A Great Flood

By Jem Ashton 

My knuckles are rubbed thin by my persistent, aggressive, maybe unnecessary handwashing. 

In the cold weather, the thinned skin cracks and my knuckles bleed. Sometimes, I don't notice for awhile, only realizing my injury when I finally have reason to look at my hands and see the frozen blood dew - dark red and sticky - on my knuckle peaks. As soon as I can, I wash my hands again. I rub the blood away along with more skin. 

In the following days, I'm more careful. I treat my hands gently. I talk myself out of believing every surface is so nasty that I need to rub away my skin after touching anything. I remind myself I need a healthy dermal layer to protect myself from germs. I moisturize, do what I can to retain the oil my skin needs to survive. Scabs form, my skin heals. 

My hands look good, as if I never washed my skin away.

Conceptual Piece Two

By Late Night Writings

Light echoed off the walls of the dimly lit cave, shadows hid in the crevices between the rocks. Complete silence, not even the beating ring that comes with the lack of noise. No movement but the lights creeping forward to the entrance of the cave. There was a lingering sense that too much time had passed. Each minute that passed seemed like only seconds; each one wasted. Then, a footstep rustled the dirt, and another. As they drew nearer, time’s pace quickened and returned to its regular flow. Sound returned, but it was still quiet. A shadow crept up the wall of the cave and grew with each step. The light inched out of the cave, it was bright and made it difficult to see in. A figure now stood at the cave’s mouth, made into a silhouette by the blinding light. It said nothing and did nothing but stand and look outwards. Even though it couldn’t be seen, it was obvious that the figure was evaluating the situation and was thoroughly disappointed.

The Benefits of a Krampus Tradition

By Jem Morgenstern

Here comes the time of year to spread holiday cheer and douse ourselves in unholy fear. Santa makes his way through chimneys to leave charitable gifts for all the good little children as Krampus slips into the rooms of all the naughty ones to drag them off and devour them the next day.

Primarily in Austria, Christmas tales and folklore include a wicked character that has yet to be introduced to the majority of Christmas-celebrating households. There is a multitude of names to call him by, including Knecht Ruprecht, Certa, Perchten, Klaubauf, and Schmutzli, but he is most commonly known as Krampus. His image is most comparable to fauns of the Narnia variety, but with more upper-body hair. The fur covering his body is as black as night, the horns on his head scar the rooftops of naughty children’s homes, his astonishingly long tongue writhes and twirls at the sight of his next meal.

It’s difficult to see how anyone, no matter how jolly, wouldn’t enjoy beating snivelling little brats into the next eternity, but Santa relinquished the pleasure of punishing burdensome youth and handed the job over to a more capable companion. Children are generally led to believe that, if their behavior is unsatisfactory that year, Krampus will sneak into their home and beat them with whips and rusty chains before hauling them off into the night to be eaten.

I believe that adopting the Krampus tradition would benefit our community. Familiar Christmas traditions have been around since the late 1800s and having the same yearly routine for more than 100 years gets dull. It’s obvious, it’s in the air, the classic Christmas is coming to the end of its holiday lifespan. Hollywood is running out of Santa tales to tell and if stores began their Christmas sales any earlier, we would be seeing trees and ornaments “for cheap” in all twelve months of the year. It’s time for a change.

Over the years, children have stopped believing tales of Santa Claus at younger ages than previously recorded. During the few years of childhood they have, each generation of kids has decided to end the magic a little sooner. Introducing Krampus surely wouldn’t extend the years of the illusion any further, but it would add an extra kick to the fairy tale magic.

The point of rewarding children with cute little presents on Christmas was to let them feel appreciated. Though our alternative to the gift giving isn’t much of a punishment. Our version of Christmas cuts out Krampus completely and, instead of being beaten and eaten, we’re told that Santa will leave a lump of coal in our stockings. Coal, even just one lump of it, could entertain a child for hours. It’s chalk, it’s a magical stone, it’s a relic of the old age, it’s coal! Coal can be whatever a child decides that it is, but being beaten and eaten is just what it is. A child cannot make any fun out of such a dreary punishment. Children who believe tales of Krampus will feel truly grateful for the gifts they see in the morning and any child who wakes up to see a room devoid of gifts will be truly terrified.

Adults and us teenagers are less impressed by Christmas as more years go by. Giving and receiving gifts or getting emotional with people we may or may not actually be that close to are the only things people our age have going for them on Christmas and (face it) all of that could be done during any other time of the year. Aside from the time off school or work, Santa is what makes the holiday special, but his antics don’t appeal to anyone older than twelve. The holiday loses its standing as a unique day of the year. However, the entire concept of Krampus appeals to nearly everyone. Introducing Krampus to the American version of the holiday would give the holiday more substance and pull more mature audiences back into the celebratory scene.

Telling tales of an anthropophagus beast is all it takes to rekindle the Christmas spirit. We are more than ready to spread the word of Krampusnacht, we are more than ready to spin new tales of holiday cheer, we are more than ready to celebrate a new Christmas.

Sly Key: Part I

Beau Train

By Jem Morgenstern

Beau Train was unquestionably the most pathetic character in xer own life, but only by xer own standards. By another person’s standards, xe might have been the second most pathetic character, only nearly pathetic, or not pathetic at all. Xer drab sense of reality was likely a result of xer heightened expectations of life that came with a childhood filled with exploration and adventure. Beau’s parents were international explorative pirates who crossed lands and oceans without a crew’s assistance. They were beyond measurable credibility. Beau’s life after childhood had been nothing but credible. It was depressing.

By the time xe learned to walk, Beau had discovered four lost lands: Paititi, Ys, Shangri-La, and Mu. Of course, xe wasn’t aware of why these places mattered and only has brief memories of these places from xer parent’s final world tour in which they visited each of their favorite places one more time before retiring from piracy. However, this tour only inspired them to leave Beau with xer grandmother as they continued their career without the pressure of keeping a child safe.

Beau Train has since thirsted for the return to a life of exploration and constant danger. This is why xe now stood on top of a speeding armored train going across the Trans-Siberian Railway with misaimed bullets threatening xer life as xe shot some back in their direction. The wind was blinding, deafening, cold. The next railcar had a rooftop hatch. Inching closer, watching xer steps as closely as xe watched the ill-trained pawns of corporate villainy inch their way closer, too. Exciting, dangerous, heart pounding, childhood renewed: this is what Beau had wanted. Xe went three steps closer to the hatch and opened it with a relieving but disappointing ease. Beau was in.

The interior was elegant and perfectly crafted, aching with the essence of wealth. Spotless tables and chairs crafted from zitan wood, garnet red curtains, pearl white rug flowing down the aisle with no marks or stains. This sort of brilliance was only ever found in the lost worlds and the property of evil. Beau questioned their need for luxury, often. The grace and delicacy served no purpose and was a needless expense. Every notable villain xe had met and heard of in xer parents’ stories were keen on grandeur and presenting themselves as nobility, however, it would be more opportunistic for them to spend more on protecting their investment in capital greed - as xe had always thought they should do.

The train shook and a man fell from the top of the train. His cry for help sounded like the countless others Beau had heard in xer life. Work as a pawn in the scheme of evil corporations seemed to attract a specific kind of person. A very specific kind of person: same build, same height, same vocals, same disrespect for the historical and architectural significance of ancient cities. These people are found nowhere else. They don’t exist beyond the villainy. This made it somewhat easier for Beau to live with the fact that xe is responsible for the deaths of possibly hundreds of these people. Even with it right in front of xer eyes, this life still felt like a dream. Reality waited in the past.

Heavy soles pounded the car roof as the militarized pawns rushed towards the hatch. Beau passed the wasted elegance, towards the door to the next car. The train shook again; another man fell with a near identical cry for help. Xe opened the door and looked down at the tracks: rocks and dirt, metal and wood, speed and danger. Xe hopped to the next car, but its door was locked. Weaponized heavy-clad men now stood in the magnificence of the previous car, staining the white rug with their unwashed boots. Beau was at a dead end. The men took aim and stood in that idle formation for what seemed to be a few seconds. Just before they had the chance to tear through xer with their copper and lead, xe swung onto the side of the speeding train.

These last-minute escapes litter the trails to lost worlds and bountiful treasures. Without them, a true explorer would know they are going the wrong way. The struggles, complications, and obstacles mark the path.

Only seconds ahead, a tunnel waited for the train, with Beau still hanging on its side. Hand by hand and foot by foot, xe made xer way towards the lonely window at the center of the car. When at the window, xe bashed against its glass with the hilt of xer gun. It began to crack, but wouldn’t break. The train still sped quickly towards the tunnel ahead; Beau took a glance. Xe hit the window glass harder, until it began to shatter. Piece by piece, the window broke apart. With the window gone, Beau could climb inside.

The interior of this car was much different, compared to the last: less windows, no needless elegance, no pack of weaponized mercenaries. Besides a few wooden shipping crates, it was empty. Beau broke them open with a sturdy kick from the heel of xer boot. The crates were hardly at capacity, each had either one item or less. In all, xe found only two cases of bullets and a simple medical kit.

The mercenaries were now trying to get in. The small platform outside the door allowed for only one of them to slam his shoulder against the door’s solid wood. Beau made xer way to the door at the other end of the car, somewhat expecting it to open without challenge. It wouldn’t budge. Anger and frustration washed over xer, then worry. Xe knew escaping through the window again wasn’t an option; the tunnel passage was uncomfortably narrow. This door was the only exit. Xe tried breaking it open with the force of xer entire body, shot at the door’s handles and hinges, pushed and pulled. Nothing helped. The door wouldn’t move. Xe stopped the strenuous effort to open the door and took deep breaths, thinking. The meager calmness was interrupted by a loud crack at the other door. The mercenaries were getting in. Xe tried ramming into xer own door with xer body again, again, and again. Four times more until the  door at the other end tore open.

Beau looked back, knowing but not wanting to believe that xe had less than seconds to escape. Xer mind went blank and xer body stiffened. The mercenaries walked towards xer. Every sound they made was amplified by fear: their heavy footsteps, ruffling of their clothes, clacking of their guns. By the time xe regained xer sense to survive, it felt as if minutes had passed. Xe glanced over every foot of the car for way to escape. Feeling the thuds of the footsteps as they pressed closer. Xe could feel the energy build inside, as xer body readied itself to flee. It was too late for that. The mercenaries were within an arm’s distance. Beau focused xer attention on one of the menacing figures and felt the vivid memory form in xer mind. A terrible pain shook the side of xer head and xe felt ximself fall to the floor.

An ocean of green water meets the edge of a white-sanded beach. The sounds of the rolling waves stir with the rustles of wind through the trees. The sky is covered by greying clouds, with a bright blue seeping through the cracks. Rain begins to fall, slowly and gently. A strong gust of wind drags fallen leaves and loose twigs across the ground. Scents of heavy wood and iodine coalesce, inducing the air with the smell of salty oak. The clouds darken and the blue becomes less apparent with each second. Thunder intermittently drowns the sounds of waves and wind, despite the both of them increasing greatly in power as the storm twists the tranquility of the beach. Gusts of wind bend the trees and tear leaves from their limbs.  Waves crash, instead of gently flowing up and down the slope of sand. The ocean darkens with the sky.

Brandon, OR/ID: Part I

A Baguette Shouldn’t have a Name

By Jem Morgenstern

This story begins in a not-actually-French French bakery in a not-quite-suburban division of a not-quite-recognizable city directly on the border of Oregon and Idaho. Neither state wants to claim the city for no reason other than its reputation. The city isn’t scathed with rampant crime, infestations, or insurmountable poverty. Really, claiming the city wouldn’t be burdensome in any way, but the place is so inexplicably unextraordinary that neither state wants to claim it. Residents aren’t taxed by either state, so they’re only taxed by the city and the national government, which allows the city to raise taxes by quite a bit without any complaints from residents. Because of their increased taxes, the city has been able to become quite beautiful, but still unseen and unheard of by anyone besides the residents living there. The city’s residents never feel the need to move away from the city, unless temporarily relocating for schooling or just vacation. People living outside of the city never feel the need to move into the city (people are only interested in cities they’ve already heard of and don’t care to hear about anything “near Idaho”).  There are only two difficulties for a city with no state, really. One is that people who still send mail are never sure which state to put on their envelopes and the employees of the USPS are never quite sure how this city could be here and there, but they’ve learned not to question it and they sort the mail that goes to the same city that is somehow in different states in its own category. The second is that residents don’t know which state is their “home” and don’t know which state to have pride for. Some residents decide to show no pride for either possible home state and some choose to show pride for both, but the second of which is often too much work and is the less common of the two. In smaller portions of the community, the confusion caused by having no state goes further to where they question if they even have a country or which country they belong to, which is the only explanation as to why the not-actually-French French bakery in a not-quite-suburban division of the city claims to be French while having been run by not-actually-French Americans since it was established twenty years ago.

This day’s sunrise seemed to last longer than the average sunrise, which had caught the eye of the single baker who showed up to work that day and the single customer who had begun driving to the bakery just as the sun’s cantaloupe light leaked through the outlines of his neighborhood’s rooftops and treetops. The sun rose with a certain gentility that slowed the pace of the hour, neutralized worry for the seemingly elongated passage of time, and warmed the mellow chill of the air. For the baker and the customer, the time they spent alone that morning was for each of them one of those undefinable moments that are so appreciated and then easily forgotten by the next hour. As the baker stood in reverie without disruptive thought, a piercing chime rung in the kitchen and pulled his ear towards the baking bread. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to leave his position quite yet because he knew this would result in the loss of this immaterial moment of comfort, but he had to for the sake of the not-actually-French French bakery’s reputation. He took a deep breath to say goodbye to his lull. Then, he walked into the kitchen and passed the counters topped with flour and flavorless yet decorative seeds. The baker pulled a pan of seven baguettes from the oven. The bell dangling from the door’s hinge jingled as the customer, who took a deep breath to say goodbye to his lull before he left his car, walked into the not-actually-French French bakery. This was the only bakery where he would buy breads despite it being a twenty minute drive from his home and that there were several other bakeries within a considerably closer distance. The customer had always felt like this specific bakery was more authentic than the others despite it being pseudo-French. What truly appealed to him wasn’t the bakery’s authenticity. If he had cared about authenticity, his favorite would most likely be the actually Albanian bakery just fifteen minutes away from his home. The customer actually cared about which bakery made bread the way he imagines bread should feel, smell, and taste. With the exception of their bethmännchen (which is German, not French), this not-actually-French French bakery closest fit the standards of his idealized bread.

While the customer has come to recognize the baker because of his frequent visits to the bakery over the years, the baker has yet to register the customer as a recognizable figure. The customer always feels somewhat disappointed when that baker fails to recognize him, which hasn’t gone unnoticed by the baker. The customer’s disappointment is made obvious through teeny expressions and vocalizations imperceivable by himself, but seen by bystanders and misinterpreted by those bystanders as off-standish traits that make the customer feel even more like a stranger than he should at this point with his history of customer loyalty. The baker’s inability to recognize this customer or any of the other regulars is somewhat negligent, but excusable because of his tendency to focus on the insentient instead of the living. Because many of the bakery’s regular customers give off-standish vibes of imperceivable disappointment at this baker’s inability to recognize their loyalty, the baker comes across many off-standish strangers in his line of work although they aren’t actually strangers or even off-standish.

The customer bought one of the seven baguettes and left the baker and the bakery without any exchange of words beyond the standard employee-customer conversation.

“What can I get for you today?”

Just a baguette.

“Okay. Is that all?”

Yes.

“Two dollars, please.” (Bread isn’t taxed in this city.)

Thank you.

“Thank you.”

Goodbye.

“Have a good day.” (It had been, but it soon wouldn’t be.)

The baguette was in a brown paper bag, shuffling around in the passenger seat of the customer’s car as he drove the twenty minutes back home without the witchlike sunrise illuminating his middle-class car’s worn surface. Six minutes into the drive, the customer’s car was struck by another much heavier car. The customer then died. The owner of the heavier car wasn’t unphased by the strike, but he was still in the same condition as he was before (physically, but possibly scarred mentally). The survivor looked around the intersection. There weren’t stop signs on either of the intersecting roads and the speed limit for both was 45. This hazard had simply been overlooked by anyone and the owner of the heavier car, in the end, would not be blamed for the fatal accident. Then, the survivor took his cellphone from his pocket and called the emergency dispatch hotline. The emergency dispatch hotline squad arrived shortly afterwards. The squad pried the door of the customer’s car off its hinges and onto the ground. They were actually unsure of that to do next, since this particular emergency dispatch hotline squad was composed entirely of recently trained officers who hadn’t paid much attention to the boring parts of the training process. They stood at the pried entrance of the crippled middle-class car and stared at the most brutally mangled corpse any of them had ever seen (some had seen mangled corpses before). The squad looked to the survivor, stupidly, as if he would know what to do in this situation. The survivor looked back at the emergency dispatch hotline squad. The baguette stood still in its brown paper bag, unscathed. The survivor realized the squad was staring him down for answers.

“Pull out,” he said to them with stern certainty without noticing that he forgot to say “him” between the two words he had said. The squad hadn’t noticed either, so they pulled him out.

Most of him. His stringy torso slipped out from beneath the seat and the wheel with a surprisingly low level of effort, but his waist and legs stayed put. The squad wasn’t sure how to react. They knew these were the remnants of a person, but it wouldn’t have been easy to identify as a former human without the context. They ignored the mass of boney pulled pork they just flung onto the ground and frisked the pockets. They found his cellphone, which had a chip on one of its corners, but there was no evidence showing that the accident caused the damage. The customer had always been trusting of his company and felt no need to protect his phone with a password, which made things a lot easier for the emergency dispatch hotline squad. The baguette rolled just a bit because of the squad’s interference in the car. The squad opened the phone’s list of contacts, opened the tab of recently contacted contacts, and found Anne(GF) at the top. They scrolled down a little more and found several other Annes with explanatory labels in parentheses next to them with no spaces. Anne is an incredibly common name in this city. They decided to contact Anne(GF) first. They called and she didn’t sound worried despite what they had just told her. She hadn’t actually heard most of what they had told her and she filled in the blanks with what made the most sense to her, which shouldn’t have made any sense at all. The scenario that Anne(GF) had made up to steamroll over the blanks in the conversation was that John (she knows several Johns because it’s an incredibly common name in this city) got into a car accident and they needed her to collect some items. What the emergency dispatch hotline squad had actually said to her was that some guy got into a car accident and they needed her to help identify his unrecognizable body. Anne(GF) got to the scene in twelve minutes.

“Anne,” the squad never would learn how to greet soon-to-be-scarred identifiers of corpses.

Where is it?

“In the front seat,” slightly surprised by her hurried reference to him as it.

Anne(GF) noticed the legs in the driver’s seat and figured that wouldn’t be the front seat the squad was referring to (she was still under the impression that she was collecting John’s items). She walked to the other side of the car and opened the front passenger’s door. She saw the baguette. She took the baguette.

Is that all?

“What do you mean?”

Is this all there is to take?

“We’re not sure if you’re supposed to take anything. What is it?”

Anne(GF) didn’t understand any of what they said. She decided that they must have asked what the guy’s name is, which she thought was odd because they were the first ones to mention his name. After some thought, she came to the conclusion that they were just testing her to see if she was really the Anne they called to collect the items (now item).

John.

“What is that?”

John.

The squad stared at Anne(GF) and Anne(GF) stared back at the squad. She got into her car and drove off with the baguette in her passenger seat. She was home in ten minutes.