Early on, the men pose for a picture in a bus depot. Before the snapshot can be taken, a slow-moving janitor walks across the frame, delaying for twenty seconds the taking of the picture. Such a style combines the deadpan humor of Phil Morrisons indie-hit Junebug with the semi-theatrical presentation of Wes Andersons films. Whatever it is, it works on you in that way that is hard to describe, but is funny regardless. Leading the octet of musicians is Tawfiq (the fatherly Sasson Gabai), the groups reserved conductor bent on arriving in time to perform. With wounded eyes and a gruff demeanor, Tawfiqs persona seems to hide a troubled past that he keeps buried in his orchestral work. Hes balanced by brown-eyed trumpeter Haled (Saleh Bakri), a young ladies man with a quasi-afro. The two make a good duet: Tawfiq the stoic disciplinarian and Haled the goofy grinner. Amidst the rising temperatures and tempers, the band comes across a small Israeli town. Dina (Ronit Elkabetz), a sassy and sexy local caf owner, sizes up her new customers and offers to take them in. The men split off and share housing with the outgoing hostess and her friends, making for awkwardly-true dinner table conversations and comical trips to a roller skating rink. Whatever plot the film had meanders into hibernation here, mirroring the groups unexpected stop. Talk of getting to the concert in time quickly turn to poignant musings of life supplied by Tawfiq and Dina, who hit it off as unlikely companions. There is crying, there is laughing, but every note of this musicthemed dramedy is authentic and powerful. Kolirin wisely underwrites the political seriousness of his set-up, letting his characters breathe not as Arabs and Israelis, but human beingshumans who, 102
reviews

despite being surrounded by a vast desert, are not so much lost as they are in the process of being found.

Bill Fech
Andorra by Caribou (2007)
v eryone has a thing that they find in music. This is why we listen. It is called a release, an escape, among other names. When a certain artist or piece of music is dialed into that side of a listener, one is hard-pressed to explain exactly what happens to the heart/ mind/body. I find myself in a similar circumstance with Caribous newestAndorra. Dan Snaith, previously known as Manitoba for 2002s brilliant album Up In Flames, is now plying his trade as Caribou. This being the second release under his current moniker, he finds himself morphing his sound furtherthis time towards more straightforward songwriting than his 2005 release, the sparser Milk of Human Kindness. Fans of Snaith are surely reveling in the moment as an artist with this much creative momentum is finding his songwriting stride. Caribous sound is an explosion of the colorful: big drums, pounding fuzzed-out bass, synthetic strings, and vocal tracks upon vocal tracks. On this album Snaith seems to exercise more restraint in the percussion department as opposed to the Up In Flames apocalyptical free-for-all drum fills. There are still woodwinds and flutes dotting the soundscape, and we hear more guitar work than before, but the soul of Snaiths melodic core is as on-point as ever. Melody Day is a great first single. He has constructed a very nice melody with excellent mood shifting and sonic effects. The song really shows the raucous nature of Up In Flames in the second movement (difficult to call it a chorus) as the drums pick up speed and the voices climb. A seemingly softer number like Desiree, while a departure from other tracks, is eventually torn apart by a typical Caribou explosion of vocal tracks, cymbals, bells, harps, strings, etc. The

forge

1:2

winter

2007

103

closer Niobe is the most schizophrenic track on the disc, pulsing with synthetic noises and a near-techno backbeat. Snaith has made a wonderful record full of all the elements listeners have come to expect. The songs here are never less than vibrant. The feeling one gets is that this is an artist who knows the musical soundscapes he wants to create. On this album he is crafting them ever more clearly into some superbly moody and stirring tracks that anticipate an even more colorful future.

Aaron Chambers
Person Pitch by Panda Bear (2007)
should have bought Panda Bears Person Pitch in the summer. I should have just let the excitement this album was generating for its Brian Wilson-ness propel me to the store. It could have been the best summer of recent memory. Noah Lennox, noteworthy for his forays with Animal Collective, is Panda Bear. His efforts here are just as significant. I can think of few albums that are at the same time great works of aural art and immensely fun to listen to again and again. Friends and I have discussed our enjoyment of this album in terms of our happiness level before and after listening. Its the melodies that are the most striking aspect. Many are sung in a lovely falsetto, bouncing from highs to lows with a kind of deliberate bliss. The vocal treatment comes straight from Beach Boys territory, and Brian Wilsons name has been synonymous with the albums reverb-drenched vocal qualities. The songs are compound units, as often two or three different movements are worked into the tracks that stretch as long as twelve minutes. Often there is a lot of nonsensical noise during these transition phases that may turn off some listeners, but that has been an important part of this avant-garde pop aesthetic. The instrumentation is fairly sparse and very heterogeneous. Handclaps or tambourine suffice for most percussion, yet somehow the songs never feel under-worked in this area. A light dusting of world 104
reviews

sounds works its way through many tracksblowing wind, a distant conversation, crunching leaves. The lean towards more organicsounding elements gives the album a world-worn humanness. It feels at once like an escape from and an embrace of the world, and can serve as both at different times. As previously stated, the melodies are the foundation of this album, and they are never underwhelming in their whimsical delivery and stacked harmonies. Because of the cohesive nature of this album, it seems reductionistic to reference the individual songs that form the whole, but Take Pills deserves mention for its most foot-tapping second half. The breezy Bros has been a strong first single. The ethereal weightlessness of Search For Delicious perfectly primes the listener for the closer, Ponytail, and the happy sentiment contained within. The nearness to the Beach Boys sound is nothing but a compliment. I cannot recall an album that has reminded me of them in such a way as this. How that could be a detractor I am not certain. Lennox has crafted a wonderfully nostalgic yet very distinct piece full of precious pop moments laid over a thin canvas of minimal instrumentation that only serves to highlight a superb set of melodies any decade would be proud of.

Aaron Chambers
Suf jan Stevens and Andrew Bird
As your writer I am bound to be very introductive of my column in this wonderful publication. Please bear with me as introductions are the most important parts and therefore most often picked apart parts ( hey!) until they are bones without much meat left for your hungry brains. In the event that this introduction a.) makes too many superlative-laden, sweeping statements or b.) doesnt do enough introducing of the objectives within, feel free to skip on ahead to the body as I refer to it (its one of my things). Capisci?) In the ever-evolving landscape of have you ever heard of [insert band] . . . rock, artists are increasingly categorized and pigeon-holed
forge

1:2

winter

2007

105

into niches or sub-genres in which they are understood to contribute. (You knew that.) Nearly all musicians will gravitate toward a style that suits them as music makers, but those held most high are the musicians who can fingerprint a sound as their own. (But that?) Be it production techniques, homogeneous instrumentation, or subject matter, an artist tends to make him/herself comfortable within their musical environment. This can be a blessed thing as a musician perfects a singular way of doing things, but it may stifle progression and keep one from reaching his creative potential (the writer thinks this is a really good point). Two artists who find they are treading these waters are Sufjan Stevens and Andrew Bird. Both are American songwriters who have risen to relatively high prominence in the music industry but still fly slightly under the radar of mainstream listeners: Stevens, a folk-y, banjo-toting storyteller, and Bird, a classically trained violinist and part-time mad scientist (nice, huh). One-line synopses such as these are made more difficult for these two by their multifaceted personalities and artistic demeanor, and the qualities we enjoy can run the gamut from musical to theatrical. If one were to sit down and compare both artists music from a theoretical standpoint, it would be clear that Bird has a much firmer grasp on music compositionnot to discount the knack that Stevens has for winding a few simple musical ideas together into a fully vibrant work that pierces just as deeply (run on?). Also, Stevens has cultivated a kind of eccentric irony (or sincerity?) whose end is not easily discernable, but which permits him a certain freedom to create any range of moods from open-heart confessional to campfire singa-long (both of which the writer recommends each reader to practice bimonthly). Birds personality and flair is understated but no less central to his appeal. His lyrical delivery reaches moments of intensity without losing his deadpan did-you-catch-that(?) subtlety. This characteristic also affords Bird leniency with his listeners because it is apparent we are to take his works only as serious as he presents them (this listener is only one of the above listeners but feels his opinion worth applying to others). Lyrically, both artists work their way into religious, social, and political territory (big plus for article fodder). Bird is more a poet than Stevens, creating lyrical passages and images that read more like prose 106
reviews

than the typical Stevens fare. But the aforementioned delivery of the artists gives them room to make such goofy sounding rhymes as Birds over with Dover on Simple X or Stevens cutesy singsong word play in Decatur. Stevens has evolved into a master storyteller who manages to get hold of the communicable truth that his stories impart, presenting it with candor and neutrality (the writer likes that sentence a lot). This way of Stevens is the explanation (IMO!) for why many are so reluctant to reject him on the basis of his seeming religious proselytizing: he never tells anything but the truth as he sees itbe it pleasant or not. Bird prefers more abstract themes for his songs, offering vocabulary lessons and obtuse English combinations. It seems trite to reduce any of Birds lyrics to politically influenced ideas (it never occurred to this writer that such ideas were present until very recently), but there are many examples to pull from The Mysterious Production of Eggs that allude vaguely to his ideology (lets pigeon-hole him!). The live set is the arena where these qualities come unwrapped. Birds live act, while less extravagant than Stevens Illinoise Makers troupe, fully exposes every quirk and oddity that Bird hints at on his albums. Bird sets himself up as ringleader and main attraction, at once seeming standoffish and vulnerable. He brings a sense of theater to a stage where most performers are content to let the music do the talking. Bird, however, does the talking himself with intentionally dry delivery alternating with a strange, self-aware disposition (not unlike the tone of this article, the writer is well aware). Similarly, Stevens idiosyncrasy is on full display in the live venue. However, the tendency here is toward the stoic end of his spectrumlittle eye contact, facial expressions, or other discernable human comportment. This circus is beyond pretentious: it is post-pretentious. So ridiculous it could not possibly be serious, and yet the cheerleaders continue to smile, Stevens continues with his downcast melodies, callisthenic chanting sounds without a cackle from the stage, and no one seems to notice for all the fun they are having that what is happening is some kind of neo-pretension (read: hyper-pretension). ( What does it all mean? I will tend away from the all-encompassing statement you want and see coming.) These artists are similar in the aforementioned ways (and certainly others too). They are musicians
forge

1:2

winter

2007

107

with a combination of self-aware irony and sincerity that deserves further analysis which will doubtlessly become more pronounced in the near future (not foreshadowing a series). (Hey! Its been fun writing this piece. Music is fun! So is being ambiguously academic! So is breaking the fourth wall! Music criticism is dead.)

Aaron Chambers

108

reviews

submissions

The editors of Forge consider creative endeavors of all kinds for inclusion in the journalart, photography, fiction, poetry, creative non-fiction, comics, to name a few. Forge publishes on a bi-annual schedule, in June and December. The deadline for submissions to be considered for the Summer Issue is March 15. The deadline for submissions to the Winter Issue is September 15th. When submitting to Forge, please send your work as an email attachment to forgejournal@gmail.com. Make the subject of your email Attention Poetry Editor if your submission is poetry. Otherwise, make the subject Attention General Editor. Please note, we are only able to print in black and white, so b&w images and photographs would be preferrable. Color images can be utilized on the website. Reviews should be sent to their respective editor: Music: Aaron Chambers (underboy777@ juno.com) Film/TV: Jordan Milliken (le_singe_orange@yahoo.com) In the event that you are unable to submit via email, please contact us for information on how to submit your works by post. Further information is available on our website, www.forgejournal.com. Cover submissions. Beginning with volume 2, issue 1 (Summer 2008), we will be considering submissions for new Forge covers for each issue. Submissions should adhere to the following guidelines: 1 Designs should engage the idea of Little People Opening Things. (We may try to phrase this more eloquently in the future, but for the moment that is as close as we can get.) 2 Line art is preferrable (it prints better). 3 Submissions for consideraton for issue 2.1 should be sent in correspondance with the issue deadlines described above.

subscriptions

Subscriptions to Forge are available for $14 per year. (This includes all shipping and packaging fees) International subscriptions are also available. Please inquire about cost. Single copies may be purchassed for $7. (This includes shipping.) Copies of Forge 1.1 may also be purchased, while supplies last, for $6.50. If you would like to subscribe, you can either do so at our website (www.forgejournal.com) or fill out the form below and return it to the following address: Forge Journal PO Box 85472 Lincoln NE, 68501-5472

Checks or money orders can be made payable to Ben Kissling.

name:

___________________________________________ __________________________________ __________________________________ __________________________________ __________________________________ __________________________________

mailing address:

email:

___________________________________________ or Single Copy ($7 or $6.50)

1 Year Subscription ($14)

comments: