Godfrey Publication: Issue 1 Pen. Paper. Thought.

A collaboration of art, story, poem, and imagination.

Featured in this Issue:

By Donovan Godfrey, Jonathan Godfrey, and Courtney Bevans ©

70 Page

Life moves fast, if you linger too great, smelling flowers;

the road picks up and flies away

Stay on the road Jack,

Keeping wailing Schwarzenbach,

Justin watch those blue skies.

Mom, Dad, Sebastian, I love you;

- Donovan Godfrey

I find myself most at home in the car. I find the glass windows and steel body of that car make a safe

curtain that nets my insecurities and shuns the eyes of critics. I feel free to take flight on the road and

ramp the renegading music from my speakers. I feel alive and free enough to grasp my beating heart as

I soar to open horizons. My writing of poetry is often accentuated in this free form environment.

Especially, when I am alone. Alone, in the car, with my endless tracks of mirth, I write. I draw as well,

but not very well. Well enough to express myself, and I guess the same could be said for my writing. I

am not a seeker of wealth, but I do seek adoration. I want eyes on my words. I crave it. T

I want this publication to be a home for all my work. And a place for people to access my creations on

paper. I would even be open to accepting submissions and expanding the project. But the values of the

issues will always be the same, free expression of pen and paper. Or type on paper. I am Donovan

Godfrey, and this is Godfrey Publication, Issue 1.

On the road I don’t always have access to paper so I

have found index cards and the back of receipts

suffice. Some days I force myself off the road, grab my

pocket pen, rip a receipt from the floor and scratch

away.

© 4/4/2015

Page 4… Perspective of Self- Short Story

Page 7… Bang- Short Story

Page 8… Malganis Issue 1- Continuing Narrative

Page 22… Another Bus Stop- Short Story

Bang! By Donovan Godfrey

A devil of smoke rose dancing around the barrel of the pistol. The pistol gripped a tight white, the hand

red from stress, and darkness dancing in the eyes of the hero, Gotfried. White vomit rolled down the

side of his mouth along with his sanity. A deep sense of fuck it boiled in Gotfried. His fried brain

twitched, rattled in that head of his. Hair stood up pointed out like daggers, his irises wiggled wide and

narrow, his skin vibrated. A wave of goose bumps washed over his arms and a hiccup raised another

wave of vomit.

“What the fuck was that,” a man kicked a door and entered the room enclosing our hero.

Bang Shit. The man looked at his stomach before collapsing to his knees. He shrank into nothing as he died in the doorway.

Our hero hurdled the body of his second victim as he left the charged room. The man lazily, or weakly,

wiped his mouth with his sleeve. An encore of vomit quickly replaced itself on his chin.

The man freaked out.

He bashed his head with the gun. Once. Twice. Three times. Blood poured out of the bruised flesh.

The man screamed. His teeth bared like an animal, a fist pounding against the drywall and another

thrown up in hurrah. The man bolted from the room into the dark air of the evening.

The moon and stars created an orchestra of light and hope. Dogs barked all around me. Lights flashed

blue and red. Barking. Loud barking. I lifted my hand. And

Bang

Malganis #1. Property of Galandor Yendys, if found do not

open, promptly return to ADDRESS 28…I

stopped reading at that point. I was holding a

smelly leather journal with a pink note glued to

the front. Cracks formed bolts of lightning

throughout the warped cover. The pages of the

book were darkened wet and the spine strut

like the feathers of a peacock. The book was in

terrible condition, however, the wear was not a

recent change. This book had been around for

a long time, and had spent a long time in this

ancient condition.

This was the kind of book you did not write, “Do

Not Open” on; unless you wanted someone to

open it. Without a second more of hesitation I

flipped the cover open. Scarlet letters were scratched into the first page forming the title, “Grimoire of

Occasion, By Sebastian Drake”. The bottom of the page stated, “Good times require good people, Dark

times require good people that can do bad things.” I closed the book, bewildered. What a strange

book. I reviewed the pink note posted to the cover. The note did not match the book in age or wear.

The crisp paper had a basic blue ink scrawled across the center. Galandor, now that was a weird name.

Stupid, I chuckled. This was probably some nerd who watched too much magic school growing up. I

continued my walk to the park but held onto the book. They had done a good job making the book look

faded. And the inside script was well written. I opened to a random page in the center of the journal

and was mystified by a peculiar drawing. I saw a man formed from twilight ink. The midnight liquid

gleamed as if it were still wet. The black tears moved off the human vignette into many whips. The man

was drawn in a standing pose and thousands of vines slithered from his skin. It was a strange drawing.

Opposite the drawing was a block of writing. The paragraph was titled with, Skin of Shenzo. Malevolent

black letters were headed over a black dagger. Terrible text continued down with, “Lord Shenzo, Lord of

Pain, Grant Me Protection from Those Who Would Harm Me. Let Me Say the Words and Let your Magic

Guard Me.” A few spaces separated, “Sal Loh Leh En Hesh De Arusa”. Below that, “Your flesh will

separate from your body and form a thousand whips that will seek the flesh of all nearby”. And after

that, “Before ritual, one must rub salt along their entire body. Then bathe in ice water for 5 minutes.”

Lastly, in the same basic blue ink from the cover, “Dark Magic, But Good” was scrawled on the bottom

corner.

I hesitated to laugh for a moment, but eventually chuckled and shut the book. The drawing of the whip

man, the shadow of the vignette, lingered in my eyes. What the hell, I pondered. This was pretty sick,

but kind of a good sick. This was probably worth some money. I turned around and sprinted back

home. The view of the park shrunk behind me.

I reopened the book to another random page, in the safety of my room. The title stated, “Awaken

Mountain.” I saw a person standing atop a black mountain, glistening wet ink burst through the air into

malevolent explosion behind the figure. Dark eyes, a twisted smile, evil black fists, shapes formed in the

black paint. I could see silhouettes and definitions as light flitted off the worn page. I turned back to the

writing, “Hold A Finger of Obsidian, and Dagger made of Mountain Iron. Hold objects in your hands and

raise both arms to Heavens. Yell Sola, and walk up The mountain. Yell Sola every three seconds until

you reach the peak. Place the objects on the peak or into the mouth of the mountain. Yell Awa Dem

Hel! Yell The He Expidi! Yell Awa de Hel Expi Mi! And watch as the mountain explodes. The explosion

will last no less than twenty minutes, during which the Heart of the Mountain can be easily obtained,

simply yell Theheldev Accio! And the crystal will come to you. The mountain will die and collapse if the

Heart is removed. The heat of the lava will not harm you for the duration of the explosion, however

once the spell has ended the heat of the lava will burn again.” Like before blue ink filled the bottom

corner, “Never used, hope I never have too. Good against Asura though.”

I walked to my dresser and searched the top. I found a small jagged piece of obsidian, a trinket from my

childhood. I had acquired it during a camp trip in my youth. I went back to the book and was dismayed

to realize I didn’t have an iron dagger. I laughed at this thought, one, I wouldn’t want to start a volcanic

explosion. Two, this was ridiculous.

I entertained myself though and turned to another random page, Flurry of Rain. I saw a picture of a man

pouring a goblet of water onto the floor. Rain showered a group of men opposite him. The ink was wet,

but gentler than the other drawings. This picture seemed safer than the prior two. Strange thinking

pictures could be wicked and kind. I read the description, “Pour water, and chant Zeph- Bu- Gu- Mi-

Water pours on your target.” Blue ink filled space below, “Better to use a silver goblet or flask, also

pure/magic water is more powerful,” after another break, “Fire salts = Fire Rain, Awesome”.

Uh oh, I delved. What was I doing? Why was I going downstairs? Why was the book so tight in my

hand? I felt like a child. This was silly and stupid. Yet, irresistible. I mean anyone would atleast try it

right? I wasn’t crazy for trying it? I mean even I tried the spells in the movies. They never worked, I

reminded myself, yet here I was standing on the backyard porch. I was holding a grimy glass filled with

tap water. I slowly poured it and chanted, “Zeph, Bu, Gu, Mi, Zeph Bu-“

“Holy shit.”

Water sprinkled the back lawn. Tiny near transparent bodies of cotton loomed over my yard. Personal

clouds let out a light drizzle for a few fading seconds before vanishing. I broke from paralysis as I heard

the glass hit the floor. The shatter shook me and I jumped back dropping the book. I bolted for the

book as it moved toward the wet ground. Glass cut my foot but I grabbed the book. A page was damp,

but the withered book was twice as resilient as I had expected.

I bandaged my foot up in awe, the book being turned over and over in my hands. Property of Galandor.

Grimoire of Occasion. Sebastian Drake. Yendys. Flurry of Rains. I was high with excitement. But

weary. DO NOT OPEN. Maybe I should put this back where I found it. I had just made it rain, rain from

the sky. Galandor Yendys. He, she, they were going to be furious. What if they killed me because I

knew too much? What had I done? I grabbed my coat and bolted out the front door.

If I had been a smart person I would have left the book where I had found it, but if had been a smart

person this story would have never started. I made the book snug under my pillow before drifting to

sleep.

“Hey Cynthia,” I mumbled, “What do you want? Im at work you know.”

“Hey,” she bit back, “What? Don’t have time for me?” She always loved playing around, making a scene

out of nothing. Normally I would have loved the routines, but she was boring; boring compared to that

book. It had completely encompassed all my thoughts. I couldn’t think of anything else. I was a little

edgy, felt like danger could be around any corner. I spent a lot of time looking in the rear view mirror.

But nothing had happened, I danced everywhere and could smell electricity in the air. I was alive.

Eating was exhilarating, I felt any bite could be my last. Or the first bite to a better day. If I could make

it rain, what else could I do? Where the possibilities endless? Turning my skin to whips, erupting

volcanoes, making it rain; what other secrets could the book possibly hold.

I kept the book under my bed, in a small lockbox, in my locked room, in my locked house. I wasn’t

paranoid or anything, but I wanted to take some precaution. Galandor Yendys was going to be pissed.

But if he hadn’t found it after one week, finders keepers; right? I mean, if he was really a wizard or

whatever he would have had a broom that could fetch it by now. Maybe he was dead? Ah, forget it, I

don’t know what im worrying about.

“Im worried about you Michael,“ Cynthia moaned, sounding much too caring, “You never act like this

with me. You aren’t even talking. What’s wrong?”

I had completely zoned out, several minutes had passed by and somehow Cynthia had entertained

herself for those few moments. She had been completely ignorant to me not listening. I chuckled, “Hey

look, I got to go Cynthia, I will give you a call in a bit.”

“Michael!” she shrieked before a flurry of inaudible words, “Don’t you care about me baby, how about

dinner?”

“Look Cynthia,” I rubbed my head, “You cant just call me out of the blue and expect me to drop

everything. We have good times, but im busy. So ill call you in a bit.” I allowed her to sit there tongue

tied for a moment, before hanging up.

And Grimoire of Occasion. I’d open it up again tonight. It had been five days. Why not, I needed to

know what else was possible. Cynthia could be fun, but nothing was better than that book. I’d kill

Galandor if he tried taking it back. Speaking of; I should probably get something to protect myself.

Something better-

I heard Gabe clear his throat at the door before striding with gusto to my desk, “Michael.” He put his

hands together before making a half bow. Gabe was the supervisor of Iron Corp; he was a spineless

something. But a nice guy.

“Your two hours are up,” he smiled, “Feel free to head home. But-“ He looked me up and down with a

gulp, “Maybe next time calls can wait til after your shift is over.”

“Sure Gabe,” I placed my hand on his shoulder, “Whatever you say boss.” Gabe nervously laughed

ducking away from my hand. I think Gabe had a thing for not liking touching; but was too cowardly to

say anything. God forbid he could say don’t touch me. Then again I opened the book anyway.

I gave Gabe a nice pat on the back before skipping out of the office. I peeked my head back in and with

sheep eyes, “Dang it Gabe, I was in such a hurry I forgot to clock out.”

“No problem,” he bit his lip, “I will get you this time buddy.”

“Hey thanks Gabe,” I waved. What a dork. He was a nice guy

though, probably should have been nicer to him. Gabe was

that guy that heard treat others how you want to be treated;

then everyone took advantage of him. I stepped out of the

thousand floored building of Iron Corp; into Ironsburg.

Grey streets, grey sidewalk, grey walls, grey towers, grey

clothes, and grey people. I hated Ironsburg. Grey fog, mist,

radiation, steam, and every other chemical wafted out of holes

in the ground. I never forgot the day I came here. They told

me you never will forget.

I was still fresh faced, loved my hair, and the music I listened

too. I was going to the Iron Hole, the Grey Prison. Work two

hours a day, free meals, free housing, free everything. And

those two hours of work, they aren’t even labor. You sit at a

desk. Never work. Perfect, I thought. I never cared for the

“Prison” part of Grey Prison til I came here. You could never

get out of here. I wasn’t going to go to school, forget real

work; Iron hole beat everything else out there.

Anyway, I pulled off the bus into the Housing Department. They took all my information, along with

twenty other folks. The way it works, Iron Corp; and the Iron Family; make so much money, and they

have machines doing nearly a hundred percent of the work; and they will always make money. They can

do everything. Ironsburg can produce anything, make anything, fix anything, and it can do it all for free.

They built something like a million homes, and these are given for free to all employees. The employees

work two hours a day doing trivial desk stuff. Some legal forms, make a few calls, talk to the

receptionist. Stupid stuff.

I got shit back at home for going to the Grey hole; but how could you pass up a free living. I quickly

learned how; this place burned. But I was addicted to doing nothing. It didn’t matter anyway; soon the

whole world was going to be Ironsburgs. Work could be found here and there; and creativity was still an

outlet in advertising and movies; but pretty much every job was filled with the free machine labor. You

could go a whole day being serviced at every restaurant, shop, store, and even theme park and never

meet an actual person.

But you think about Ironsburg too much you get lonely. Maybe that’s why I stopped by Cynthia’s place.

It was quick and ended with a red slap on my face and being chased off by her shrieking. But it was a

good stop. I made it home alive and ready to get back to that book. I punched in, 2000, and the safe

coughed out the tome.

I flipped to another random page and was greeted with fanciful fruity lettering, “Joker From Eggerton.”

The picture showed a person in a strait jacket with an egg on their head. The ink seemed to move the

figure into hysterical fits. Shadows danced and skirted the edges of the ink and the coarse paper. A

smile was hidden in the darkness of the paint; a wide predatory smile.

What the hell. I turned to the writing. “Joker from Eggerton is a bewildering enchantment I had come

across in my many travels. This hex is very powerful and should be used with caution. Firstly you must

acquire an egg; I find Griffon egg and Ostritch egg to be the most suitable, but even pigeon eggs work.

Find a person who is sleeping and say Vodu-sly-chi and upon the final incant break the egg on their

forehead. Therefore and until the next full moon all who encounter the victim will regard them as

insane. Their words will only come out as gibberish and people will be unable to understand gestures

made by the person. Their writing will also appear chaotic. The person will feel completely normal and

be unaware that people can’t understand them. It’s absolutely maddening to be unable to

communicate to those around you.” Familiar blue writing was missing from the corner of the page.

Galandor must have never used this one before. Perhaps I would have to try it out for him and put my

own review in.

I tore a piece of paper out from a notebook and wrote Vodu-Sly-Chi. I then walked to the Market and

acquired a four pack of eggs. But by the time I was passing the park I decided against going through

with this plan. One, I would have to find someone sleeping. Two, I did not want to ruin anyone’s life.

Well, maybe Gabe’s, I laughed. I bit my lip and returned home. Alright, time for one more and then

maybe bed time; I returned to the book.

The pages on the front half of the book had been safer prior, so I plucked another page near the

beginning. “Ram’s Charge, throw a rock and chant Ram Thém Du Loo Roo. A magic punch will break

through almost any door.” Galandor had scribbled a handful of words at the bottom, “Bollocks any

door, good on wood doors though. Also be musical, makes for a better punch.”

Okay, I nodded. Innocent enough, not going to make anyone go crazy or cause an eruption. I ran out

into the backyard, waved at the vanishing black sun and picked up a fist sized rock. I sprinted back

inside and took aim at the bathroom door. Okay, not that door; took aim at the guest room. I chucked

the rock and sung, “Ram them du loo roo!”

And with a loud ring the door burst from its hinges. Splinters splayed out from the hallway to the

opposite end of the bedroom. I retrieved the rock with gusto and now took aim at the bathroom door,

“Ram Them Du Loo Roo!” I encored with the cheer of a child in a candy shop.

And with another delightful crash the bathroom door was obliterated. I would have trashed my entire

house in excitement but the doorbell was chiming. I moved to the door sweaty with enthusiasm. I

opened the door oblivious to the world.

Rob was standing in the doorway, wearing an eight o’ clock shadow and a yellowed wife beater, “Hey

neighbor, something happen?”

I wiped my greasy hair back with a huff and smile, “No nothing’s wrong. Why?”

“I just hear a loud banging sound,” Rob scratched his chin, “Thought something happened.”

“Oh,” I chuckled, “No it was nothing.”

“You sure?” he tried peeking behind me.

I put my hand on his chest, “Nothing’s wrong, so you can skip buddy.”

Rob turned around annoyed and went back to the next house. Just as he left my lawn I taunted, “If your

so bored go get your own fun burner!” He shot me a rude gesture but I didn’t mind. Rob had been my

neighbor for nearly eight years. He was always trying to be my friend, but after him and Cynthia, him

and Alice; eh, forget him.

No. Let’s not forget him. I still had those eggs in my fridge. He was already freaking insane coming over

like we were buddies or something. That burner next door has had it coming for years. He showed me

everything Iron town had and then took my pride. Well I’m taking everything from him, they’ll lock him

in the looney bin; say he has Smog Fever. By the time a full moon comes around he will be so doped on

medication he’ll be crazy forever.

Like magic, no seriously it was no coincidence, the book opened up to “Joker From Eggerton”. Break the

egg on their head and say, “Vodu- Sly- Chi-“.

I could always go prepared, maybe there was another spell that could help me. Or maybe I was stalling

so I’d burn out and not go through with the plan. I don’t know what I was thinking but this book

captivated me. I saw an entry, “Flint Fingers”. “Animate Dead.” Watcher Eye, Sprite of Hellniok, Circe’s

Chime, Feter of Fetrid, Cheater’s Oppression, Laugh and Forget. So much endless spells. Strange black

images and idols danced around me. The lights flickered and shadows joined the midnight trance. I was

spellbound. Black script filled the void between me and the pages. Hel, She, Fes, Vas, De, She, Mi, Buka,

Vivi, Du Loo Roo. Cryptic words. I felt the stitching of reality peeling away. The clock on the wall

sprinted circles.

Grey mist clung to the windows of my living room. The cold stone floor beneath shot me up and off the

floor. The book was thrown to my side. Where; I was at home. What; I saw the book. The clock said 1

in the afternoon. I scratched my head and stared at the ancient pages thrown about the floor. I

remembered looking at the book, but then nothing. I remembered getting high in my youth and how

some nights just slipped away. This was oddly reminiscent of those days. Except; I wasn’t on anything.

Had the book done some magic to me? I examined myself, not knowing what to look, but happy to see

all my parts looked and function fine. After a swift run to the restroom I was assured my body was fine.

That was enough fun for one night, I shut the book and stowed it beneath my bed again. I grabbed my

coat and strolled onto Iron Corp. About halfway to the endlessly tall building, I was stopped by Gabe.

He had a small hallo of sweat around his wimpy sunken face. His glasses barely hung to his open and

stretched collar.

“Thank goodness,” he sighed, “I’m glad to see you’re okay.”

“I’m alright,” I beamed, as if it was something to be proud of.

“I just figured,” Gabe looked at his grey shoes, “Any member of Iron Corp, when absent from their shift

must call fifteen minutes prior to their shift and state why they will be unable to attend their shift. They

are then forced to submit an application to work at another time so their hours can be met at the end of

the week.” The words all came out simultaneously.

“No one does that Gabe,” I chuckled, “I can do the hours now.”

“No.”

I looked back at Gabe, a stern justice etched into his bony face. What was his deal?

“Iron Corp doesn’t ask for much, but if you are unable to meet the small demands set forth by Iron Corp

we will be forced to terminate you,” Gabe stuttered but as his words came to a halt he drew a defiant

breath of air.

“Come on,” I chuckled, “Why so serious-

“No Michael,” he clenched his teeth, “You are terminated!”

I did a double take, rewinding those precious seconds again in my head. Terminated? In the fifty years

Ironsburg had been around no one had ever been terminated. Terminated? What?

I scratched my head and questioned, “Terminated? Gabe, buddy, you can-not be serious?

Terminated?”

“That’s right burner,” Gabe nodded vindictively. A smile tried to force out from the corners of his

mouth.

“Burner,” I stuttered, “But, what the hell are you talking about Gabe. This is a joke right? I mean? What

the literal-“

I would have opened into a full riot. I mean blitzed the guy. That tiny piece of inconsiderate filth, fire

me? Terminate me? But I was met with a saccharine clock to the head. Two Iron guards escorted me

after a good hello to the noggin.

In a flash, dismally similar to the prior evening I went home; gathered my belongings; was escorted to

the Housing Department; was given a fine for $800 for damaged property; then I was dragged to the

Termination Wing; a place that hadn’t been used since the founding of Ironsburg; after a small pass of

time was taken to the Main Hall because the Termination Wing wasn’t functioning correctly; I was

forced to fill out a flurry of documents; then I was shipped to the bussing station; and then I was forced

to say farewell on a blue bus to San Fran. I was in such a rush I forgot I was making a run-on; but I had

not forgot the book. In all my years in the Iron hole, I had lost many things. But I was coming home with

this book at least.

Mom and Dad were going to go ballistic. It had been nearly decade, I had spent a large portion of my

life doing absolutely nothing but drowning in the filth of man. I half wondered if they would even see

me. In a matter of a week my life was taking a terrible turn of events.

The roads were empty. Wasteland surrounded Ironsburg for miles. And after the wastleland we

entered a different waste. One with happy people in the happy bright neat houses of the suburbs. I

remember my youth in a place like this. But we were out of the Iron hole. Living here was expensive.

Houses were hand built by humans, food hand made by humans, everything hand made, and it was

freaking expensive. California had been the last bastion for what they touted as humanity and

sensibility. They wouldn’t allow machines to take their jobs, to rule their life. Californians loved making

life difficult for themselves.

Atleast if mom and dad didn’t accept me again, any direction out of California got cheaper. Maybe I

could take a speed train to New York. Heard New York was like Ironsburg, just less smog and more

boats. Just as much work. They had also adapted the two hour work schedule. Beat out the ten hour

shifts here in California, slave labor if you asked me.

I resisted peering at the book on the bus. I was too out in the open. I was also mightily distracted. I had

done something worthy of an award, I was the first and probably the only person ever to get fired from

Iron Corp. I mean no one ever got fired. I don’t know what possessed Gabe to fire me. I guess he was

following protocol, but sue me, I wasn’t the only person to miss a shift. Heck Harry went on a Flux binge

and missed like two weeks of work, no one batted an eyelash.

I was thankful Iron Corp confiscated my phone atleast, I could only imagine the earful Cynthia is dealing

out right now. I bet she is tearing Gabe in half right now. You couldn’t be any more of a burner than

being fired from Iron Corp, I mean two hours a day of work. Of desk work.

I greeted San Fran with a grim sneer. Houses evenly separated, fences, nice green yards, colorful artsy

houses. People wearing mismatched, colorful clothing danced down the sidewalks. Pets on leashes,

and people working actual jobs. I saw a person cooking behind a counter, a guy selling hot dogs on the

street, even a guy shining shoes. What was this? The year 2000. Gosh, it was disgusting. Actual work.

Gabe, you idiot, what did you do to me.

As I unglued myself from the sticky plastic seat of the blue bus I let out a god awful sigh. I nodded to the

invisible driver before exiting into bright sunny California. I headed into the station, flashed my ticket

and a robot sentry cleared passage into the city. A cold lifeless voice hollered, “Have a great sunny day

citizen.”

I felt a mixture of nostalgia and sadness to be back home. As I moved deeper into the city signs of

robotic life became nonexistent. The station was a rampart for Iron Corp, occasionally people would

take vacations out this way. It was expensive and usually came out of smoke or liquor rations. Not to

mention, getting into the city and affording room and food was hefty. I debated entering a nearby café

and accessing a phone terminal.

What was the rush though? I was in no hurry to be back home. To face my parents and their stern

disappointment. In my near twenty years of life I had managed to acquire this book. That was it. I had

no relationships, no real friends, no money, no degree, I was worthless. Worthless except for this book.

I had fiercely debated opening the book, and I won the argument as I took a seat on a corner table.

“Alton’s Coffeehouse,” a tile sign read above a small single storied venue. This was definitely not

Ironsburg. Far from it. I could actually see the horizon. Buildings, fog, smoke, ash did not mar the sun’s

smile. I opened the book and the ink glistened illuminated by actual sunlight. Part of me missed the

artificial amber light that had filled Ironsburg, a very small part of me.

“Slumber,” opposite the title was a picture of a sleeping man cast from black paint. Beneath the title,

“Simply say- Hyp- Dra- Mi- and throw finger at target. After one second they will fall to sleep and will

only be woken after eight hours have passed.” Galandor’s blue scribbles were on the bottom of the

page, “Good to remember this one; note to self, easily dispelled or avoided.”

Interesting, I concluded.

“Flint Fingers,” the next page headed. “One must lick their thumb and index finger. Before licking

thumb chant- Hetha- Thahe, once; before licking your index finger chant- Thahe- Hetha, once. Snap

fingers together to produce sparks. When done consecutively the sparks produced grow rapidly.” I

nodded agreeable, pretty cool spell, I thought. But Galandor had scrawled something interesting on the

bottom of the page, “Forget your fingers, lick your palms using each chant on different palms. Then

clap. Much bigger sparks, your welcome.” Had Galandor made a better spell?

Well I would have to find out, for science of course, if Galandor had actually succeeded in a better

version of Flint Fingers. Flint hands, I guess would be a better fitting title. Man, I chuckled, I loved this

book.

“Dude,” a voice broke my thoughts, “Dude that book is totally righteous. Like totally dude.” A man

emerged from my peripherals and took a seat next to me. If this was Ironsburg the appropriate

response would have been to spit on him or knock him clear out. But this wasn’t Ironsburg. I shot him

an uneasy smile and swiftly shut the book.

“Yeah,” I nodded.

“Where’d you get it from?” he questioned eyes unpeeled from the tome, “From Raynald’s bindings?”

His seat tilted towards me off the ground.

“Where?” I replied.

“Where’d the book from man?” he asked again. He moved long greasy hair to the back of his head. He

would have defininetly fit right into Ironsburg.

“You live here?” I interrogated. His chair clapped against the ground and his eyes kicked away from the

table.

“Yeah of course man?” his eyebrows furrowed.

I shot my hand out and offered a shake, “My name’s Michael, Michael Abernack. Look, I’m new here.

Perhaps you can help me get a job.”

The man pushed dust off his shoulders and sat up straight. He opened and closed his mouth a few times

with a humble smile before nodding, “Yeah,” he took my hand. “Name’s Barney, Barney Jurstenfeld.”

“Good to meet ya Barney,” I gleamed.

“Yeah you too man,” he admired, “So the book?”

“Aw man,” I admired the book with my eyes, “I’d love to tell you but right now I got to find a way to pay

rent.” Barney shot up and out of the metal chair. A chorus of clangs danced about the floor as his chair

rolled about. I joined him standing. A wide smile cut across his cheeks, mine too.

“Okay,” Barney took out a hair tie and pulled his hair back, “Follow me. I’ll introduce you to my boss, his

name is Mordy. He will totally help you out brother.”

We began moving down the street together. I was surprised to see us moving toward the direction of

the station. Maybe this guy had come from Ironsburg after all.

“So,” the man shrugged, “You said your new here?”

“Yeah,” I nodded hoping to leave it at that.

But of course, Barney continued, “Where’d you come from?”

“I actually used to leave here, long time ago,” I muttered, “Its

been a long time.”

“What took you from this capricious place brother?” he awed.

He seemed to love looking straight at the sun. And something

told me he had no idea what capricious actually meant, but

neither did I.

I half considered lying to him, but what did I have to lose; “I came

from Ironsburg,” I confessed.

“Ironsburg?” he scoffed, “Ironsburg?” He chewed on the name.

“How the hell did you get out?” he pondered aloud, “I mean I thought no one left the Grey hole.”

“I mean people are allowed to leave,” I confessed, truthfully, “I mean most people never leave. I mean

you barely work and everything is free. Why would anyone want to leave?”

Barney twitched before jumping to life and throwing a finger up toward the sun, “That man, that right

there. The sun, the beauty of it. How it moves across the sky, how it makes magic to everything. The

sun is life. And from what I hear, there isn’t much of sun in the Iron pit.”

“You’re a weird fellow, Barney,” I chuckled.

“I know dude,” he threw his hands behind his head, “Aint nothing wrong with weird. So anyway?” he

turned to me. “If this Iron place is so great, why’d you leave?”

“Brace yourself,” I shook my head and rolled my eyes, “You aren’t going to believe me.”

“Nah dude,” he stopped moving and placed his hand on my shoulder. Barney was wholly weird, like

really weird. But he had an air of acceptance, like he didn’t care what your path was, if that’s your path,

that’s your path. He was chill. And maybe he was rubbing off on me.

I closed my eyes and spat out the embarrassing truth, “I got terminated.” I felt Barney’s hand twitch but

he didn’t say anything. My eyelids drew up like curtains and I saw wrinkled eyes.

“Like you quit?” he quizzed.

“Like I was fired.”

Barney ran circles around me, a chorus of laughing and elongated “dude’s” were fired like arrows

toward me. He rolled across the white pavement, he punched the wall, and he howled like a hyena.

Finally, wiping a funny tear from his face, he placed his hand back on my shoulder. “Fired from

Ironsburg. Now I have heard everything. I mean I didn’t even know you could get fired. What did you

do, sleep with wrong person’s wife? Did a bunch of Flux? Oh maybe you caused a factory explosion?”

I allowed Barney to go on with crazy theories for a few more moments before I interrupted, “I missed a

shift. Guess it rub my supervisor the wrong way and he nipped me. I mean it was pretty trivial the way

whole thing went down.”

Barney seemed to share in my confusion, “Well that’s boring. I mean-“. He stopped stumped.

“Wait,” electricity whipped behind his irises, “I mean what if that was a sign? I mean, think about it.

Maybe your supervisor didn’t want you to become a burner. Maybe he was saving you? Or maybe a

higher force was saving you? I mean maybe right.”

“You’re a weirdo Barney,” I placed my hand on Barney’s shoulder and glanced at the book in my left

hand. “But maybe a higher force was saving me.”

“So what’s the story with the book?” Barney perked, “Where’d it come from.”

Barney was the kind of person you could tell anything, but not that. “It’s nothing. It’s my journal. A

dear friend made it for me.” I smiled at the book.

We continued down the street almost all the way back to the station, but ended up stopping at Waste

Control. I should have guessed as much with the way Barney looked and acted. Barney confessed it was

not the luxurious of jobs, however, living in California was very expensive, but people rich and poor

needed their trash collected. And California did not have robots for most jobs, so he filled that very

necessary gap. I didn’t like the idea of having a job that could easily be replaced by a machine. At least

restaurants and stores benefitted from human interaction. I did not add to the process at all.

Barney and Mordy were both burners. They took life lightly, however, they paled in comparison

compared to me. I had failed at working at Iron Corp. I was fired and expelled from the Grey hole. It

couldn’t get any worse than that. Mordy paid reasonably, but I knew it would be swallowed in seconds

in this dang town. Living with my parents cut down extensively on costs; but I had a sinking feeling I

would want to leave sooner than later. I could save up enough money over a couple months and make

it to New York.

There you go, Dad couldn’t be too upset. I had a job. I had a plan. I had it all figured out.

“You have absolutely nothing figured out!” a climax to the long tiresome dinner with my family,

“Garbage man? You want to move to New York? For god’s sake you were fired from Iron Corp. It

doesn’t get any worse than that. I cant believe it. How are you my son?” My father shook his head in

disbelief.

“Now please calm down Jethro,” my mother flitted around my dad like a gnat. “He is our son, he is in

trouble. He needs our help.”

“And what about when we are gone?” my father growled. Large, towering red eyes glared at me.

Disapproval was a ray gun fired continuously through me. I was shackled to the chair, and shame shut

me up.

“Hey come on guys,” Madeline, my sister, chimed, “He can fall back on me after you guys are gone.” My

father scratched his head angrily while my mother coaxed him to calm down. The evening had been

saved on numerous occasions thanks to my sister.

Madeline was my beautiful, smart, successful, always in the right place, at the right time, always; every

time. Even when Madeline failed some fruit would find its way to her. It aggravated me greatly at times.

Growing up with someone like that, always feeling like the second favorite. It was obvious my parents

loved her more than me. She wasn’t nearly as much a disappointment. But Madeline was always kind

to me, even when I wasn’t always kind to her. I truly loved her. She was my sister, and her path was her

own. I appreciated her and secretly always liked seeing her win. I loved her and it was good to see her

again.

The evening was bound to spell disaster. I had been fired from Iron Corp, I was moving back into the

house, I was working at a trash company. Things weren’t great, and these were the consequent seeds I

sowed. But I had braced myself for the evening, I even took to remembering that sleep spell just in case.

Hyp- Dra- Mi-. Who knew, maybe things would get crazy out of hand. Dinner remained silent thereafter

and even after dinner people only spoke in hushed whispers.

Dad went out back to his shed, he often painted back there. Mother went to washing dishes. I found

myself plopped in front of the tv, a familiar setting. My sister lingered between all three of us, she

seemed to be the only neutral nation in the house.

I saw her move toward me, and she silently took a seat next to me. “Good to see you again,” she

whispered a smile.

“Dad doesn’t seem to feel that way,” I chuckled.

“You always had a way of laughing anything away,” my sister rolled her eyes. She uncrossed her legs

and stretched.

“So how has California treated you?” I chatted.

“Im sure its not nearly as fancy as Ironsburg. I hear in Ironsburg machines do everything for you. You

don’t even have to cover your mouth, a machine will cover it for you,” my sister nudged me

sarcastically.

“Don’t have to wipe for ourselves either,” I snickered quietly. We giggled for a moment, but then my

sister was touching my arm.

“I think this is good for you Michael,” she spoke very light and sincere. I could see light drops of dew

glistening on her wrinkled eyes.

“Why you getting all emotional,” I tried to let out a little laugh but she jolted me.

“Don’t,” she stammered, “Listen, I have been worried about you Michael. You, Ironsburg, everything.

We never spoke, half the time I was worried you were dead or fixed on Q or Flux or something. Look

Michael, your my brother, I worry about you and I think this change can be good for you.”

“Okay,” I assured her, “Okay. Thanks sis. I should probably get some sleep, I have work in the morning.”

“I cant believe you already have a job,” my sister gushed, “I mean your working at a trash place, but I

guess you cant really take the burner out of burner.”

I was a burner, I thought walking up the stairs. I was willing to just sit in the sun and burn away while

everyone else ran around. Life was a lot longer than most people thought and I was lazy. I would be

happy sitting around all day, I beamed opening the door to my old bedroom. Funny how people change.

I was very excited to be reunited with my book again. I had left it underneath the covers to my old bed.

I guess they always expected me to come back. I missed the old place.

But nostalgia was swept aside for excitement. It was all shit, all of it except this book. What do you

have for me now baby, I licked my lips opening to another random page. I instinctually avoided the back

pages and when choosing pages I kept to the front. I was surprised to occasionally see a page a second

time, but I feared the dark haunting images that had graced the back pages.

*Michael has made it out of Ironsburg, the book being his only possession. Life has grown into a

massive line of obstacles; however, Michael is nearly oblivious to his circumstances being completely

captivated by the prospects offered in the ancient text. What secrets does Galandor’s tome hold? What

secrets does California hold for Michael? And just who is Barney? Michael may be discovering magic,

but as he delves into this new world many things are discovering him.

**Barney is just Barney.

***Cynthia will not be in the next issue.

Another Bus Stop. by Donovan Godfrey:

By writer, I meant I had the aspiration of achieving the admiration of an audience of thousands; but had failed to do so up until now. I thought of myself as a writer, I was equip with an above average vocabulary, had a unique coolness to myself, was introverted, aloof;

basically like the majority of people. I desired to be special, to have a talent that required little effort. To captivate the hearts of others effortlessly in displays of extraordinary magnificence,

but again with little effort.

I felt disconnected most of the time. I was here but I wasn’t. Everything felt so fake sometimes,

everything had a plastic feel. Laughs, emotions, it all seemed planned. Everything in life had a dullness

to it. I could spend a whole day hating everything that occurred. I blamed circumstances sometimes, if I

could get some book sales, if I could get a book published, a book I liked, a book that was finished, then

id be happy. But I never climbed those steps. I was bound to an earth of doubt and apathy. Putting pen

on paper swept me from this mechanical world, but the roads that lit up in my cranium hit too many

forks, too many dead ends.

I thought of life as a big maze sometimes. Writing was a dead end, I had spent years turning around but

turning back to see if the dead end had opened up. I expected to turn around and it would be there, my

star novel. I circled like a dog, and became frozen like a rabbit.

Sometimes, driving home, that highway called for me. I yearned to answer its call, to leave everything

behind. To go to an unknown place, to live in something new, to break free from my disillusioned

simple life. The shackles of comfort tied tight taut around my neck, I wanted to rip myself from my

lulled life of slumber and awaken with adrenaline. But coward comforts ate away my anxiety, my

adrenalined ego; then I was driving up the driveway.

There was a joy in a simple life. Something had to be said for the predicatable paths of each day, the

easiness, the simple breathing, the lazy effortless strokes I took in the pool of prediction that

surrounded me. I wanted to be a writer. This trade had coaxed a disposition in me that screamed…

easy.

It wasn’t though. I could happily till away several layers into the marble square; but forming something,

forming life from a chisel and stone, was an impossible feat. Had I not lived enough? Experienced

moments that defined life? Had life not weathered into me the relatable emotions of that which bound

our populace in fascination? I felt if something terrible happened to me I would have become a

savant.

Of course, this followed the same logic as my escapism. I had failed to experience my last level of

growth, writing was not simply having experiences or emotions, writing was transcending, something

high in the stars. I could desire to be in space for an eternity but the gravity of inability afflicted me. I

would never be a good writer. And so life seemed bleak at the moment. I kicked my feet forward, a

predicate of resilience, of resolve to continue pushing forward, of being another human being.

I wanted an award for everything. I had chosen to live another day in this wretched whirling world, can I

have a medal please? I made it a handful of years in college, not successfully, but I survived, where was my

degree? Life sucked like that. If everything was a contest, and at every moment you were rewarded

with reasonable recognition for the regular duties of regulating a reasonable life, then I would have

reached a million medals. Everyone would though, would defeat the purpose. I rambled on more than I

should have. I thought of myself as wise, I could correlate a discussion in my head of the complexities of

the little life I had achieved. I was no different than the millions who swarmed around me daily.

So I was mellowed out and rambling. It made the bus stop much colder than it should have been. The

concrete black river muddled with a rancid raucous cloud of filth stood before me. Orange yellow box

fish flitted down the river in neat lines. Large beasts of metal wallowed in the black waters.

It was a .

I got up, annoyed with myself, as the bus pulled to the stop.

The door opened up revealing a man who was bothered to see me. He had an indignant look as I

trekked through the mechanical mouth of the motor beast. The man announced the toll, gave me a

look, and pushed his view forward. My fingers lazily lopped coins into the dispenser and the man

began his descent before I sat.

The beast growled slugging its way through the saturated sludge streets.

Cupped Star

Rolling Like a Leaf

-to Grandma

Bed of Dried Earth The Crab Folk

Electric Kitty

Sweet Red

Delicacies of

the Dark Heart

You Know Why -an ode to someone

Those Curves in Line

It’s All A Scenic Route

Industrial Revolution

Crossed Off.

Green Greedy Eyes

Where do all the empty days run?

Trespassing signs on unowned land.

Pay for leisure,

Sustenance barred behind iron windows.

Fun shackled green, sleep on steel

Blankets, iron beds, Empty Sundays ignored.

99.99 sleep in the park

12.99 smell a rose.

31.99 smell exotic bouquet.

Leisure run, free w/ purchase

Of 51.99 shoes.

Where did the free dance of life go.

Today I traded sexual relations with a middle aged women

For a drive in her Maserati.

My sweat for a gun.

My blood for bullets.

My bullets for cash.

Cash for leisure.

Five Birds