The Nebuchadnezzar magazine

Genre: Gothic horror

E.K. Anderson

We bought the farmhouse property for a bargain. It was away from the City, in Horus. On account of its space, the place was forty acres square, with casual hills that lulled us. Paradisaic trails fell along jagged limestone precipices, tussled in sweet pine forest. West, the pastures stopped their gallup into abrupt plain. This here, gullied, into the vale over field where the meadow grass sprawled beyond the pines.

The real jewel was the barn, as it stood whitewashed and glimmering, an effulgence in the sun. I’d grown up on a dairy farm, all through high school, and the place struck me with a memorial chord. It was room enough for the dog, and a prospective kid, so on impulse I sealed the deal with the realtor. 

In the beginning, my wife, Nancy, said no. She didn’t care for the country–being from the Cities–but the bad timing in between jobs, and her depression put me in between a rock and a hard place to find a reasonable residence. Besides, she could start writing again–and this abated the frequent fits of anger. Now, was as good as any to recuperate, which my wife so called, “a self-imposed rest cure.”

“We’re revived naturalists,” she said, “Pocketed away like hermits, in the Muir woods.” “We’ll make it work,” I said. “You’ll see.” I smiled, a sheepish grin, the same one I gave her before I’d proposed. Then, with a reluctant sigh, she compromised. I’d done so too with my new job, lessening my wages from the college to teach high school. I’d even painfully accepted the dog, as an addition to which I was allergic.

 It hadn’t occurred to me the magnitude of work that a country house would procure: in renovations, and subsequent upkeep. Fortunately, the season was early spring when we’d moved in, and the issue of firewood, could be postponed for a while. I’d found a prospective seller of it in bulk, though his quantity waned–and I needed to settle upon a second solution.

Among the first of my naive endeavors was the purchase of an axe; to cut the tree in back. I’d bought the thing at an antique shop in town. The owner had been meaning to get rid of the omen, saying until it’s presence he’d been making a moderate living. He told me that it was his nightly practice to move it on upper shelf behind the counter. On more than one occasion, he said, it’d manifest itself upon his chair, or within the display cabinet. The last morning he’d discovered it dangling by gossamer above his head, like the Sword of Dionysus. I regarded these tales with little more than humor.

*

One afternoon in April, I went out into the cold and wet after a week’s worth of rain. The ground was still sodden, but the wood dry. I’d been meaning to cut down the tree with the new axe.

I’d assumed it was an oak by the formation and bark, and through my relative observation of the others, this one, though, stood more steadfast, brazen enough in girth so that it imposed upon its contemporaries for light. Its bark was a composite, like twisting striatum so. And I could tell it was very old.

I’d heard a high pitched sound, like a whippoorwill whistle from down the road.

An old man walked down the path, and his dog came with him. The wolfhound looked as aged as his owner with flecks of gray in its fur. It’s tongue rolled out lazily, and it grinned as it paced alongside its companion.

I’d recognized the two. The old man was our neighbor from a mile down our place. I’d found it funny that they commuted by foot for such a distance, considering both their ages. 

“What do you think you’re doing, ye langer?”

 The voice was low and gruff, like a growl with an Irish accent. Axe in hand, I hesitated. Had I caught that correctly? I hadn’t noticed the old man’s lips move as he spoke. 

“What did you call me?” I was unfamiliar with the term, but it sounded insulting. 

“You heard me.” Then, I froze. My suspicion was justified in believing the voice did not come from the old man, but the dog.

“Yeah I can talk. Fuck you.”

The old man grinned. “Quiet, Failinis! He’s new at this. It would befit you to be cordial every once in a while.

The man looked back at me.

“I’m Lugh,” he said.

The dog, growled. 

“What are you doing, Lad? He’s got a point, you know.”

I stood perplexed. I thought the action was obvious. 

“I’m cutting down this tree.”

The old man clicked his tongue, and grinned a toothless smile. “And why are you cutting it down?”

“Because, he’s an idiot,” said Failinis. 

The old man glared, and the dog cowered. “Stop insulting him.”

“I’m cutting the tree for wood,” I said. “So we can keep warm come winter.”

“A respectable cause, but we can’t let you do that, Lad.” He glowered at me, like he’d done to his hound. “Besides, there are other trees.” He beckoned towards the forest.

“If it’s such a good cause, why can’t I? It’s my tree, in my backyard, on my land.” I set the axe down.

The man smiled again. “Because it’s unethical as you people call it. Is that a challenge?”

“Yes,” I said asserting myself. “It is.” 

“Well, from the looks of you, you’ve got Irish blood. So I don’t doubt your fury for a minute. Because you’re a son o’ mine I’ll treat you better than the others.

 “This–here–tree, is not your tree. It is mine. It was planted a long time ago, before your bastard conception, or your Pap’s birth, before your grandmother was fucked by that Irish sailor.”

“This, oak?”

“He doesn’t even know what kind of tree it is!” yipped Failinis. 

“This yew! I transported it here from over the great drink when it was a sapling, from a country not unlike  your own. Long before the lawmakers bickered, the proprietors and their bullshit regulations, and the property managers partitioned the allotments.” 

“I didn’t know that,” I said, my countenance softening. However, the story had quite a lot of holes; and that put Lugh’s age as a centenarian into question. “Well, I’m sorry but it doesn’t change the fact that the tree remains on my property, and as such I have the right to cut it.”

“It’s just a warning, son. But if you cut it, you’ll end up with a lot more than you bargained for. And I’d be the one to tell you.”

I’d resolved to cut another tree that day, only for the sake of Lugh’s sentiment. When the trees dwindled, I’d reconsider it. But that wouldn’t be for a long time. 

*

My wife had been happiest that summer; her novel was almost complete. I’d started working at a community college again, and felt alive. 

That summer, she got pregnant with our son. 

In bed, I’d felt her stomach for kicking. “Honey,” she said.

“What,” I said. I stroked her hair, the swirls of red. I noticed a gray strand, supposed stress to be the contributor, and said nothing.

“I didn’t tell you something,” she said, “I should have.”

“I’d like to hear it.”

“Well, it’s just that there’s this.”

She lifted her nightgown so that her belly showed. “It’s a tattoo.”

The impression was of a spiral, a cyclical wheel wound about her navel. The marking was green, the flesh raised, like a lesion.

I reached to feel it.

“Don’t touch it. It hurts.”

“Like a branding? How long have you noticed it?”

“Ever since I’d seen the obstetrician. I knew even before then. I felt it deeply, instinctively. I’ve been pregnant before; that was a long time ago. I just don’t want to lose it, again.”

I embraced her, comfortingly. “It’ll be alright.”

“There’s something else,” she said as her eyes welled with tears. “I’ve been having dreams.”

I gave her a quizzical look.

Last night I dreamt I fell into a fire. I screamed, and yelled but I couldn’t move. Like my body was paralyzed. I could see my skin blacken, my skin turn to ash–until my own voice sounded strange in my ears. I woke up, in a cold sweat.”

Over her shoulder, I hid my troubled expression. I stayed up late that night, doing research on the internet. I searched the encyclopedias, in the basement. I disregarded the dust, and the cobwebs, until I found the book I’d been meaning to find.

“A Translation of Myths and Celtic Symbols”

At the beginning of the book, was a similar symbol:  the dreaded tattoo that haunted my wife, and her dreams. 

I read on.

The emblem was a solar cross, a pre-Christian symbol with roots in many cultures: Indian, Greek, and Norse.

*

We’d called my wife’s lesion The Mark.  After inquiring about it to the obstetrician, and finding it posed no harm to her well being, we resolved that it was nuisance. 

The day came, when at last our son was born. He arrived with a caul: weighing a hefty ten pounds, and a dollop of red, being a follicular crown about his head. Like my wife, he had blue eyes. But I could not see my countenance in him. 

“He’s got it,” said the midwife. Her voice was uneasy, trembling. “The birthmark, on his forehead.”

I’d chuckled. It was one of those unhindered, feigned laughs; how someone could alter another’s worry on wordplay alone. I just couldn’t believe it. 

My wife stared at me then, eyes lavish and weary. 

We’d named our son Mark and as time went on his hair grew lush and tangled over his brow so that the brand did not show. Sometime during the early years I’d struggled to recall Lugh’s sentiment, though Faintly remembered the yew and figured, that it may have something to do with this. Though In truth, I would not allow myself to believe the superstition.

*

My wife’s novel was published in our sixteenth year. It’s title, “The Fortuitous Nature of a Postpartum Mother,” was allowed multiple installments by the editor. In the course of several months, it had climbed to the summit of fandom. She’d attained accolades from the editors of neighboring magazines. One reviewer, of the Antioch review, had remarked it as,”both sentimental and enlightening.” The talk amidst the papers, was that my wife, Nancy Summers, was to be the next prolific semi-autobiographical fiction writer. And shortly thereafter, before the letters spewed in petitioning her to write a second, her work was a bestseller.

“I’ll be going away,” she told me, “Just for a bit. Taking a flight to New York.”

“For what?” I said. I was excited for her.

“A televised interview, regarding my work. It’ll be a day trip.”

So I kissed her.

My son, who’d played football at the highschool, had surpassed me in height. The coach, and faculty were in talks of making him quarterback.

Even I saw the fruition of my hard work. I’d become department head of English, and published several articles in The Times.

*

However the storm came in April, when the dog died. Then my son broke out in fever. My wife hadn’t returned my calls, and I’d begun to worry. She’s found someone else, I thought. I’d begun to ruminate. Some doctor far off on her travels who drove a lavish sports car, and talked about Dotoskvy late into the night.

I fantasized on this thought, for far too long a time–to the point of fury. I calmed myself, believing in my haste, that I lacked the rationale. 

I waited.

*

“Its an acute stage of  multiple sclerosis,” the doctor said. “We can deter the symptoms for a time, but as is the case with neurological disease, deterioration is incremental, yes—but forthcoming.”

It is a troublesome thing for a teenager to face mortality. I didn’t tell him the diagnosis, not until I felt ready. But soon the fester of anxiety became too much. But even still, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him.

Instead, I took the axe from the woodshed, and hacked. In my fury, I don’t know for how long I went at it, but by the time I’d finished the sun had long fallen. I’d felt the exhaustion: the pangs in my hands, a fasciculation in my shoulder. 

But the truest, and most searing of pains began after: once I’d set the axe down on the table in the shed. 

It began with a hand cramp, and then a violent jostle–a shaking throughout my core. The force rattled my teeth. I heard a shrill sound, a pealing of gothic bells. No matter what, I could not drown it out. It was then that I saw it.

The dreaded mark, emulsifying, and manifesting on the back of my hand. It grew, singing flesh up my arm and to my chest. After a minute the burning sensation localized at my solar plexus, directly above my heart. 

To describe in words, what happened next would be a trifle all its own. The truth is, I am not certain to this day what transpired, but in that moment I remembered Lugh’s words. They resonated in the ambience of the mind, and festered.

In that instance, my body was not my own: neither to commandeer, neither to think. I was only a witness of what it did. My mind was a careful observer, affixed at times with panic and sheer disbelief.

I began with the hammer. My hands fished for it in my toolbox, the sea of sharps and gadgets. Then my fingers sought nails–not the tacks meant to hang picture frames, but rivets like one would find scattered about on an abandoned railroad. 

With these items I set off into the yard, hurriedly and crazily until my foot hit the trunk I’d cut. The impact, I’m sure had crushed my toes in their shoes but I could only wince, and continue the arduous, mysterious work at hand. 

Working on their own cognition, my hands removed my shoes, and socks. I could see the damage to my right foot, a mangled mess of bone protruding from sinews of flesh. Still my hands worked mercilessly. 

Like a brute, I sat on the tree trunk. I crossed my feet, the right over the left. Clutching the rivet, my hand glided above them. It aimed with precision, hovering. With my left hand, I raised the hammer above my head. 

Then, with a brutish force the hammer fell. It missed the rivet but hit my toes, only to render them mincemeat.

Still, my arm raised of its own volition and when it struck this time I heard a munching sound. With the next, a geiser of blood met my lips. It took a total of ten blows for the stake to puncture the flesh of both feet. It took several more to adhere them to the freshly stained bark of the yew.

I screamed at the gore of it, but began the placement of the second rivet.

Then the thought came. I was crucifying myself. 

then a whistle came from the forest, and a snarl with it. It was Lugh, and Failinis.

Give it here lad, said lugh and at once my hands obeyed. They offered up the hammer, the object of my penance.

Hands up! And my hands obeyed.
The old mans hands quivered as he placed the rivet in my palm.
Every time, said Lugh. I hate doing this. It hurts me just as bad. But,

Smack
I’ve grown accustomed
Wham!

To the pain. You people never learn.
thought you were kings, didn’t you?

With the last blow  his impaling had been complete. Both his hands were adhered to the boughs of the felled tree.

_heard this sniffing sound below, and saw the dog lapping up the blood.

 Failinis!

Sorry, said the old hound. It beats the shit you give me.


I should have never saved you, Failinis. Left you in that castle, I should have. 

Lugh turned to me. “ you got rope?”

I couldn’t answer, for to do so would be to acknowledge his subjugation. Instead i focused skyward, my eyes set on a particularly grating sirostratus.

I could only nod.

Is the rope in the shed?

I nodded again. 

“Dig!” cried the old man. The dog obeyed promptly at an alarming rate. Once the old dog had dug the hole to his master’s satisfaction, the poor thing collapsed in the muck and mire. 

“Now help me hoist him up!”

The old hound looked at Lugh, a cowardly, saddened expression. Then he left, disappearing into the shed. He returned with thick rope, the kind I used as a replacement for Bungy chords. 

With strong hands Lugh pulled the dirt from the soil

[To be continued]

By E.K. Anderson

Genre: Literary fiction

June’s six-year old is prone to temper tantrums. Last week, she took him out of school for a work trip in hopes of abating his outbursts. An excursion he will barely remember, she tells herself that this is a sound parental decision. Like him, she likes to pretend, though she is twenty seven: smack dab in the middle of early adulthood. Her own imagination fascinates her because it is pathological, bordering an artisan’s creation. With deceit its serpentine nature slithers, always. The lie is that she vacations for the sake of her job, and not for the interests of her son.

She is a Program Manager for the Smithsonian Institute of Natural History. With a doctorate from George Washington University, June’s area of focus is in Museum Studies. Her job is to stock and categorize the assortment of artifacts. She guides the curators, historians, and biologists by conducting personal, archaeological research. When objects are transferred between private collections, she is contractually obligated to meet with the board of affiliated sponsors, discussing the artifact and the condition it was kept in. Along with the oversight of annual exhibits, financing, and monetary donations, she lectures to both the public and faculty.

The exhibits are classified by time and region. The displays change often, but the themes remain the same. On the upper level, above the taxidermic elephant, are Kanaga masks from the Dogon people. Upon this same story, arranged in a set of complexes, is the Gem and Mineral exhibit. The Hope Diamond, a prominent jewel renowned for its curse, rests in a glass display. It is a vain thing that rotates on a pedestal, stopping alongside each facade of the case, for passersby to gawk at.

This exhibit exposes less known minerals such as wulfenite, and malachite. June prefers these: the less gaudy rocks, the ones that do not beckon for attention. Her pendant, given to her by her twin Ginelle, is made of onyx. Black with a sheen, the shard barely catches light. Where it does, the rock flashes, angry like lightening.

Ginelle pursues a degree in International Studies, what she describes as a breath of fresh air. She studies at the Sorbonne, and lives in a hostel that overlooks the Seine. She will meet them in Paris.

Thursday of last week, June received a telephone call from a representative attorney. The collector, a Parisian enthusiast of nineteenth century Impressionism, had wished to donate a Mary Cassatt painting to the Institute. At the time of his passing, the will entailed that the lawyer would act as executor, complying with the desire of the deceased. As a result, they fly to Paris, finalizing the ordeal.

Before eloping with land, June observes the first visual awe: countryside. From the air, the hills ungulate as irrigation ditches stretch, like muscle striations: taunt and formidable. The second spectacle, is setting foot off the plane, into Charles De Gaulle airport. Parisian air smells different. It possesses a homestead quality. When viewed from inside the building, the city and countryside are one: a limitless patchwork, meshing into a seamless tapestry.

“Doucement,” the French say. This is a figure of speech for their mannerisms are modest, yet direct. “Let them tread lightly,” they think, “for tomorrow is a sojourn.” This Speech is token, especially in the villas, where the moors know no bounds, and life flows tepidly. It trickles lukewarm amidst the houses of Giverny with buttresses and gables, as it always had in the days of Monet. Then, when one reaches the city, the faucet surges.  Paris is unobtrusive in the sense that it does not possess the superstitions of pantomiming peddlers, the outright gruffness of its citizens, or any of the pervasive Western stereotypes. From the sights, to the artwork in museums, the illustrious experience of Paris grows on the viewer. The entirety of the country, is a display. If a tourist is so inclined, he or she might spend a day preoccupied with the Neoclassic architecture. Another, must be spend with the people in the township of Rene, as they are most hospitable. For gourmands, food is the third, as open air markets are plentiful.

*

June and her son meet Ginelle at baggage claim. Ginelle has a stork bite on her forehead that failed to fade during infancy. They would be indistinguishable, were it not for this feature.

“You look older,” Ginelle says. She wears a little black dress, with paisley floral designs and flats.

“By five minutes?”

“Crows Feet never lie.”

At the bistro, Ginelle orders blood putting.

“What’s good?” June asks.

“Everything. Try the duck confit. As for you!” Ginelle gestures towards June’s son. “Crepes.”

“He wants French fries.”

“Not in France he doesn’t. Do you like pancakes?”

He nods.

“Okay then, you’ll like crepes.”

The crepes arrive stacked high. They are thin sheets, draped over each other like lace.

“Where’s the syrup?”

“You don’t eat them like that. Here, let me show you.” Ginelle flags the waiter. “Beurre.”

A minute later, the waiter brings out a crock, with a side of fig preserves. Ginelle smears the crepe with an even layer of butter and mashed fruit. She hands it to June.

“Mmm,” June says, encouraging her son to eat. He tastes it, and grimaces.

For her entree, June orders salmon. They decide, that tomorrow—after the jet lag has diminished—they will tread the cobblestone streets. They will see what there is to see, within the heart of the great city.

But first, they must board the metro. So at noon, they do so.

Traversing the metro in Paris is difficult for two reasons. Aside from being in another language, the platform signs flash green and yellow repeatedly–enough to induce a seizure. Second, unless a foreigner makes the effort to speak their language, the French do not attempt theirs.

The metro lines are myriad, and they interconnect like gossamer threads. Here, is the Green Line that leads to Place de La Concorde. It runs East to West. Another, the Red Line, weaves like an artery, with vessels articulating to Sacré-Cœur Basilica.  It leads to the Eighteenth district, an arrondisment where they toil the many steps of Montmartre, the highest point of Paris.

“Let’s go. The Red Line leads there.”

“But I’m not religious,” June says. She does not want to take it.

At its summit the cathedral of Sacré-Cœur is a great, white globe of sanctity where priests implore of their earnings. At the entrance, placards beckon them: some labelled l’argent for contribution, and Prier! for worship.

June appreciates the architecture. The steeple, a construct of marble and gold, is a wondrous thing. Paintings line the basal walls recounting the Nativity. As the Messianic story progresses, so do the relative height of the images. Soon, escalating passed the baptism and miracles is the Crucifixion, at the very apex. The priests do not permit cameras, and the objects of veneration are carved of marble. Brooding silence envelopes the place, to the point of uncomfortableness.

At June’s request, they skip Notre Dame. They reserve the Eiffel Tower for the evening. After the escapade, they venture back to their hotel. Ginelle accompanies them.

“Have you called him yet?”

“Who?”

“The lawyer.”

“Tomorrow.”

June leaves her son with Ginelle for the day. She meets the lawyer, Monsieur Demain in Barreau de Paris, a bureau and law firm. The office stands next to a cheese shop, and the hardy smell of curds is akin to putrefaction. Bland wallpaper lines the interior, with a flag that bears the fleur-de-lis, and a picture of Jacques Chirac.

“It is a lost gem,” the lawyer says. His English is so superb, that June envies it. “Monsieur Hier wanted for it to be in the care of someone he could trust. He had no next of kin, so he donated it. The work is entitled L’Enfance de Venus.”

In truth, she believes this is a hallmark, a missing link of art. The dimensions of the hemp canvas are thirty-two by twenty-six inches. In the center, a school girl stands, clad in the black livery of the day. Swallows and cardinals prance amidst willows and hedges. Fall leaves turn sienna, as beige clouds whisk away. In the background the Seine flows, a stride of blue along the horizon.

June wraps L’Enfance de Venus in a sackcloth linen to protect it from the light. Then, she tells Monsieur Demain goodbye, and the two part ways.

“Adieu,” he says.

*

They spend their last day in Paris, on a boat. The fare is cheap, and the ferry is a giant red vessel. The starboard side reads L’Esprit. L’Esprit traverses the underside of the bridges. Along the trusses, gargoyles leer as the huge mass courses. On deck, a megaphone screeches educational facts such as how Catharine of Aragon wed King Henry VIII, who went mad; at what time Place De La Concorde was built.

At the end of the ride, they disembark. It is noon, again. Their redeye flight to Detroit leaves at five in the afternoon. Ginnelle tells June that she will guide them through the metro until they reach the airport.

*

They get separated from June’s sister, when the doors close. When this happens, June is instantly aware of her helplessness. Like every American tourist, she is lost within the metro conduits. All June has is her arsenal of broken French. She also has several Euros. She keeps these with her credit cards and passport in a money belt under her shirt. June stashes her valuables, in a roll of towels, and buries this within her suitcase. Intuition tells her that if her bag is pilfered, the thief would at least leave the towels which contained her onyx pendant. But above all she keeps the Cassatt painting tucked close under her armpit. When she gets to the airport, she will expedite it as high priority freight. Until then she will carry around the priceless painting, of unknown worth.

Ginelle, whom she exclusively relied upon as translator, taught her several generic words. She knows “Ou?” for “Where?” “Lequel,” for “which one.” “Toilettes,” for bathroom. Once, when a gypsy had fingered her pocket for change, she said chienne, which meant bitch.

As her son clutches the hem of her skirt, she fixates on a map dispensed at one of the kiosks.

“I want to go home,” he says. By home he means their two bedroom apartment in D.C., that overlooks a conservancy.

“Stay close. Hold my hand.”

After missing her primary stop, at Gare St. Saint-Lazare she panicks. She assesses her location, and sits on Platform Eleven in the district of  St. Augustine. She sits because she is tired. Amidst the cacophony of the station, her mind forays through an empty state. It petitions her body for a good night’s rest. The knees, which harbor this immense weight, buckle. So she envisions her prospect down to every commodity: finding Ginelle, their first class seats on the plane, the fluffiness of the pillows, the songs they’d listen to through their Bose headsets, the flight attendants as they dimmed the cabin lights.

According to the map they need to board the Yellow Line at Platform Twelve. However, this task proves elusive and arduous. With map and luggage in hand, she struggles through the corridors, clambers up steps, and shuffles through a sea of people. The worst risk, she thinks, is the exposure. June, especially looks lost, like ignorance has affixed to her face.

When she reaches platform twelve, June drops everything. She sets her baggage on a bench, and lets her arms fall to their sides. They ache, and she feels a dull throb in her lower back. Out of stubbornness, she even takes out her pendant and wears it.

June sits in the tunnel for quite some time. She does not know for how long, because she concerns herself with the solitude of the place. In the district of St. Augustine, few tourists congregate. When they do, they do not appear: voices take their presence. The language trails, resonating round and sweet through concrete. It sounds like trickling water, somewhere off deep.  

The subway is home to a stagnant art, where graffitists paint lascivious images of engorged genitalia, mocking observers. Tiles tessellate the tunnels on all sides. Quite often, words are written along the walls.

She reads a passage by a poet she does not know.  The words are inscribed upon white tiling, and she does not understand their meaning:

“Bien avant les images et les couleurs

La source du chant s’imaginait

A bouche fermée

Comme une chimère captive.”

Further yet, where the the tunnel ends, the words fade like a drawing in perspective. Displayed on the far wall is the mosaic of a mouth, like a fresco. The lips open to a cherry tongue and a dark, cavernous space.

“Can we eat?” her son says, “I’m hungry.”

“In a bit. When we get back to the airport.” She thinks logistically. When they get back to the airport, she will be doing a number of things. First, regardless of the international fee, she will call Ginelle. She will let her know, in the span of a minute, that she loves her. Second, she will call the Institute, and speak of the condition of the painting; that it saw little sunlight and hung on a stucco wall. Third, because she is curious, she will look up the words to that poem, in a French-English dictionary.

The Yellow Line comes along smugly, easily. Indistinguishable from the other Lines it is a gray oblong box. It conduces on the same tracks; it trolleys back and forth, enclosing its hoard of sultry passengers; and it laments in frustration at the things past, and murmurs for those yet to come.

The doors open, like a mouth. Amidst the crowd they are last in queue. Bodies shuffle for a brief moment, a semblance of frotteurism. She clutches the onyx pendant as they enter the confines, the encasement. For a brief second her arm relaxes, and the painting slips. It does not fall to the floor. Rather it is caught by a man, wearing plaid with ruffled hair. Incognito, he slinks off into the crowd, as the doors close.

On the subway she holds her son close, and turns to the people. In their expression, the people know of her foreignness. Their flavor is bittersweet, a taste of umami. For a millisecond, she thinks that maybe, through the disparity of dialect, they might perceive her loss. On the other side of the door, June searches vainly for the man who stole her painting.

The intercom crackles. It announces their next stop. Then, the iron beast jostles.

By E.K. Anderson

Genre: Gothic fantasy/Horror

August 3, 1950 – Chicago

–A momentary lapse of reason

I was out of sorts on the day I left my wife. 

That day, I lied, as I had numerous times before. I told my wife that I was out with a few old college friends, having drinks at the local pub on Aberg Avenue. Gambling hadn’t come to the fore then, but I’m sure she had her suspicions. Her reasoning—and my defense–was that since I was born into a good Christian family, I would honor our marriage. I told her I would not cheat as ungodly men do, and this verbal affirmation lent credence to the claim. However, resolute I was in this affectation, this changed when I met the girl.

Everything changed after that. 

For weeks, I’d been wrestling with the decision. Of course, like a demon’s possession, it only stirred my state, and darkened my mood. To stifle my state further, I began to drink with the vague illusion that between the glasses of scotch I’d find a revelatory notion to impede my doubts.But with the residual pang of suffering, I resolved to annul myself as one would an exorcism. 

I called Hughes, from the theatre, and resolved that night to pack my suitcase, and leave for the last bus station of the night. The day I left our home, I knew I would never return. The body I occupied was miles away from the mental task I had set for it. I kept to mine most perfunctorily — brutishly set in the throes of my directorial work at the Guild.

My solitary nature of course, did not bode well for the discourse of our marriage — and my wife, being perceptive to my level of aloofness took to the seas of her adventure, without a word. I told her that I was going to complete my work, and that was that.

And then the thought came most immediately to jump and rid myself of the searing emptiness. I resolved to leave that night.

And leaving my ring upon her pillow, I left.

I’d been staying with an actor friend. (Squatting, was more so the word). Most days I’d set up my study in the basement of the theatre, typing away at something to rant about. 

The following week, my wife’s letter came in the mail.

Good riddance, scum.

Off to meet a sailor in Prague. 

Despite the inner calamity I felt, I did not question the conditions of her departure. I was a fool for allowing an open marriage, and my karmic self-indulgence had finally paid its pang due.

I set the envelope upon the desk of my study. The golden ring I’d set upon the pillow was smelted thin, hammered into a disc of flattened metal.

The day I left, I was still honing the particularities of the play. The Theatre’s production of a Midsummer’s Night Dream,  had fallen through to me.   As director, my task was to find an adequate substitute for Queen Titania. I suppose, I’d been looking for an excuse; a partial-solution to the slew of dreariness I’d been feeling lately.

I’d been writing on spec for the theatre’s production of a Midsummer’s Night Dream. But my inspiration started when I caught sight of her. On set for her audition, I saw the woman with the countenance of Circe. She drew breath, and I sat in stark admiration of her presence. I gave her the part.

*

The girl entered the Pub late one evening. It wasn’t that she’d entered by herself modestly. It was that she entered as majestic, and placidly as a moth. Allured by the woman’s appearance, I’d observed her from the inside of Lorcan’s pub, sheepishly. I was still married then, and my wife had been away on a directorial production. It was the anniversary of our wedding 

Grateful for the shield of bodies from my other bar patrons I contented myself with a drink to celebrate the New Year.  She sat languidly upon the patio bar bench, toting arm in arm alongside a young student from the Actor’s guild. In her hand was an Old Fashioned drink– sour or sweet — I could not tell. But from the restaurant’s veranda 

Wan and scarlet-haired, she rose from the bench.She seemed like the compilation  dreams were made of.

I ordered an Old Fashioned Sweet. 

“Complements of the house,” Lorcan said. “Courtesies from Morgan Le Fey Celeste. On the house.”

“Interesting,” I said. “I will be sure to thank her.”

I was a Marlon Brando in those days. Beset by a bit of fame, I could play the lofty pride of the part. I was Flint O’Toole. A casanova on the rebound. 

Morgan was an actress, or so she told me, and I believed her because she looked like Greta Garbo. She had sunshine in her eyes, and a voice that matched, which made me reminisce. When she spoke, I felt young again.

“My name’s Flint O’Toole,” I told her, my voice husky as tarnished leather. “Like the city in Michigan.” Hers was Celeste. I told her that I ran the actor’s guild. 

“I’m a teacher,” I said.

“Of what sort? Theater?” The girl twirled her scarlet hair. The sprigs tumbled over her shoulders like a bloodied cataract. She popped her gum.

“No, history. Western Civilization. Ethics.”

“At the university?”

“Yes,” I said, “But I also direct in my free time.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

So I did. And she told me about her experience in showbiz, and how her long lost manager had sold her out for a blonde with knee high stockings. She’d resorted to waitressing, and dancing at the gentleman’s club part time. Her story was lavish and piteous, so I  accepted most of it, subconsciously. I shunned from any mention of relationships, or my wife. With time I could tell her fondness for me had grown, so I asked her out. 

I thought a simple dinner with a movie was sufficient. I took her to Caelum, a five star restaurant, with water carafes, and pallid, bored waiters. 

As I sat across from her, I caught the smell of patchouli. Her smile was an effulgence that sprung from her face. I could see that her hair was flattened, matted down like rose petals. On her head she wore a sort of crown with miniature crystals—diadems she called them. Truthfully, I didn’t know why she wore it, especially on an outing like this. I wondered if I had expelled some indication of wealthiness, because I most surely wasn’t.

“Where are you from?” I said. I noticed a dialect in her words, with vowels slightly more enunciated than I was accustomed to in the Midwest. 

“From out West. Those places you don’t ever hear of.”

“And in what specific place were you born?”

The girl sipped her tea. “A place out East. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

*

We stopped at a drive-in. 

The movie was an Alfred Hitchcock flick. Truthfully, I don’t recall much of it, besides a sea of black birds–maybe crows, enveloping terrified women in pencil skirts. I think it was because, I kept thinking—in rumination—how I’d lost my wife’s trust, and were I to come clean, under the toil of guilt, how the divorce would affect our kids. I thought about where I’d live with such a modest income. I’d meant to exit the car, or do anything for fresh air.

“I think I should go,” I said.

“Where?” Celeste said, her pitch heightened with the heat of passion. In the night her red hair caught moonlight, and intercepted it into platinum. She smothered me with ripe breasts, and flicked her tongue.

“Home.”

“And where is home, love? Tell me, my King, where is it? ” she said. I cleared the haze from the glass, and gazed through the car window. Outside the sky lighted periwinkle, and the sun set on a graying countryside. Elm trees sprouted around us; the drive-in screen that rose like an edifice was gone. The car was in the midst of a forest clearing. 

“I don’t know.” I managed. I felt a sullen longing, a deep hurt in my gut. My jaw tensed. I looked to the passenger seat. 

The girl’s face contorted. I saw the sinews of her visage twist and turn. The underlying muscles undulated, rippling through flesh. Perspiration festered at her brow.  Then with sudden alarm, the superficial skin broke, molting and shedding to reveal the thing beneath. The crown plopped on my lap.

The thing bore no likeness to the girl, and in that moment of flight, I could not recollect what the original succubus had looked like. The skin I had sloughed away in the usual way. The moult was all worn. Her head began to gyrate, pulsating segments until her abdomen split forth from its center like a ripe cocoon. 

Then oozing forth the fleshy body crept out. A bright red abdomen set in a black body. The spider moulted. 

It burrowed its head in the crevice of a deer carcass, and gorged on blood. Under such corporal stress, the body of the deer shriveled. The effect like a rose, withering. 

And again its body turned, towards the sound of my breath.

After gorging the great insect gyrated, rolled back its eight eyes to white. The exoskeleton burst. 

I ran through the pines. I did not stop to see again what form the dreaded creature took. 

Before running, I’d caught sight of the reddening malice, how its eyes had glossed over white, and the image stuck in the recess of my mind. I ran through mist along a gravel path, until my feet met concrete.  Then, I breathed for a count of ten and ran again.

Wherever I was, did not bear a resemblance to Sixth street. As I scouted vainly for a landmark through the mist, I realized the forest, in all its splendor, was a continuum. Here and there, the path, the trees, the clearing—all of it mimicked. 

A torch flickered faintly in the distance. Humidity had quieted the flame in the brazier, so that it hissed, a maddening red. It stood upon a small brick edifice, painted white: a booth. The toll attendant wore a jester’s hat.

“Lui qui rira bien rira dernier. You got that?”

I shook my head. 

“It’s just a joke,” said the attendant. “You’re thick aren’t you?”

“I suppose.”

“You’ve also got wyvern troubles.”

“Excuse me?”

“Wyvern. Those draconic creatures with two legs. Emblem of Wessex. Whore of Babylon.”

Then, I understood.

“Yes, I have had—excuse me—how do you say?

“Wy-vern.”

“Yes, that kind of trouble. How did you know, and do you know which way to—”

“Civilization? The world? That’d be through this booth here. What if I told you, that at the Edge of the World there is a Mad Jester, who laughs at the sheer futility of everything? He cackles at the pursuit of nothingness, the vast chasm of meaning that is lost to meaninglessness, et cetera. Death especially, that’s a hoot.”

“And what is the toll?”

“Get him to stop laughing.” said the Jester, through exasperated breaths of laughter.

I heard the creature treading the gravel, through the mist. Then, I saw it: a hideous ebony serpent—the hide of the woman still adhered to its tail. I was astounded at the breadth of its wings: great black parasols that loomed over the country road. And then with sudden clarity, its form now in full view, it glared at me, and me at it. Its eyes rolled over white, as saliva frothed at its muzzle. Then, it charged.

The Jester laughed, of course.

I pressed a picture of my wife, up against the pane. 

“Ce un belle femme. She’s beautiful, you know, ” he said.

I nodded vigorously, “Yes, she is.” He chuckled, but gazed longingly at the photograph.

“Are you going to let me pass?”

“Yes, yes. That’ll certainly do.” said he, and The Jester stopped cackling. 

*

He printed my ticket, and slid it to me, slowly. 

Regrettably, I handed him the picture.

The boom barrier inched upwards, like the second hand of a clock. My heart beat in tandem, and as it rose so it wiped the fog away, like a squeegee. Through the airy medium, the action revealed a vista and I saw the World, from the Edge of the World.

I saw the skyline of New York City, the mundane municipalities of Annapolis, the dunes of Gaza, and the slithering bend of the Seine. The waters of the Atlantic trickled at sunset over the rim of the horizon. All of it, a sheen flat as glass.

And then, I jumped into the murk of it all, narrowly missing a bite to the rear. I bounded into this world, immaterial. 

THE MIRACLE MACHINE

by E.K. Anderson

The man donned uncannily neat attire and bore the likeness of the Bourgeois. He wore a cravat and ornate cuffs, reminiscent of seventeenth century Parisian bankers and businessmen. Trimmed and flush with his jaw line was a graying beard, with patches of black like ground pepper. Pants perfectly tailored about his legs, his slim countenance implied one of guile, authoritative and classy measures. In his left hand was a pocket watch, one in which he concerned himself with constantly, as if by some way his gaze could hinder time. In his other he carried a half-full glass of moonshine He was a rebellious man by nature, free of the shackles of faux pas, unspoken nuances and taboos of society.

“Punctuality is a virtue Dr. Mayson,” He looked again at the pocket watch, facial expression as crude as a stone etching, “As it seems that you are the only interviewee, I’m willing to overlook the minute fact of your tardiness. I recommend an atomic clock. They’re the best,” said Arthur Morgan.

In the doorway, surgeon Richard Mayson Ph.D, stood somewhat confounded and uneasy, believing that he had in all truth reached the premises a minute early. In his hand was a jumbled collection of papers: his polished medical resume, the papers he had written for Cambridge academia and any spare credentials he could manage to gather about his second-story London studio. Clumping them together in his left prosthetic, he shook hands with the man.

“I’m honored,” he said in a stunted manner, “I apologize. I’ll take up that recommendation.” He lied, knowing quite well he would not.

Through his bifocals Mr. Morgan peered at him hauntingly, the moonlight refracting in the lenses, “Come in.”

Richard stepped over the threshold. Already like some irritant or foreign matter, he began to reject his notions that the man was in any way sane. The mansion, had little in it, which surprised him. A myriad of corridors, ran perpendicular to each other; both upstairs and downstairs, leading into grey and dusty rooms. Tapestries both as large as his head and the size of a man lined the walls. Green velvet draperies hung lankly from the Venetian windows. The room spacious he felt small, the rotunda wavering above him like a sky about to fall. He saw what looked like a replica of Creation of Adam, the fresco from the Sisteen Chapel (which he had always wished to see in person). A brick hearth, burned steadily, hardly crackling.

All about, in tandem, he heard the tintinnabulation of clocks like miniature glockenspiels. It irritated him, a throbbing nuisance at the back of his head.

“I’m a bit of an antiquary. My associates regard my house as noisy and mad labyrinth, unusual really. Yet I enjoy the ruckus. Hearing the seconds, the milliseconds of the day as they pass tend to inspire me. Do you find it quaint Dr. Mayson?”  

“Fine. It reminds me of Mister Gepetto,” he said mistrustfully, “Pinnochio.”

Mr. Morgan clicked his tongue and raised his brow, “Fair enough. Moonshine or Scotch?”

“Scotch,” He preferred no alcohol but felt obliged to be courteous, “Just a little though.”

They sat in the middle of the rotunda, adjacent to the stairwell and juxtapose to a small table with an unusual colorful fish centerpiece. The room still, tension affixed in a single state like dry ice.

“Chinese fighting fish are my favorite,” said Mr. Morgan, “They are not a dog or feline, but they are ever enduring, quite resilient to change—the aquatic equivalent of a cockroach.”

“Don’t they fight? I mean if they’re put together?”

“Yes. This one lasted longer than the others. Battle of the fittest.” In the aquarium, he now saw two fish, their bloated bodies inflated twice their normal size. They bobbed up and down, their eyes glazed over, dead.

“You do this for sheer entertainment?”

“Not for sport, my good doctor. Science.”

It was then that he remembered the three indications of a sociopath in the discipline of Psychology: Bed-wetting, arson, and animal cruelty. So far the man had already gotten one.

“Before we begin, I can assure you Mr. Mayson that what I do is completely legal. Pristine and free of swindling. A monetary interchange, for a service. There is nothing shady about that. No loopholes, no thrifty advances, just an equal exchange,” Mr. Morgan smiled.

Richard Mayson did not like the sound of the man, his inflection had a conniving aura to it; he had the air of a mortician or a crafty door to door solicitor.

“And the expense is?”

“A penny will do.” The ‘service’ for a little loose change that might have easily tumbled out of his pocket unbeknownst to him was all he needed? Surely there was a twist.

“Why so cheap?”

Mr. Morgan took a sip of the liquor from his glass, sampled the moonshine and grinned politely. “I won’t be a financial burden to you Mr. Mayson. After all this is an interview.  A penny saved is a penny earned. It truly is a small price to pay. Yet on my behalf why not capitalize?”

Richard felt his tailored pockets; the only thing that came up was nothing more than the cold copper coin, the last remnant of the suit he had bought. Reluctantly he paid the man the remaining sum.

“One thing I must tell you is that there is a contract, just as with any job. Here,” said the employer, handing him a thick wad of paper,s the size of a manuscript, “a pen to sign.” He ruffled through the rest of _.

He took it reluctantly.

He could have read the minuscule writing; he could have mentally underlined and scanned all areas, all unclear ambiguous statements—the impurities.

But he didn’t.

He signed his name in careful orthography in the blank. “What’s the—”

“Date? The ides of March. The fifteenth to be exact,” the man smiled taking the pen and stuffing it in his suit coat pocket, “the day corpses lie in the streets.”

“Can you tell me anymore of the position?” said Richard tentatively.

“Unfortunately that cannot be done. Not yet anyway. All I have been instructed to tell you is that you are about to enter a machine.  The subject of which can be described as a test.  Of what sort? I cannot say.” He poured himself some more moonshine from the flask, deliberately letting several drops fall into the miniature aquarium. Immediately, the fish with tattered fins breathed the alcohol through its gills. The result was a feral creature, attacking its own reflection.

“Where exactly is this test?” Richard said, choosing to ignore the fish.

“This way.”

Richard carried his scotch with him. The man led him down the ivory stairwell, into a far more grandiose room than he had seen, thus far. It possessed the sterility of a hospital ER, yet spanned farther back than a quarter section of a football field. Oddments, Petri dishes, chemical tubes, DNA jelly, Bunsen burners, neon containers of solute. But what took his attention away was not the sheer quantity of equipment but a generator unit, stashed in the center as the main cornerstone of the laboratory. He still heard the clocks, the sounds followed him wherever they went.

“I believe this has been the reason for your intrigue, Mr. Morgan and inversely my life’s work in the making. It can be perfected but the premise and overall objective works.” They walked closer; the machine looked very much like a titanium box with a series of hoses and cogs about its central interface. A spring-like contraption, antennae-like sat atop it.

“Tesla coil?”

“Yes. It’s far more efficient. Eighty-five percent electrical transfer. I prefer to use that as my energy source.”

“Ah,”said Richard sounding amused, “ May I now ask what it is?”

“It’s a machine, meant to manifest and trigger your sentient capabilities more or less. An enhancement allowing you to delve into the greater recesses and conduits of logic not normally visited, since only 10 percent of the brain’s thinking processes are accessible under normal conditions.” He smiled through his beard in a gregarious manner, “Simply put, a dream machine.”

“A machine for catching dreams? You mean to tell me that you can take an intangible thought and make it concrete enough for another to witness?”

“Not necessarily. For discerning them. There is no eyewitness but the dreamer. However given a sedative, such as what was put in your share of moonshine, one can relay the visuals far easier after the point of visual stimulation.”

“Visual stimulation?” Dr. Mayson smirked. He was beginning to laugh impulsively, whether it was the liquor or the outlandish information that was being force fed to him like an infant he did not know, “And how exactly is that accomplished?”

“Electrodes. Implanted in the brain’s pleasure and visual receptors. Implants– should I say– appear to be your area of expertise.”

“Surgery. Yes,” Richard said astutely, “But I’m in no way about to undergo any procedure that would strip any person of their freewill. Altering another’s faculties for a laboratory significance is beyond me.”

“You have already accepted the job offer Mr. Mayson, as well as volunteered to be our first guinea pig.” Mr. Morgan unfurled the contract from his pocket. In minuscule writing, barely enough for him to see, Dr. Mayson read the words… and his signature.

“You will profit much. Half the shares.”

“Potential shares,” began Richard. He was skeptical but wished to inquire more. “And how will this make a profit?”

“Economists my dear sir, economists. The world’s businesses and corporations. Imagine if every fluctuation in the stock market could be foreseen, every variable accounted for—predestined all with a single prophetic dream. Clairvoyance achieved.”

“But you said it was a dream machine,”said Richard, “How does prophecy relate to dreams?”

“God bestowed man with dreams, Mr, Mayson. It is thus up to man to to decipher the cryptography of conceptualization. It has often been said that there exist three dimensions. Some have alluded to a fourth such as time, but I propose a fifth which is metaphysical.”

“Which is?”

The man smiled and swelled his chest, clearing his throat with a slight smile.

“Thought. Or more so consciousness.” 

“But,” began Richard, “Thought isn’t concrete. How could that which is not physically existential be a–”

“Dimension? That is where you are gravely wrong,” said Mr. Morgan who had taken the liberty of reclining on a laboratory bench, “Regard it as a deviant of Time which is immaterial: that which stays afixed, but in theory may well be manipulated to one’s bidding, can be warped. Such is the same principle with thought. Unseen, it exists on its own separate plane. In part its origin is physical: existing in a precognitive form, manifest in every neuron impulse, every synapse overload, every rudimentary cell process and in turn electron revolution. The question, and sense of better judgment, is what is the catalyst for thought? Where does it originate?”

Richard stood smugly, arms crossed. He could not question whether the man was at his wit’s end or an intellectual heavyweight. In his brain the two portions of rationale and blind faith warred, amplifying the nausea of the drug that had been administered to him through the alcoholic beverage. How near or far from the truth the idea actually was, was frivolous. He needed an ibuprofen.

“I don’t know.” Simple and precise. He found the man’s subtle aggression irksome. “I suppose I’ll find out won’t I?”

“Perhaps. But only with your expertise. We are both men of faculty, do-gooders are we not? Let us reach a consensus. I will grant you sixty–no–seventy percent of the shares. Surely you must acquiesce to that.”

Richard stood dumbfounded. He felt numb. The salary would exceed his surgeon compensation, allow him to pay off any remaining medical and residency loans.

But he was still taking a gambit.

“There may be certain physical repercussions,” said Morgan. He had finished his flask, and sipped distastefully at the remaining melting ice, “Of which I won’t sugar coat.”

“As is with anything there is always a catch. If so I want to hear them before–”

“You set foot in the machine? That can be arranged. Psychosis is one. Also an effect similar to a hallucinogen as the residual drug is still in the system. Nausea and vomiting as symptoms. That sort of thing. I won’t bore you with the pharmaceutical implications.”

The prospect of a sanitarium seemed dismal to him. He couldn’t throw away his career for this. Nor could he toss the potential monetary gains from out his head. This was nonsense. “What’s the probability?” he said impatiently.

“Less than 1 percent.” From his suitcoat pocket was a silver flask, shining bright against the lab lights, Richard saw the distorted refraction of his face. This, Morgan poured in his glass.

“Toast,” Morgan said.

“Toast.” They clinked their glasses, the sound pealing—resonating throughout the room.

He stepped in the box, underneath the Tesla coil.

“I wish you Godspeed on the Primrose Path, Mr. Mayson. ” said Morgan. He took the penny from his suitcoat and raised it up in the light. “E pluribus unum,” he read on the inscription, “One out of many.”

The door closed, the tumblers clicked, the darkness ensued. Richard did not know for how long he had been in the machine. Minutes? Perhaps hours. He shuffled sheepishly in utter darkness; he paced uneasily—and fell. He expected to hit his head on the far wall. He expected to have been hurt and bruised, bashing his head in.

But he didn’t.

The first thing he ascertained, or rather perceived was that the box was far more spacious than he had deemed. He had fallen—yes—that was true, but he landed, not on the rusted iron floor of the machine. In fact Richard wasn’t sure he had landed at all…

By some unseen force, it occurred to him that he was suspending; he felt wind whip his hair—tumbling into some intangible, nebulous void. He felt heavier, as if gravity had increased 3 fold. His head ached.

Light.

He saw that now. A pinprick below the canvas of black beneath him. Yet it increased exponentially…perhaps he was accelerating faster than he had deduced.

The pinprick grew larger, like a nearing halo. A portal. And as quickly as he had fallen, he had stopped. Gravity had neutralized had it not? Now he… floated.

In haste he entered the aura, almost numbingly at first. But something even more had surprised him. He could feel his right hand. He looked down. The prosthetic was gone. In place of it, was a hand—very much like his left—with feeling. He pinched it and winced.

The universe had employed a nasty trump. This was unwarranted, unjustified nothing short of miraculous. It’s just a dream. Only a dream. But a wonderful dream it was.

He floated further. From his vantage point, he saw clouds. Towering nimbus, with mountainous facades. He saw the flash of lightning and felt the resonance of thunder deep within his chest. He felt rain dappling his cheeks—flecks of snow too. Yet the light still bathed him. He felt like basking in it, reclining into an everlasting slumber.

Henry David Thoreau’s essay, “On Civil Disobedience,” holds true today.

“Disobedience is the true foundation of liberty. The obedient must be slaves.” – Henry David Thoreau.

“What I have to do is to see, at any rate, that I do not lend myself to the wrong which I condemn.” – Henry David Thoreau.

There are times when a leader has gone too far, and projects on to others. Trump has done this. He has gone too far.

Considering the recent stream of events, the callous nature of his public outrage and the derivate nature by which Trump’s post has garnered his network of supporters has further split the MAGA crowd from those who believe in human decency.

We are experiencing a moralistic split.

What then do we do in times of unrest?

It is plausible that we make take the path of our predecessors. It is plausible that we start from where the Civil riots began.

But it is more important to remember history. It is more important to recognize that we as human beings are the free agents of our marked free will. Violence is not the answer. It never is, and I could have used choice words I should not have, but I did speak out and say it wasn’t right. We as human beings have the ability to take a step back, pause, and reflect at the outcomes of our circumstances, and that we have a choice to conduce how change will occur.

Accountability it seems for the President is quite difficult. It takes one to know one who must be accountable. It also takes one to know that accountability is the only way forward, especially for forgiveness to occur for others and oneself.

Glossing over an error, does little address the issue. In fact it compounds it by several factors, and it requires an acknowledgement of the thought patterns that brought you to where you are in the first place. I have come to understand that truth distances us from the person we once were. It embodies wisdom officially, as it is practiced on a daily basis.

It’s a challenge, but it is a challenge worth undertaking, because in that process (and this is new to me), you discover more of who you are.

There are times when balance is needed. Stoicism, I suppose — not in the sense of avoiding the emotion, but in acknowledging erroneous behavior.

People are not vessels of responsibility, or reproach. If an electronic system such as a circuit is malfunctioning, factors could be considered such as the resistors, or motherboards that are contributing to the issue. At certain points the person in question may be blamed for its construction, but not from natural wear and tear of the system.

Such is the same case.

You don’t resolve something like this with more violence. You resolve his rebuttal with personal reflection, stoicism and art. Through the process of creation as a part from his fake A.I. video one creates realism.You learn to satiate your anger, and let it not cloud your judgement.

We are born for times such as these.