17. Bohemia - October 2013

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2 • bohemia • october 2013

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Oct 2013 Volume 3, Number 9 ISSN No. 2162-8653

Bohemia


28 Taking Care of Business32 Creepy Dolls37 Esther Verschoor42 Grandmother’s Favorite44 Bones

8 Infected16 Death, Illness, Insanity18 Dollhouse21 Playmate24 Monster Lilli

Neil Bryant

Cynthia Wheeler

April Henley

Jan Stinchcomb

Diane Arrelle

Mallory Hobson

Belladonna Treason

CJ Hudgins

Gary Lee Webb

8 Infected16 Death, Illness, Insanity18 Dollhouse21 Playmate24 Monster Lilli

28 Taking Care of Business32 Creepy Dolls37 Esther Verschoor42 Grandmother’s Favorite44 Bones


Editor: Amanda HixsonAssist. Editor: Stephanie Rystrom

Fiction acquisition: Gary Lee WebbIn House Article Editor: Peter Able

Writers: Susan Duty, Caleb Farmer, Meg Miller, Jessica Purser

Photographers: CJ Hudgins, Pat Jones,

Bonnie Neagle, Belladonna Treason, Genna Ware, Cynthia Wheeler

Graphic design: Courtney Woodliff

Thank you to the Boho Model Crew

Cover credits:Cover design: CJ HudginsPhotographer: CJ Hugins

Bohemia

60 Jack The Reaper62 Twisted Mother Goose66 Jack & Jill69 A Tisket, A Tasket72 Jack Be Nimble

79 Leopold & His Fiction83 Die, My Child85 Wiley Wiggins86 Dr Jekyll & Miss Hyde101 Contributor’s Pages

Neil Bryant

Belladonna Treason

AprilJo Murphy

Pat Jones & Genna Ware

Gary Ives

AJ Huffmann

Pete Able

Caleb Farmer

Savannah Loftin

Susan Duty

Bonnie Neagle

60 Jack The Reaper62 Twisted Mother Goose66 Jack & Jill69 A Tisket, A Tasket72 Jack Be Nimble

79 Leopold & His Fiction83 Die, My Child85 Wiley Wiggins86 Dr Jekyll & Miss Hyde101 Contributor’s Pages


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october 2013• bohemia • 7Hair and make-up by Amber Rose Lindorfer From left: Ty Hall, Miriam Hitsel, Diamond Ischy, Christopher Hale, Elissa Omberg

Photography by Vember Photo’s CJ Hudgins

8 • bohemia • september 2013

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14 • bohemia • october 2013Art by Abigail Larson


Death, illness, or insanity. Is this what it takes to become a great

author ? When I think of horror, I do not think about the modern slasher films. Spe-cial effects are fine, but nothing tops one’s own imagination. Who does not remember “The Raven”, “The Fall of the House of Usher”, “The Rats in the Walls”, or “The Dunwich Horror”? The masters of imagination were the two patriarchs of horror: Edgar Allen Poe and H. P. Lovecraft. Both authors were the product of shattered homes, and both had lives affected by major disease and untimely death. Did their unusual family life or the disease in-spire their work? Edgar Poe was effectively orphaned at a young age: his father abandoned him and his dying mother. He was then taken in, but not adopted, by John and Frances Allen (hence the middle name). He spent one year at the Uni-versity of Virginia, and dropped out. While he was at the university, his fiancé married someone else. Leav-ing school, he traveled to Boston, and failed to find enough work to support himself. He then lied about his age to enlist in the army five years. That did not last: he deliberately got himself court-martialed four years later. While in the army, his adoptive mother died. Just after getting booted, his only brother died. Four years later, at age 26, he married his 13-year-old cousin, Virginia. Seven years later, Virginia became ill with tuberculosis. She last-ed five more years. Edgar Allen Poe died two years later, in 1849, at age 40. Howard Phillips Lovecraft did not live much longer, nor was his child-hood much better. His father went psychotic when Lovecraft was three, dying institutionalized five years later. As a result, Lovecraft was raised by his mother and two aunts, plus a grandfa-ther. He could recite poetry at three, write poems at six. A sickly child, he only attended one year of grammar school, but read voraciously, especial-

ly chemistry and astronomy. He lost his grandfather when he was fourteen, and while he did attend three years of high school, he did not graduate. He claimed he had a nervous breakdown. He is thought to have had parasomnias -- sleep interrupted by night terrors. Until he was 23, his social contacts were largely limited to his mother. At that point, he started developing con-tacts through correspondence, which eventually led to his fiction writing ca-reer. It was none too soon, for he was 29 when his mother was committed to the same institution his father had died in; she died two years later. Lovecraft himself died of small intestine cancer at age 47 (1937). Despite these problems, or per-haps because of them, these two men are now considered famous writers. In both cases, their greatest works were during their final years. Poe’s most famous poem, the Ra-ven, was published in 1845, only four years before his death. It was an instant success, making him widely known; although, he was only paid $9 for it. It did not hurt that Édouard Manet did a painting of the Raven. Yet during his short life, he made the short story a popular format. He is considered the inventor of detective fiction, and one of the writers who inspired science fic-tion. And he is certainly known for his horror stories. Today his stories sound like tropes: entombing a helpless rival as he still lives in “A Cask of Amontil-lado” (1846); the painter whose work sucks the life out of his model/bride in “The Oval Portrait” (1845); or many others. Remember, however, that they are tropes only because countless au-thors have copied him! Lovecraft is best known for a work he never wrote: the Necronomicon, or Book of Dead Names, written by the equally fictional, mad Arab, Abdul Alhazred. This fictional book has ap-peared in many stories and books, by Lovecraft and by many of his fellow writers (with Lovecraft’s encourage-

ment and permission). The Necro-nomicon provides the lynchpin of the Cthulhu mythos, the ultimate refer-ence on the horrific elder beings which will bring doom upon mankind, if the heroes cannot prevent it. And time af-ter time the heroes do save mankind, but at tragic cost. For fighting eldritch horror is the road to madness, and con-sulting the Necronomicon only has-tens the process. Cthulhu himself first appeared in “The Call of Cthulhu” published when Lovecraft was 38 (1928), nine years before his death. Up to that point, Lovecraft had only written short sto-ries: all of his novels were done dur-ing the last nine years. But his work did not die with him. When his friend August Derleth could not get Love-craft’s remaining books published, he started his own publishing house – Arkham House – to do the job. During the next three decades, Derleth added 16 of his own novels to the mythos; Robert Bloch added several more. At this point, Arkham House has pub-lished over 200 volumes. The impact of these two authors can-not be minimized. Lovecraft himself cited Poe as a major influence in his own work. Fantasy greats Robert E. Howard (Conan) and Fritz Leiber (Faf-hrd and the Grey Mouser) were good friends of Lovecraft. Stephen King, Clive Barker, Joe Lansdale, Brian Lumley, Neil Gaiman, and many oth-ers have in turn claimed that Lovecraft (and sometimes Poe) were primary in-spirations. Poe and Lovecraft may not have had long lives, but certainly they influenced many.

Art by Abigail Larson

Death, Illness, Insanity by Gary Lee Webb


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october 2013• bohemia • 17HMU by Miriam Hitsel, Shannon White & Boho Model Crew

Photography by Cynthia Wheeler Photgraphy


october 2013• bohemia • 19Models include (from left): Heliotrope Vaughn, Miriam Hitsel, Aoife Gorey, Amara Love & Sheridan Vasquez


by April Henley

“All is lively in the wood, ex-cept for wherever Wicked Wendy Wendilynn lives,” Lucy whispered. She stood nervously amongst the birch trees, peeking out from be-hind their thinning trunks at the small shack down in the valley. A pillar of smoke rose from its lean-ing chimney and the hovel seemed to menacingly grin with its uneven-ly laid porch and two broken win-dows. The air was frigid and the valley echoed with the cawing of crows. Spiders crawled about the ground, climbing trees and spinning webs, catching unlucky flies. In the shad-ows of the trees on the other side of the valley, Lucy could have sworn she saw the running figure of a wolf. Wrapping her red coat about her, Lucy moved in closer, and then stopped again. “No one has ever seen Wicked Wendy. Is she real then, if no one has seen her?” A young male voice unexpected-ly slid in to finish Lucy’s thought. “Or perhaps some have seen her, but never lived to tell the tale.”

Playmate

A childish roar broke the air and two hands suddenly grabbed Lucy’s shoulders, causing her to let out a scream. “I got you, Lucy.” Harold laughed at his older sister’s pale bewildered face that quickly turned sour. “Harold, go away.” “You shouldn’t be here, you know. Mom would not like it.” “Scat, you little rat.” “Why do you want to get a look at her anyway? She’s probably some old crone.” “Go home, Harold.” With that, Lucy moved in closer towards the edge of the woods. “Lucy,” Harold loudly whis-pered. She waved him off and entered the clearing with cautious steps. She knew why she wanted to do this. It was all because of the dare of her older brother Tom, who said she was a baby and afraid of every-thing. She’d show him. Looking ahead, Lucy saw glass bottles hanging from tweed lines along the porch, alongside them drying meat – rabbits, skinned clean. Stopping at the porch’s first step, she stared at the bottles’

strange contents – birds’ feet, eye-balls, and tongues, whether human or not, she did not care to guess. She looked cautiously over her shoulder and saw that Harold was gone. ‘Good,’ she thought. ‘Who needs that little trouble maker?’ He prob-ably ran home to tell mom on her. A sudden wind blew through the valley, picking up Lucy’s dark curls and making them dance wildly. Her breath came out in a puff of fog over shivering pink lips. Her coat lively fluttered behind her as she spun in all directions, her pretty green eyes frantically looked about. Some-thing felt uneasy in the air. Her clenching gut said to leave, now. She turned back upon the house when she heard an awful creaking and froze at the sight of the door opening. Her heart caught in her throat. “Wicked Wendy Wendilynn,” she whispered. But the figure that appeared in the doorway was no old crone. There, standing no bigger than Harold, was a grim little girl in a very old, tattered white dress. Her black hair fell in a mess about her



shoulders. She looked thin, yet her cheeks were rosy. The only thing unsettling, in fact rather discom-forting about her, was her eyes. They were black, as black as coal. She did not smile, but looked very serious. Lucy was certain her eyes did not deceive her, yet, the spooky place and the seemingly innocent child were in such great contrast, the scene seemed unreal to her. ‘Where is the witch?’ thought Lucy. Neither of them said anything for the longest time. They only stared at one another. The air was still around them and the cold nipped at their faces. Though Lucy hardly noticed it, the crows had all flown away as soon as this strange little girl had stepped outside. “Hi,” said Lucy nervously. “Is this the house of Wic –er, Wendy Wendilynn?” The girl nodded. “Have you come to play with me?” she asked in a small, sweet voice. Lucy took a step back, wary of this strange girl. “I should go,” she said. “Won’t you play with me?” The girl pouted. “It’s very lonely here.” “I shouldn’t.” Lucy turned to leave, and then jumped when the girl appeared in front of her. “You will stay and you will play,” said the girl in a dark tone, her eyes turning cold. She put her hand on Lucy’s chest and, although she was much bigger than this small girl, Lucy suddenly felt herself forced into the shack. The door slammed shut. The girl appeared in front of it and she pointed a stern finger at Lucy, who started backing away, terrified. As she did so, she hit her head on a shelf and several things fell around her feet. “You will stay here and play with

me,” said the girl. “No!” cried Lucy. “We will have so much fun to-gether.” A bright red light emitted from the girl’s finger. It became a series of red hands binding Lucy’s wrists and ankles, squeezing down on her muscles and limbs. It wrapped itself around and constricted her like a powerful snake, choking her, blinding her, and, finally, causing her world to go black. “Hello? Hello?” Lucy cried. The light slowly returned to her and shapes appeared. She saw the interior of the shack again, but saw it from above now. There was a table knocked over in the center of the room, a cauldron over a doused fire, and cobwebs coated with dust everywhere. Sitting in a chair in front of the fireplace was the little girl, her back to Lucy. “Hi,” said a weak voice beside Lucy. Lucy could not turn her head. She could not move at all, not even twitch one of her fingers. “What happened?” she asked. “Who are you?” The voice answered, “My name is Felicity. You are like me now.” “And, what are you?” “A playmate.” “Hush,” yelled the little girl, looking over her shoulder menac-ingly. “Let me go!” cried Lucy, her weak voice echoing in the thin air. “Shut up!” screamed the girl. The fire lit up behind her. She threw something into the flames and stormed over to where Lucy was. Lucy was suddenly stricken with fear, as she now beheld that the girl had grown much larger, in fact ev-erything had increased in size. The child’s great hand seized Lucy by

her waist, pulled her down from her high place, and brought her to the chair. Sitting down, the girl held Lucy close to her face and grinned. “You belong to me now. You are mine, my new playmate.” “But-” Lucy started. The girl drew an invisible line through the air and, in response, Lucy could no longer speak, only mumble. “Wendy is here to speak for you now.” The witch! Lucy felt cold inside and wished she could sob. The girl turned Lucy about and sat her down on her lap. “We are going to have lots of fun,” she whispered. A force started pulling at Lucy’s hair and cranking her neck back – a brush. “After this, we’ll have tea.” The girl started laughing and the cold chilling sound echoed throughout the shack, shaking its foundation and agitating the fire. Lucy looked straight ahead into the flames and saw a figure burn-ing amongst them. Its smile melted into a gaping cry for help. Its hair singed and its dress disintegrated into ash. It was a doll.



MonsterLilli

In the early days, back in Germa-ny, Lilli was a kind of entertainer,

a comedienne. She was the blond, beautiful and voluptuous. She al-ways had the punch line. And then they took her feminine essence, her soul, and squeezed her down into a little plastic doll. People adored her, men especially. She could remember the first time a man ran his fingers over her body, pausing to press his thumb against her tiny, rock-hard breasts. This man was surrounded by his col-leagues, all of them laughing out loud. Perhaps there was a woman somewhere in the scene, a secre-tary or a typist, an office worker. A woman just like Lilli. If they were so much alike, why did the woman sneer at her? Always that look of embarrass-ment, then judgment, followed by dismissal. Dismissal! It was as if Lilli was supposed to be ashamed of herself. But was any of this her fault? Eventually another woman appeared, “discovered” her, and brought her out of Germany and into the miracle of America, where everything was possible. And ev-erything was confusing. In America Lilli discovered that she, like most immigrants, was

by Jan Stinchcomb

both welcomed and reviled. There were many unkind words--those never ceased--but there were also many dollars. Lilli sold and sold, flew off the shelves. They could not get enough of her, even though they changed her name and copied her over and over, constantly modify-ing her hair and clothes and profes-sion. But she was allowed to keep that impossible body, the only one she had ever known, and she never forgot her German name: Lilli. In America she also found love. This love did not come from Ken, the one they had created for her. No, Ken was stiff and soulless, an accessory, as pointless as any tro-phy wife. It was not Ken who loved her. It was not any other doll. Nor was it her supposed savior, the woman who had brought her over from Germany. It was a little girl. Or rather, a legion of little girls, wide-eyed and trusting, free of judgment, taking in the world as it was offered to them, a world full of people and things both ugly and beautiful. Lilli looked up at them from her plastic prison and saw their lovely little-girl faces. What she saw on those faces was desire,

a child’s pure desire for a doll. And it was always Lilli who won, despite all the other dolls out there, despite all the terrible things they said about her. She even sur-vived a boycott. Lilli went into many Ameri-can homes. She lived through thousands of childhoods. And be-cause she was plastic, they put her through hell, those little girls, who imagined Lilli to be indestructible. It was as if they thought she did not have feelings of her own. Remember: nobody ever asked Lilli what she wanted. And what did she want? She wanted to go back to the old days, the simple days, of living in Ger-many in her neat little flat--there had been a flat, she was sure of it. There were days of simple, blissful office work and effortless sexual innuendo. She was a pretty blond. She was good-natured. What did these Americans want from her? She had not asked to come here. And who did they think she was, anyway? Her looks told the whole story. It was as plain as day what a doll like Lilli, a girl like Lilli, could offer. And yet they gave her to little girls. Surely they trusted her.



One day it dawned on Lilli that she was probably the most power-ful person in America, certainly the most powerful doll, the doll that ev-ery American girl held in her hands at least once. Even if they disliked her, or disapproved of her, all the girls knew her. They could never erase her. So Lilli decided that she would keep these little girls for herself. That was the easy part, for the little girls loved her. It was the mother who was the problem. The mother hated her. Ev-ery time. The battle between Lilli and the mother was a curious thing. It had been raging for a very long time. Lilli knew it by heart. It never failed: after the little girl had gone to school, or perhaps when she was asleep, the mother would begin her solitary approach to examine Lilli. She would pick her up, finger the perfect body, and gaze down at her. In that moment Lilli would feel responsible for the mother. Lilli sensed a great gulf between them, all the differences in their hair and faces and bodies. In that moment Lilli was transported out of her plastic self and into the physical world, where she towered above the mother. In that moment Lilli’s body hurt her. She could barely stand. She didn’t feel powerful.

She felt dangerous. She knew she could kill the mother. The mother knew it too. They stared at each other, the both of them terrified by Lilli’s perfec-tion: the angel hair, the doe eyes, the famous breasts. Lilli’s torso rocked back and forth on a waist that was too tiny to support it. The mother was afraid that Lilli would capsize and pulverize her. The mother wanted to shout that this was her house, her world, her gender. How dare this Ger-man whore come here to this free country? But the words died in her throat. Lilli wanted to scream that the daughter belonged to her. The daughter chose her. The daughter had certainly not chosen her moth-er. The daughter loved Lilli, loved her with that special love reserved for animals and babies, creatures who cannot speak. And Lilli would never change or die. Her plastic might break, she might lie forgotten in a closet, but she would always be the same Lilli. From Germany. Somehow she would find her-self back in that little plastic body. The horrible moment, the obliga-tory scene, would pass. The mother would forget Lilli, and more impor-tantly, forget the anger she had felt toward Lilli. Lilli would become small again, part of a world of

make-believe where girls put Eng-lish words in her mouth and dressed her in outlandish clothes. And each time--this much was certain--the little girl would grow up and for-get her. Or sell her, if Lilli survived long enough. Sometimes she would be passed on to the grown-up girl’s own daughter, but this was very rare. Like all prisoners, Lilli was reduced to her most important memory, a memory that obliter-ated everything German, even her native tongue. It was the memory of herself as the beautiful, tower-ing monster, the mother-killer, the daughter-devourer, the one who was hated and feared. Her monster-self made all the horrible things they said about her come true. Over and over she returned to that mem-ory, that self. It was the closest she ever came to being real.



The shiny black eyes reflecting the candlelight in the small, log

cabin actually seemed to stare up at her this time. The soft, leathery skin felt oddly warm as she held it. And the hand-painted red smile looked different than the others, more like an angry smirk than a grin. “Oh well”, Henrietta shrugged knowing each doll she created was unique looking. She continued to admire her handiwork and pictured the little ones’ faces as she arrived with another basket of lifelike, homemade toys. The little ones, those poor, or-phaned souls who were kept in the care of her family, appreciated all she did for them. Henrietta’s momma and daddy lived in the big house with the abandoned children and she stayed here in the cottage at the edge of the woods, sewing the dolls and baking her very special pastries. She gently patted this newest doll. “You are beautiful!” she sighed and put the last strands of garish, or-ange-red hair in place. She chuck-led so soft it was a whisper. “Little Mary will just love that you have the same hair as her mommy did.”

As she gently inserted the needle to tie a knot, the doll thrashed in her grasp and said, “Owwwww, sto at.” Henrietta jerked, screamed and dropped the small figure to the floor. “What?” she asked, her voice shaking. “I ed it hurs!” the leather and cloth creature said as it jumped up and ran to the table. Staring with a horrid fascina-tion at this monster she had some-how fashioned, Henrietta watched the small plaything shimmy up the table leg and then pulled itself over the top. It hesitated for just a moment then rushed to the small scissors Henrietta had used to cut thread with and using both mitten-like hands, jammed it into its own face. Henrietta screamed and covered her mouth, then realized the toy couldn’t feel pain, not ever again. She watched, hand over her own lips, as the little, impossible crea-ture sawed away at the smile until the scissor hole became a full slash through the ruby red paint. “Ah,” the doll said through its new mouth, “That’s better. I said stop that, that hurts.” It giggled at Henrietta. “Hard to talk when your

Taking Care OfBusinessBy Diane Arrelle



lips are sealed.” A shudder ran through her, yet Henrietta didn’t back away from the abomination in front of her. She was too interested in what was hap-pening. After all, it was only a little toy, and animate or inanimate, she was the powerful being here. “What’s going on?” she demand-ed, then involuntarily shrank back into her chair as the doll turned its grotesque caricature of a face to-ward her. Those lips were now open into a full smile, a smile of loathing and contempt and victory. Without thinking, Henrietta reached across the table and swept the doll off. As it hit the floor, she grabbed the huge shears she’d used to cut the leather and jammed it through the small wriggling thing, impaling it to the floorboards. “Gotcha!” The doll laughed. Henrietta stared at it with revul-sion. “Go ahead laugh, you mon-ster, but I’ll burn you to ashes.” She turned away from the cackling creature to relight the half-burned logs in the cold hearth. “What, kill me again Henriet-ta, my good-hearted benefactress, my best friend, my betrayer. You can kill me a thousand times, but it doesn’t matter. You can’t kill what’s already dead.” It started laughing again. Sounds from behind her, made Henrietta’s spine stiffen. She slow-ly turned to look at the doll she’d nailed to the floor, then screamed. The doll was now directly be-hind her and with the help of all the other small hand-crafted figures, they were all holding the shears in front of them like a spear. “Oh, I had a little help from my new friends, my real friends.” Staring at the shears, paralyzed with

terror, Henrietta didn’t move, even when they drove the sharp cutting edges into her calves, first one and then the other, so quick it was blur. The pain like fire through her legs taking away the power to run. “Don’t hurt me. I did all this for the little ones!” she said through clenched teeth. “For the good of the children. You are all godawful abominations from hell! I demand that you leave here at once,.” The dolls stared at her, amaze-ment reflecting in their shiny but-ton eyes. “You murdered us, turned our skin to leather, shaved our hair then used it all to make us into dolls to give to our own children,” the doll leader shouted at her. “You befriended us, pretended to help us, poisoned us with your pastries and took our children just to to keep your family orphanage going! You are the monster, not us.” Henrietta sputtered through tears of pain, “But…but you were all poor, uneducated, trash! You weren’t fit to raise children. We give them food, warmth, an educa-tion. We give them a chance for a good future!” “What about love. We loved our children and now they’ll never know our love ever again,” another doll piped up as the all the small figures swarmed in, covering her under their mass jabbing her with pins and needles. Henrietta fainted as pain rushed through her, unbear-able agony, worse than anything she’d ever felt before. When she woke, she realized that she’d been wrong, this new pain was even worse. “Mii mou!” she mumbled, as the horrendous pain surrounding her lips brought tears to her eyes. She touched her freshly shaven head and then the

heavy thread holding her mouth shut. She screamed but couldn’t get the sound out. Then she saw them coming at her holding shiny, black buttons, locks of her own hair, lots of threaded needles and she silently tried to scream some more.



CrEePyDoLlS

Photography by Mallory HobsonWords by Jennifer Swartz

“You’re weird”Because I’m different? “I know”Why be the same?

Do they know The song and danceLacks all romanceNo slow enjoymentJust frantic employmentWith little rewardFor years of toilAbuses soil the purityOf a spirit once free?

Now reduced to stilted actionHappiness only a fractionOf what it once wasI have been spent at your expenseSo if my behavior makes no senseSilence the buzzOf gossip’s whispersAnd insinuated burrs


I was aliveI once did thriveYour hatredHas now ledTo consequenceThis nonsenseOf an actBecoming factA faceLacks graceWhen faking is requiredAnd inspired For too longA sad song“I know” Now tell meWho does belong In your illusionIt looks more natural when youAct it out without being trueTo anyoneNot yourselves Or anyone elseMeantimeI have become A creepy doll

34 • bohemia • october 2013Above: Work by Mallory Hobson


“I don’t understand”

Photo and poem by William Blackrose

I came here with my familynot so long agoWe drove here togetherbefore they said goodbye. I still don’t understandwhy they left me behindso I sit here on my bench and wait Occasionally they will visitas I watch from my benchthey leave a gift of flowersand say goodbye again I sit and wonderI sit and watchon my benchstill not knowingwhy I had to say goodbye.Above: Work by Mallory Hobson


Meredith Richey is Croft Art Gallery’s artist for November. The show opening is November 1st from 6 to 9. The duration of the show is from October 28th through November 29.

Artist: Meredith Riche www.meredithrichey.com

the word

gallery

Maker of Creepy Dolls Maker of Creepy Dolls

Mon-Fri 8:30 AM to 8 PM

Mondays 8 PM


Esther Verschoor Esther Verschoor

Maker of Creepy Dolls Maker of Creepy DollsEsther Verschoor


Esther Verschoor, born and raised in the Nether-lands in 1967, began making art dolls in 2009 after she studied textile art/fashion design and worked as a caretaker in mental healthcare.

The first year, she made fantasy dolls from polymer. Then, she started to make her skull dolls in 2010. These skull dolls have a body sculpted from paper clay and apoxie with an animal skull as a head.

She doesn’t use skulls to shock but just to try to give the beautiful skull a second life. After the sculpting part is done, Esther gives the doll-- eyes, hair, and she designs and sews the clothes. This is all done without use of molds or patterns, so the doll has its own unique character.

Esther loves to give her “girls” something human that the viewer can relate to, make them look beyond the skull. This can be something aesthetic like body lan-guage, facial expression, or clothing, but it can also be an emotion. Sometimes she likes to say something with her work, make people think about or be aware of things that are going on in this world.

But other times her work is just a pretty object that re-flects her vision of a song she loves, a book she read, or fashion photos she saw in a magazine. There is just one rule for her: only use skulls from animals that lived and died cruelty free.

Esther’s work is shown worldwide at shows, exhibitions, and published in many magazines and books. The dolls can be found in many collections all over the world.





In my grandmother’s backyard, there’s a fence that separates our

world from the world of souls. I know this because grandmother told me so. She said, “Anastasia, if you put a doll next to the fence, it will catch a soul that wanders too closely to our side.” It was a game we played, taking her porcelain

doll collection down near the fence and waiting. I’m playing it again tonight under a full autumn moon when the nights are just starting to cool. This time, it’s grandmother’s soul I’m trying to catch. I was eleven when she died. I’m thirteen now, but the fence still towers high above me, dark as coal

against the night sky. It’s made of long poles of cedar tied so tightly together that you can’t see through them. Even if you could, you would just see the next lot. Only grandmother sees what’s really on the other side. This isn’t the first time I’ve come back to play our game. Months ago,

Grandmother’s Favorite by Neil Bryant

Photo by Sandra Robinson


I was here during the day when old Mr. Wulford chased me away. He owns the property now. He threat-ened to call the police if I ever returned. But here I am. I snuck out my bedroom window after my parents went to sleep. I walked for hours and crept in through the side of the property where the elms grow thick and reach over me like long bony arms. My hand itches against the fab-ric of the doll I’ve been carrying for miles, the one grandmother left me in her will. It was her favorite. A girl with curly red hair, freckles, green marbles for eyes, and a straw-berry dress. It looks just like me. That’s why grandmother liked it. I was her favorite, too. I place the doll against the fence, and sit down on the dirt across from her. Blades of grass bristle against my thighs. The wind kicks up, and I pull my sore legs tight against my chest. In the dark, the doll is little more than a pair of glass eyes flashing at me. It doesn’t seem they should be so bright with so little light, but they are. Is it grandmother’s soul peek-ing out? I’m not certain because I don’t know what to expect. Grand-mother and I never caught any souls. All I can do is wait and hope for the best. My eyelids start to feel heavy. I yawn. I lean my head against my knees and close my eyes to rest them. I hear leaves stirring in the breeze. The night whispers all around me. In the dark behind my eyelids, I think I can hear words, but I can’t make them out. Are they mocking me because I think I can catch souls with dolls? I hear a twig snap. Panic stabs at my chest. Did old Mr. Wulford find me again? I jerk my head around, but I don’t see anyone. Probably

just an animal. I turn back towards the fence and discover the doll’s eyes no longer shine at me. She is gone. I pop onto my feet like a Jack-in-the-Box. “Grandmother?” I whisper. I’m answered by a swish in the night air—the sound of the fence swinging open like a giant gate. It’s not the next lot I see on the other side. No. It’s a place so black it makes the night behind me seem like midday. The worst is the cold, though. I can feel it gusting outwards. My teeth chatter, my breath turns to mist, and I hug my-self against a wind that cuts down to my bones. I catch whiff of an awful smell, like burning hair. I want to run, but I don’t. This is the world grandmother told me about. There’s no need to fear. A weak light flickers inside. It gets brighter and larger. I realize it’s a person walking towards me. It moves awkwardly like its joints are too stiff. It gets closer, and I see it has swivels for knees and ankles. It’s wearing a dress a doll would wear, and its smooth porcelain body glows pale white. I recognize the face. It’s grandmother’s, no lon-ger wrinkled and gray. She walks through the fence, her doll body ticking like a clock with each step. I run towards her, but she twists up a smooth palm to stop me before I can throw my arms around her. “Not yet, Anastasia,” she says through perfectly carved teeth. She holds her other hand behind her back. “I brought the doll to catch your soul and it worked, just like you said it would,” I say. “The doll didn’t catch my soul, dear. It can’t because I intended it for you.” She removes her hand from behind her back. Secure

within the hinges of her fingers is the doll. “Just take hold of it and you’ll see.” I grab the doll and pull it against me. It burns like a hot skillet against my chest. I try to let go but I can’t. I feel it melting into me. It hurts at first, but then I un-derstand. It’s destroying the old me to create a new me. A better me. I feel my flesh changing, becoming hard like porcelain. My eyes turn to green marbles. Swivels replace my joints. The air from beyond the fence isn’t so cold anymore and the dark isn’t so black. It feels like the perfect place for me and grand-mother. “We can be together for-ever now,” she says. “I would’ve come sooner,” I ex-plain. “But old Mr. Wulford chased me away. He lives here now.” “But it’s not his house. Is it, dear?” “No, grandmother. It’s ours.” She grabs my hand. We’ll go be-yond the fence eventually. We have something to do first. Together, we take my first step on new legs to-wards the sleepy house at the top of the hill.


BONES

Jernigran’s taxidermy products can be ordered internationally at their site bumsteer.com

HMU by April Renee MUAFeaturing Murder Jewelryand Jernigan’s Taxidermy

Photography by Belladonna Treason Photography


46 • bohemia • october 2013Model Stephanie Rystrom



Dominick Triola was born and raised in New Jersey. He has

had no formal training in art or de-sign, he says and jokes, “or Biol-ogy, for that matter.” “Everything I’ve learned was through reading and trial and er-ror.” Triola says he worked in mort-gage brokerage at a bank, but when the economy turned, he had to change careers. “It gave me a sec-ond chance on life. I thought really hard about which path to take. I de-cided to start doing things to make me happy instead of conforming to what’s expected of me from society. Luckily, there are a lot of weirdos that share a mutual affec-tion for science and life and death. I’m super fortunate that my jewelry and art have been received as well as they have been.” Triola’s company is named Mur-der Jewelry in order to evoke emo-tion. It’s in line with the tradition of Memento Mori art. Memento Mori, Latin for “remember that you will die”, is a type of art that reminds you of your imminent death with the intention of making you ap-preciate the gift of life. Despite the business name, Triola says, “I’m not out strangling puppies to make my art! Quite the contrary. My cre-ations are a result of my fascination with nature and the cycle of life. My jewelry is intended to immor-talize the deceased by turning them into a wearable piece of art while reminding the wearer that life is fragile and shouldn’t be taken for granted.”

All of Triola’s jewelry is treat-ed like any Osteological specimen would be at a museum. The skulls, bones and teeth are cleaned and sanitized with the utmost care. Ev-erything is sealed to prevent deteri-oration from exterior elements. He also tries to replicate the internal-ized wiring structures used by mu-seums when re-articulating bones and skeletons, not a fan of the wire wraps done by most other jewelry makers that work with bone. “I feel taking the time to drill the bones makes the final product a lot clean-er looking,” says Triola. Accolades - Murder Jewelry appeared in an article in the New York Post earlier this year. The ar-ticle was about “how to dress like Daenerys Targaryen,” the Queen of Dragons from Game of Thrones.MJ will also appear in Inked Maga-zine, October 2013. His jewelry and artwork (from website OdditiesStore.com) will be featured in a movie about a couple of Bohemian artists that struggle in NYC and move to LA to live with a rich family member. The jewelry and art is used as one of the main character’s own artworks and jew-elry. Information at IMDB -h t t p : / / w w w. i m d b . c o m / t i t l e /tt2977110/ Other publications that have features his jewelry are XOXO Magazine, The Philly Enquirer and Philly.com (Art Attack), The Tren-tonian and countless blogs and on-line publications.

Model Jocelyn Fulbright

Murder Jewelrycreated by artist Dominick Triolacan be found at www.bonejewelry.net

Murder Jewelrycreated by artist Dominick Triolacan be found at www.bonejewelry.net

ll l

october 2013• bohemia • 49Model Jocelyn Fulbright

Murder JewelryMurder Jewelry

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54 • bohemia • october 2013Model Brent Phillips






Southern Haunts and Perfect Flaw Anthologies Now Available!

Seventh Star Press is proud to share the good news that two brand new anthologies, Southern Haunts: The Spir-its That Walk Among Us, and Perfect Flaw, are now available in softcover, Kindle, and Nook formats!

Southern Haunts: The Spirits That Walk Among Us is a wonderful new anthology from editors Alexander S. Brown and J.L. Mulvihill featuring 16 tales of ghosts and the paranormal. The book also features 16 illustra-tions from Robert. K and cover art by Enggar Adirasa.

The ebook version is just $3.99 and the direct links for the Kindle, Kindle UK, and Nook links are here:

Southern Haunts: Kindle VersionSouthern Haunts: Kindle UK VersionSouthern Haunts: Nook VersionSouthern Haunts: The Spirits That Walk Among Us- Softcover version on Amazon.com

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I creep out the back of the house. Mother should be climbing into

her sleigh of a bed, brother should be watching TV and me, I should be fast asleep… but I want to die a little instead. Sauntering down the driveway, I dig my dirty nails into my pockets, searching for fire. However, there is no answer to my finger’s burn-ing question, so I stick the cancer behind my ear and weave onto the street. It’s a warm summer night, breeze in the trees, and my feet are itching in my three dollar shoes so I promenade down Lawrence Av-enue, a skip in my step. Which I reach the arrow, sud-denly I note that my skin is prick-ling despite the heat. I’ve changed texture from cotton to suede and there’s a shade on the pavement that doesn’t match the scene. I bring my fingers to my neck, touching the Celtic cross that hangs there. It’s an old inside joke with the company I keep. I purchased it at the Church I want to be buried beneath. From behind me, a black sleeve creeps over my shoulder, spider fingers play with the chain of my

cross, shadow on my collarbone. “Hello,” I say, placing my dig-its on their counterparts. My heart skips a beat. A searing, fleeting pain streaks across my chest, an echo of a past heartache. “Hello,” my old friend replies. He retracts his touch and falls in step with me. His voice is pleasant to hear. A flashback to rock bottoms and bottles… How many years has it been? As if reading my mind, Jack speaks, “You know, you’re kind of a tease. We don’t see each other too much anymore – just passing glances, a wave or so. Nearly meet-ing but always a miss.” “I dare say you’ll catch up with me one day.” He laughs at my expense. We’ve reached Sprague street, passing by Karrie’s house. All the lights are out. Trying not to be vague, I start shooting the summer breeze, “How’s my sister?” She’s a mortician, this is neutral territory. “Business is booming,” he takes the cigarette from my ear, “an ex-cellent partner. She doesn’t talk

much, good for the morgue.” He touches a finger to the tip of the cancer stick and it begins to smoke. “Thanks,” I say as he passes it to me. “Anything to bring us closer,” he replies with a wink. I think as I inhale the fumes and exhale through my nose. Nicotine absorbs faster that way. By now, my companion and I have strayed to Elm and feeling especially bold, I take Jack’s cold hand. It over-whelms me, his skin. I tremble. He notices my chagrin and lets go, withering some leaves on a tree we pass. As we amble by the Wead li-brary, I nod at a house across the street and ask, “Why are you so hard on Cheryl?” She lost three friends in the past year to drunk driving accidents and her father had died when she was very young. He sighs and wearily replies, “It’s not my place to question fate. I just do my job.” Though I find his tone odd, I don’t speak. The only sound is our shuffling feet, the wind in the trees,

by AprilJo Murphy

JAck the Reaper


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and the hush when I breathe. Somewhere down Park Street, the silence makes me silly and for a lark, I start doing a jig. Jack smiles and joins in, though he’s a bit stiff. The spot is the one where years be-fore, my sister had totaled her car on the way to school. I can remem-ber the feeling of the car behind us busting through the back seat. Ev-eryone told us how lucky we were. If someone were to drive by, they’d probably think Jack and I are crazy, but we’re just playing with being alive. But after the jig morphs into a hand jive, we decide that things have gotten ridiculous and return to our constitutional. We’re by the hospital now, its façade toothy with neon signs. Jack ducks inside for a min-ute, to take care of some business. I don’t mind. I light another little suicide and chill on the curb, hum-ming the opening bars of “Another One Bites the Dust.” In just a few moments, Jack is back again. He smells a little like formaldehyde so I walk beside, not behind him. The aroma is carried away on the wind. We’ve wound our way to Con-stable street and found our words a bit lost after his occupational jaunt. It’s always weird to see a friend at work. “When are you going back to Chicago?,” he asks, as if he doesn’t know. I play along, “Sunday morning, three A.M.” and flick my cigarette butt onto the cement. “Rail or sky?” I smile as I reply, “Plane. Statis-tically it’s the safest way to travel.” He laughs deeply, “Y’beat me.” Starting to climb the incline of

Prospect, I suspect that Jack’s got something on his mind. There’s a frown on his lips. I gasp, giving him a flat tire and he trips. “C’mon man, out with it.” After recovering his balance and a quick glance in my direction, Jack says, “Sometimes it’s hard to leave work at the office.” As we descend the end of the hill, I give him my best clap on the shoulder. It stings my hand. But now, after our meandering maze, we’ve made our way back to Lawrence Avenue. As we walk up to number three, Jack says to me, “Well, it’s been great catching up with you.” “Likewise, my friend,” I say, climbing the steps to the porch. He stands at the bottom of the

stairs. The air moves in the trees around us. I’d embrace him, if his touch didn’t hurt so much. “You take care of yourself,” he says, about to turn and leave, “and don’t you forget about me.” I laugh and say, “Jack, you know I’m a sucker for a man in black, and besides, I can’t forget. I wear you around my neck.” He smiles, then blows me a kiss. I pretend to catch it, but don’t. He won’t know, though. He’s already taken off. He has places to go. So with a yawn, I open my door as dawn begins to form. It’s late and I need to sleep. Climbing into bed, I’m not worried about seeing Jack again. It’s only a matter of time.


goosegoosemother

Twis tedTwisted


Photography by Pat Jones Photography’sPat Jones & Genna WareHMU is Makeup by Addie-Lugoose

mother Photography by Pat Jones Photography’sPat Jones & Genna WareHMU is Makeup by Addie-Lu

tedted

64 • bohemia • october 2013Model Aly Edelmann


In Mother Goose’s Alehouse by Pamela Ahlen Dum and Dee bicker over pilsner and pinochle, ornery curs with a proclivity for barking over everyone, like Tommy Snooks and Bessy Brooks, even old lady Hubbard. They bark all day, start in on Little Girl Blue, that fledgling horn player and her flumadiddle song, bark for her to pipe down. Oh, dear, what can their matter be? She cans the tootling and sits in a corner, female variant of Little Jack Horner pulling out the proverbial plum. Says what a good girl am I. Says phooey. Says she’s always been good, very very good, as in horridly obliging. The lass has a weakness for compromising— all that whipping and endless hullabaloo raised in the old woman’s shoe. What’s a girl to do to rectify the wretched situation? Lass, I’ll pour you a glass of bulldog strong ale, chase it with an extra-stout-liberator-pure-golden-prom-ise-spitfire-bright resurrection. It’ll concentrate your mind, says Mother Goose, mother of all mothers and sky rider extraordinaire. She lays down the law: no more alehouse foofaraw, —out with the tweedlers, needlers and douchebags. Little Girl Blue, time to cut the kowtow charade, let loose your sassy-brass woman-blues horn— even sheep leave the meadow, cows jump the corn.

The Peaceable Kingdom Bar and Grill --for Edward Hicks by Lynn Hoffman The lion buys a pint of blood red ale for a parched, impatient lamb And the wolf wolfs down a glass of mild with a tasty artichoke ham, the ants and anteater handle every spill. It’s the Peaceable Kingdom Bar and Grill. A generous bartending calico cat decides that this drink’s on the house as she pours a flask of Allagash White for her friend the thirsty, penniless mouse. and out in the pond, there’s the koi and the shark doing water ballet for the junky and narc. The evangelist picks up the whiskeyhead’s bill, It’s the Peaceable Kingdom Bar and Grill. But the strangest foursome in the whole lovely bar Is the you that you promised and the you that you fear With the you that you were and the you that you are. They’re laughing and hooting, drinking Victory beer. You just walked in and they’re calling your name You’re happy to be here and they’re glad that you came. If we come back tomorrow, we’ll find you there still At the Peaceable Kingdom Bar and Grill.

LittleBO Peep


Jill was pissed. Jack had moved cattle into the pas-

ture just below the doublewide she rented from the old cow-boy. Nell sat at the kitchen table and listened to Jill on the phone trying keep her voice below the shrieking woman level the words were coming out clipped, unnatural as if she were being interviewed on TV. “Jack, lookee here, we can put up dodging cow pies to git to the mailbox. I reckon we can put up with the stink and the goddam flies. No! No, dammit, Jack, jist lissen. It’s the goddam wa-ter, Jack, that’s our water. That’s what we drink and wash up in. Now them cows is gonna con-taminate our water. Did you forget that you and Hank put in the pump and well house when I moved in? What? No it is not. No, that pump house ain’t gon-na keep the cow shit outta my water. No way!: Long pause. “Jack, can’t you move them cows, please? Jack? Jack?” “He hung up on me, Nell. That crusty bastard hung up

on me. The sonofabitch. Jack figures he’s finally won. He’s wanted me outta here ever since you moved in, girl. God-dam homophobic old shit heel. He’d told me there was plenty of clean water available from some spring up at the top of the hill. Shit, Manuel’s goats graze up there. Take your pick e-coli from Jack’s fuckin’ cows or Manuel’s goats. Jack said if we didn’t like it we could go find some other place to live.” “Jill, calm down, sweetie. Damn you got one mean tem-per, girl. We’ll figure this out. I know you think that cowboy believes he can push us around like we was heifers, but truth is, I never seen Jack as all that bad. He’s always nice to me. We’ll

figure this out, Jill. No cause to go ballistic, hon. Nell returned with two cold tall boys to the front steps where Jill sat. The two women were still seated there finishing the last of the six pack when they saw Jack’s old Chevy pickup kicking up torrents of dust on the dirt road leading to the trailer. “Now what’s that bastard want? By God, I could kick his sorry ass right now.” “Easy Jill. Jist listen to him. Don’t loose it, girl.” “Evenin’, ladies. Jill, I’m mighty sorry you got kindee up-set there on the phone. Thought

by Gary Ives

Jack and

Jill

Jill was pissed. Jack had moved cattle into the pas-

ture just below the doublewide she rented from the old cow-boy. Nell sat at the kitchen table and listened to Jill on the phone trying keep her voice below the shrieking woman level the words were coming out clipped, unnatural as if she were being interviewed on TV. “Jack, lookee here, we can put up dodging cow pies to git to the mailbox. I reckon we can put up with the stink and the goddam flies. No! No, dammit, Jack, jist lissen. It’s the goddam wa-ter, Jack, that’s our water. That’s what we drink and wash up in. Now them cows is gonna con-taminate our water. Did you forget that you and Hank put in the pump and well house when I moved in? What? No it is not. No, that pump house ain’t gon-na keep the cow shit outta my water. No way!: Long pause. “Jack, can’t you move them cows, please? Jack? Jack?” “He hung up on me, Nell. That crusty bastard hung up

on me. The sonofabitch. Jack figures he’s finally won. He’s wanted me outta here ever since you moved in, girl. God-dam homophobic old shit heel. He’d told me there was plenty of clean water available from some spring up at the top of the hill. Shit, Manuel’s goats graze up there. Take your pick e-coli from Jack’s fuckin’ cows or Manuel’s goats. Jack said if we didn’t like it we could go find some other place to live.” “Jill, calm down, sweetie. Damn you got one mean tem-per, girl. We’ll figure this out. I know you think that cowboy believes he can push us around like we was heifers, but truth is, I never seen Jack as all that bad. He’s always nice to me. We’ll

figure this out, Jill. No cause to go ballistic, hon. Nell returned with two cold tall boys to the front steps where Jill sat. The two women were still seated there finishing the last of the six pack when they saw Jack’s old Chevy pickup kicking up torrents of dust on the dirt road leading to the trailer. “Now what’s that bastard want? By God, I could kick his sorry ass right now.” “Easy Jill. Jist listen to him. Don’t loose it, girl.” “Evenin’, ladies. Jill, I’m mighty sorry you got kindee up-set there on the phone. Thought


Coy Beth and Unbobbed Bobby John J. Brugaletta Bob and Beth climbed up the hill to fetch a bucket of water for the goldfish. Actually however, the only goldfish was Bob’s Robert (which had never been bobbed, and was red as a koi).

But while they were striving to fill her bucket, Beth, who was a skosh pudgy, rolled like a tank track, like a water-filled balloon. She and Bob rotated down, down the declivity, Bob being concussed and Beth punctured. So both died happily ever after.

Models Kenyai O’Neal &Jasmine Ware

I’d come by, walk you up the hill there, show you the spring. Mebbe I kin have Hank move the pump up yonder, after bran-din’s over. We’ll git us a sam-ple and have county extention test it, if’n yer worried.” From the pickup’s bed, Jack lifted an empty gallon plastic ice cream bucket with a bail. You care to come along, miss?” Nell had to pee something fierce. “Naw Jack, I’ll just stay here. You and Jill go on. The coroner’s inquest led to a full scale investigation. The Texas Rangers were called in and ultimately proved that

Jack’s fractured skull was the result of a powerful blow which had come from directly over-head. Identical fibers from the crown of his Stetson that were imbedded in fragments of bone and tissue were found on the 20 lb stone bearing Jill’s prints. The Santa Rita jury took less than 30 minutes to find Jill guilty of sec-ond degree murder. Jack and Jill Went up the Hill To fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down And broke his crown And Jill came tumbling after.

I’d come by, walk you up the hill there, show you the spring. Mebbe I kin have Hank move the pump up yonder, after bran-din’s over. We’ll git us a sam-ple and have county extention test it, if’n yer worried.” From the pickup’s bed, Jack lifted an empty gallon plastic ice cream bucket with a bail. You care to come along, miss?” Nell had to pee something fierce. “Naw Jack, I’ll just stay here. You and Jill go on. The coroner’s inquest led to a full scale investigation. The Texas Rangers were called in and ultimately proved that

Jack’s fractured skull was the result of a powerful blow which had come from directly over-head. Identical fibers from the crown of his Stetson that were imbedded in fragments of bone and tissue were found on the 20 lb stone bearing Jill’s prints. The Santa Rita jury took less than 30 minutes to find Jill guilty of sec-ond degree murder. Jack and Jill Went up the Hill To fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down And broke his crown And Jill came tumbling after.


note. Can’t wait to see what’s waiting for me at the end.” With that, he closed the re-ceiver, went back inside.

I hurried back to my car to check my messages. My cell phone screen glared back at me: No missed calls. No missed calls! That’s wasn’t possible. I heard him make the call. That’s when reality smacked me right across the face. I hadn’t signed the let-ter. It never occurred to me he would think it was from some-one else. There shouldn’t have been a someone else. I started the car and headed for the fi-nale’s destination.

I actually shouted a trium-phant “Aha!” as I emerged

from the closet, shovel in hand. I turned to the green and yellow picnic basket, noticed

by A.J. Huffman

The green and yellow pic-nic basket stared at me

from its perch on the hallway table. I could hear it mock-ing me: He was using you, you fool! I ignored the taunt as I continued rummaging through the closet.

It started with a letter to my love. I had written it care-

fully, an enticing invitation to embark on a scavenger hunt that would end at a secluded little spot in the forest where I planned to be waiting, ro-mantic picnic all arranged. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend a Saturday afternoon. I left the letter on his door-step, rang the bell. I hid in the bushes to watch his reac-tion. He smiled as he opened it. I had to cover my mouth to suppress a school-girl giggle. He pulled out his phone and dialed, “Darling! I got your

the bottom right corner was darkening, threatening to drip on the rug. “Good thing I found this in time.” It was my turn to mock the childish carrier. “DNA on my carpet wouldn’t be very prudent now would it?” I linked my arm through the handles as I headed for the door. Practically skipping into the back woods, I couldn’t stop myself from singing a new version of my favorite childhood rhyme:

A Tisket, A Tasket


A tisket, a tasket, a green and yellow basket. I wrote a letter to my love who pissed me off, I lost it. I lost it, I lost it, and now that little basket is filled with pieces of my love and buried like a casket!

70 • bohemia • october 2013Model Diamond Ischy


Company For Dinnerby Ron Lavalette

Who could resist those gumdropeaves, those icing gutters, pinkwafer shutters and doors, shrubsof spun sugar, those licorice windowsand that delicate black cracker chimney?Who indeed. No one. Everyonewho stopped, even if only to visit,however briefly, wished they couldcall it home, wanted to possesssuch a finely sprinkled chocolate lawn.But sooner or later, sweetness fades:inside, there’s only a blazing stove,a blazing iron oven and a wicked andstarving witch, wishing she wasn’tso always alone, wasn’t always so lostin the deep and darkening woods,far from her cat and her coven,trying in vain to fill her emptinesswith a couple of wayward childrenfattening in cages in the corner.

Little missmuffet


The blood trickles down the side of my mouth, pooling on the

wooden planks of this ramshackle gambling house. I can see two ver-sions of my sister, Jillian, crying above the orange flame, both of her faces blurry, alternately separating and coming together. Mud-caked boots stomp to a steady rhythm around the room. The ringing in my ears subsides, and I hear the chants of maniacs exchanging cur-rency over the odds that a slave can keep the fire burning. Next to my blood, wax from the candle pools and hardens. I touch it with my fin-

gertip. Thick-fingered hands grasp my trousers, lifting me from the ground. The crowd roars. “Jack be nimble. Jack be quick. Jack jump over the candlestick!” As if to demonstrate, a small terrier scurries out from underneath a mass of legs and feet and leaps with ease over the flame. Thanks, pooch. After two hours, I’ve got it down. Besides, it’s Jill’s turn.

Things went wrong with the water pail. That’s the thing

with pails. You don’t notice the

small tear in the leather molding until there’s actually something of substance in the vessel. Behind the leather, it is two-inch wooden boards bound by iron rings – not exactly watertight. And given the well is a the top of Mt. Calvary, why it would take Christ our Savior Himself to make it back with more than half what’s needed for chores. I’ve always had the upper hand on my sister when it comes to being light-footed, but with a ten gallon bucket and an oak crossbeam lying across our shoul-ders, the path can seem awful steep.

Jack be nimbleby Pete Able

Model Ethan Smith


We’d grown accustomed to a small percentage of waste. Water sloshes over the edges no matter how careful we trod. It was the sound that was off. Not the oc-casional “Splosh!” from a zealous wave eager to leap the edge to free-dom, but rather a constant “Tut tut tut tut tut,” wetness catching on our heels. “Faster,” I said.

“Get on with you.” Jillian, with a Herculean ef-fort, gets hold of her emotions and makes the leap yet again. The flame

flickers, but remains. There isn’t a hint of relief on her face. She looks across the room at me, despondent. I try to offer a crooked smile. She isn’t buying. The blood smearing my teeth probably doesn’t help. The candlestick is large. Eigh-teen inches high. Old Man Yancey, who seems to make candles for pretty much every noteworthy chap in New England, is on hand and ready as always to replace it when it burns to a foot high. I wonder who he has his money on. Prob-ably Jill. He’s always making eyes her way when we pass his shop. I

threatened to kill him once and got the beating of my life. My turn. My calves are throb-bing. A swift boot lands on my backside, and as I jump my foot grazes the candlestick. It wobbles back and forth, the flame following behind each motion like a stubborn mule. The murmur of money ex-changing hands rises as hoots and hollers encourage the candle to fall. God’s truth, it would be a blessed relief, despite what waits outside.

There were few people in Eng-land actually interested in mi-

Jack be nimble

Model Ethan Smith



grating to the colonies. I had given it some thought. Not being a land-owner or member of the Church of England doesn’t exactly make eco-nomic opportunity at your finger-tips. But the trip can be expensive, and I didn’t want to stow away on some waterlogged canoe of a ship bound for Davey’s Locker, or worse, arrive at the Americas with a lethal case of scurvy. So I waited until hunger pains pushed me into action. Jillian suggested she could offer herself down near the shipping docks off the Thames. She had seen other girls her age fawning over some Frenchmen just arriv-ing to London, and they looked like their purses needed lightening. I wouldn’t have it. I found the fat-test, slowest merchant I could find and stole a few days’ worth of food. Unfortunately, the fattest, slowest merchant owned the leanest, swift-est mongrel in the entire country. The beast nearly took my arm off before the police arrived. Rather than deal with the pros-pect of rehabilitating a reprobate such as myself back into civilized society, the courts decided on the next best thing. Ship him overseas. I convinced the captain to take my sister along. Two months later we were standing on golden shores of possibility. Only I hadn’t real-ized that criminal records can walk on water. Freedom comes with a price, and I hadn’t paid my due. We became property of the Smithe Plantation. Slaves.

The object is simple. Jump over the candlestick without extin-

guishing the flame. The winner gets to drink himself silly, mostly to celebrate not being the loser. The Smithes and their friends had tak-

en a page out of Nero’s handbook. Blow out the wax candle and earn yourself an oil bath tied to a stake. I’d seen one of these rituals before. They danced around the flames like pagan natives on temporary hiatus from civilized society. You’d think we were witches. Earlier I revolted, slugging the nearest stranger square in the nose, shattering cartilage. My tantrum was short-lived. A firm fist landed on my jaw seconds later. I crashed to the ground, head thumping like a melon on the uneven surface, and I slipped into a memory.

I awoke at the bottom of the hill, eyes squinting from the pale sun-

light and from a headache like a thousand gulls screeching on the shoreline. Jillian sat next to me running her fingers through my hair. She cried softly. The splin-tered water pail lay against a boul-der some ways downhill. “What happened?” “You ran when you saw the leak. I tried to keep up. Your foot caught a root. We fell.” “The bucket is smashed.” “I know.” “We’ll pay for this.” “I know.”

The candlestick stays upright. It’s my sister’s turn again.

Since the contest started I’ve been trying to find a way out of this mis-erable nightmare. Pleading and begging only eggs them on. Jill’s tears don’t help matters either, but truth be told I’ve had a few escape my eyes over the course of the eve-ning. I keep thinking there must be a way out. The circle of gamblers is tight. The exit unseen. Any at-tempt at escape would just bring more punishment and prolong the

inevitable. I promised Alton, Mr. Smythe’s right-hand man, that I would pay for the smashed bucket. I offered what meager savings I had accumu-lated in a year’s time. I begged for mercy, to no avail. The blood-lust was in their eyes. What were two skinny English thieves from across the pond to successful businessmen like these? I know how this will end. I hope whatever measure of toughness in-side me has rubbed off on Jillian. She will need it. Old Man Yancey looks my way knowingly. He can read my thoughts. I am as transpar-ent as is their cowardice. I look at Jillian. She has an odd expression on her face. I turn my head down slightly, staring at her, inquisitive. A boot, the same per-haps as struck me earlier, shoves into her back. She gathers herself, walks swiftly toward the candle-stick and reaches out her hand. Before the cry escapes my lips, her thumb and forefinger crush the wick, leaving a fine trail of gray smoke to dissipate into the room. All is silence.



Thursday 2-8pm Friday 2-8pm Saturday 8AM-2pm

100 N. Oak StreetLorena, TX254-857-3463

www.enchantedcedar.com

Open Mic Events

Open mic is for all ages at Enchanted Cedar and includes music, poetry,

comedy, voice, and short stories.

Enchanted Cedarsells coffee, chaga, raw cacao, and a wide assortment of other tasty,

nutricious treats.

November 1st

Costume Party 6-10 December 7th 7-10

January 4th 7-10


“How can teeth look that good?” I thought as I approached the stage in Truelove bar, one of Waco’s not-so-hidden gems for discovering new music. Perched above the teeth, perfectly manicured, lay an epic mustache. It rested on his lips with a quiet confidence, vi-brant, in unison with the voice that washed over the ador-ing crowd with the raw power of a storm. So began my first impression of Daniel James, lead singer for the band Leopold and his Fiction. This man was sure of every word he sang, every stroke of his guitar. And he looked good doing it.

Leopold and His Fictionby Caleb Farmer

Tumbling Through Life:

Leopold and His Fiction


Tumbling Through Life:

Leopold and His Fiction

Leopold and his Fictionwww.leopoldandhisfiction.com“I’m Caving In” Official Videowww.facebook.com/LEOPOLDANDHISFICTIONBANDPAGEwww.facebook.com/leopoldandhisfictionBooking: APA Agency - Jaime Kelsall


I moved closer to the stage to bask in the radiance of the show’s inten-sity. Something awkwardly stuck out from James’ pocket. I leaned forward, squinted, and realized it was fat stack of hundos, so thick the poor man couldn’t even fold them properly. “This guy’s a hustler,” I thought. With this in mind, I headed back to my seat at the bar so that I could take in the full experience of the show, and between songs I struck up a conversation with the woman sitting next to me. I asked her if she had seen the band before and she just laughed. “I’m with the band.” “Uh, okay. What do you do – ‘with the band?’” She responded by saying her ex-clusive job was to style the band’s hair while devoting extra attention specifically on Daniel’s chevron.

Job well done, Miss ‘I’m with the band’. After the show Mr. James was gen-erous enough to give me precious moments of his time to answer a few questions about the style and future of Leopold and his Fiction. The band does not lack for big dreams. “We are really hoping to find our-selves on tour opening for U2. That is one of our biggest goals as a band”. James went on to talk about some of the contemporaries he hopes to emulate, Roy Orbison and Led Zep-pelin, to name a few, with a hope of having both sounds show up simul-taneously in their music. It is hard not to hear bits of Radio Moscow in Leopold and his Fiction’s music, most prominently in Radio Mos-cow’s song Lucky Dutch. Though the members of Leopold and his Fiction have changed a

bit over the last few years, James is very excited about where things have settled. “The current lineup we have [is] going to make huge strides. Every day I am hustling”. If you have not heard of Leopold and his Fiction the best place to start is with the incredible music video “I’m Caving In” which can be found on Youtube. The video portrays many of the elements that make Leopold and his Fiction a great band to see live. The group can be seen in Waco on October 25th at TrueLove along with Engine and Brazillionaire. This show is a must see, but get there early as this band’s stock is rising quickly and will only con-tinue to get bigger every day. I wouldn’t be surprised to see this show fill to capacity.



The band’s upcoming music video, produced by Cameron, for “Your Turn to Burn”, a song on jaded romance from the “Little Bibles” LP, is set to release on Halloween.


The band Die, My Child let Bo-hemia in on their most recent

video shoot. The shoot involved masked participants getting arty in the woods. Die, My Child formed in 2007 with Cameron Everett Smith, as the vocalist, primary composer, producer, and videographer and with Jake Taylor as instrumental-ist, hype man, “set mom,” and tech guy. Cameron and Jake met as kids and grew up with similar influ-ences, such as their dads’ golden oldies. Other musical influences

include Grizzly Bear, Kanye West, Smith Westerns, and Lil B.

Die, My Child, the ever-evolving, mellow pop band from Texas, re-leased their most recent LP, “Little Bibles” in May 2013. From love to religion, this non-sequential album floats the listener through a realm where sad sounds happy and happy sounds sad. “Little Bibles”, full LP, can be found online at “www.mix-tapemuse.com” and “diemychild.bandcamp.com”. The band’s upcoming music video, produced by Cameron, for

“Your Turn to Burn”, a song on jaded romance from the “Little Bibles” LP, is set to release on Halloween. Featured photos, tak-en by Christina Kuhlman, include a scene in the video’s Halloween party in the woods. “Your Turn to Burn” can be found online at “www.vimeo.com” along with oth-er videos such as “Pretty Girls”, an-other take on romance from “Little Bibles” LP, as well as “Defeat Me”. Future plans for these fellows are to compose more music videos, promote “Little Bibles” and begin tracking for their third album.

Die, My Child: Masking Up To Shoot a Videoby Savannah Loftin

Photos by Christina Kuhlman


“…I have a pretty good day job and I only make movies to scratch a creative itch,” says Wiley Wiggins. Oh, if we all could be so lucky!

Wiggins co-stars in Computer Chess, initially released in January 2013. Set at a computer chess tour-nament for programmers thirty-some-odd years ago, the role isn’t a far cry from what Wiggins’s life looks like today. Well, there are some technological differences.

He’s not still working on a Kay-pro II… or an IMSAI 8080… (Ten awesome nerd points if you know what the hell those are.)

Today, Wiggins keeps busy as the creative director for Karakasa Games, an indie game studio in Austin. “If anything, interactive media is a superset that encompass-es traditional cinema,” said Wig-gins of the relationship between film and video games. He was in-

Wiley in his first film“Dazed & Confused”

Actor Wiley Wiggins Vs. Machine Actor Wiley Wiggins Vs. Machine


troduced to both forms of media at the same time, and has never placed one above the other. Part of what makes Computer Chess so interest-ing is that it’s a happy marriage of his two loves. And combining ele-ments of cinema with the gaming world is where we’re all headed anyway. So get ready.

Wiggins made his screen debut in Richard Linklater’s, Dazed and Confused. He went on to co-star in

other impressive indies like Sorry, Thanks and Waking Life. On why he chooses to make independent cinema, Wiggins said, “I wouldn’t know how to work in any other kind of movie. These are the mov-ies that we can make with the tools and the resources available.” In fact, the cast of Computer Chess was a conglomeration of people who had come from a variety of fields, mostly non-actors.

Keeping with his “resources avail-able” philosophy, Wiggins and friends are continuing their work in the world of gaming. Karakasa’s Thunderbeam, a game app set in a groovy, retro-futuristic universe, is still a work in progress (as are we all). Look for it at the app store soon. Also, when you get a chance, look to see if Computer Chess is playing at a theater near your neck of the woods. And as always, stay busy and stay weird.

by Susan Duty

Wiley in “Computer Chess”

Actor Wiley Wiggins Vs. Machine Actor Wiley Wiggins Vs. Machine


Model Stephanie Rystrom


The Very Strange Case of

Dr. Jekyll and

Miss HydeBonnie Neagle Photography

88 • bohemia • october 2013Model Abby Eades

When she was good, she was very good.

When she was bad, she was...

october 2013• bohemia • 89Model Abby Eades

When she was good, she was very good.

When she was bad, she was... horrid!


The devil made me do it...


The devil made me do it...

Model Savannah Loftin

The devil in me.


Model Belladonna Treason


Why does being bad feel so good?


CHECK-MATES (1)

I plucked Cat fruit from Cat tree– kissed Teddy Bear alive, and taking care, I trod on air, to Fairy Tale Hive. I let Cat down and looked around, ‘sought faces from a page, to my alarm my gaze fell on, the Red Queen in a rage. “She looks a sight!” I whispered right– in Teddy Bear’s soft ear, “and worse than that, she’s taken Cat!” (for what it wasn’t clear.) And though we quaked my Bear and I, we gave the Queen pursuit. Eventually near Tum-Tum Weeds, she jettisoned her loot. “You’ll pay for this!” the Royal shrieked o’er shoulders in brocade. “While not complex, my next move checks, by check I mean checkmate! And so endorsed I’ll mount the horse, kick L-man to the curb. I’ll chase you ’til– the air grows chill, and then I’ll smoke Tum Herb.” “To what effect?” I yelled in turn, past shoulders of my own. “You’ll soon forget– about my pet, because you’ll be too stoned!” Still, as the span between us grew, I felt a little shook. That’s the last time I—ever—try combing through a book. FAIRY TALE HIVE (2)

Despite the chase endured last time in Fairy Tale Hive, I felt obliged

To ascertain–those in the comb survived. Royalty’s a fickle bitch & given ample reason has often fixed the odds with tricks (a self-defeating treason.) With that in mind I opted to leave Cat asleep in Tree and took instead some day-old bread, for what you’ll later see. And thus equipped for dreaded trip Cookie Jar came with a Fearsome Monster –shaded blue— & Fueled by choc’late chips. Through the cells we slyly slid, marking well our path, with crumbs like Hans– and Gretel once, except–of course–the wax. The residue was everywhere! on chess board, Hive and more It covered every chess piece left, & even waxed the floor. We found wax trolls and waxen elves, most every kind of creature, the Bothers Grimm had written in– to Fairy Tale features. Maidens fair and princes, too, were rendered into tapers. Wickless, witless candles, now, Albeit honey-vapored. We stumbled on what caused the mess, quite by happenstance. We bumped into that Witch who knew Regretful Girl & Hans. Her Pot’s to blame for all this melt, Cookie Jar accused. It seems the Witch

forgot to shift, the tab that opens flues. Our only choice at that sad point, is fairly hard to post. We killed the Witch by bait and switch & fed her poisoned toast. The waxen Hive was left intact, the Witch —and Queen—deceased, Done in by wax & scarce known facts that Witches can’t bear yeast. MOTHER GOOSE OF INVENTION (3)

As you’ll recall– last time inside, our Fairy Tale Comb, the Fairy crew was waxed like shoes, as was their bee-like home. Overnight– the Hive became, A waxy-taled museum. A motley lot– of author thought, impossible to free ‘em. The Princess Pea– was molded to, the legume that upset her. while Kings and Queens, were bright with sheen, and actually looked better. The tips of Bluebeard’s famous hair– was waxed to curlicues, And Beanstalk Jack, On his trip back– was stuck to stalk like glue. Rumpelstiltskin’s nasty mouth– was wide in perma-riddle. While Piper Pied in mimicry– had paused in his song’s middle. It took 3 days– of uffish thought, and sage advice from Cat. Before I knew– just what to do, with fairy artifacts. I licensed up– and opened Hive, to tourists by the pack, With verve and pluck, I charged ten bucks– to Fairy’s House of Wax. WAX ON --- WAX OFF(4)

It’s been a month, since Fairy Hive—

Fairy Tale Hive Series by Karen Robiscoe


became a Waxen Tower. An L.A. home, that Okies roam, For ten bucks every hour. It went quite well those first two weeks— the gawkers came in hordes. But at the time— I write this rhyme, I’m ready to close doors. The reasons for, this woeful truth— is not a revelation. ‘Twas attitude, of Waxen Crew, and—of course—location. The smoggy rays of L.A.’s sun—had melted them enough, to bitch and cry and vilify—their recent waxy slough. Red Riding Hood, was not disposed to snapping pics with Granny, while Nimble Jack played hacky sack with plumper girls’ fannies. But Fair Rapunzel suffered more—when wax dripped from her hair, Her lustrous locks were partly cropped As if removed with Nair. The coated forms— of Blinded Mice, drove the women nuts, but Final Straw, (from what I saw) was Disney’s daily bus. The mutt named Pluto, peed each time—he passed the Beanstalk prop, and Winnie Poo, Did Number Two— In Mary’s Garden Plots. Mirror–Mirror on the wall, was cracked by Peter Pan. When questioned why— he sighed and cried: “The mirror shows a man!” But rat named Mickey, took the cake— as did his Mousy Spouse. Their only aim– each time they came. was for that other House. The House of Wax, just down the street from— Grauman’s Chinese theater, the Mice pronounced that this House trounced— our Fairy Figure theatre.

Those Ratty Stars— played well their cards, with unmatched Rodent Relish. —Within a week— our numbers peaked. our Books thenceforth embellished. So currently I’m writing verse by candle flame to see it, Since money’s tight, I’ve bagged the lights, burn Fairies just as needed. NIGHT OF THE UNREAL UNDEAD(5) Luckily, since last I wrote— the Dog Days have begun, no need to light, a Waxy Sprite, I write by potent Sun. I wish Sun had come sooner though, our populace took a hit. Burning wax— from Fairy backs, scorched a few to bits. So all the worse, when solar flares– caused their state to worsen, and all remains— of Witch’s flames, dripped from Folklore persons. Instead of coming back—intact— the Fairy Stars did promptly, munch the brains— from all who came, since those restored were Zombies! The Froggy King was first to lick, a passing Lookee-Loo. A crowd nearby— thought it was fly, though someone did yell “Boo”. Oh, but Heckler shut up quick, when Undead Cinderella, pierced his noggin with glass clog– and ate the cheeky fella. The Wolf that used to Huff and Puff, and ruin Piggy dwellin’s traded that— for extra phat tourist cerebellums. And so it’s time, to rally Teddy, Cat & Cookie Jar.

Since I expect, mine are the next, Brains the Zombies mar. A Thousand Fold of equal Foes— is what’s in order here, I’ll call the tough– from Myths and Stuff, from Deities of Top Tier.

THE POSEIDON ADVENTURE (6) As it happens, some Greek Gods, though big in mythic lore, have feet of clay— and quite delayed their way to Zombie War. Perseus was shoo’d in sure—with quills on sandaled foot, but lost his drive– when he passed by, The Hermes store en route. The wings of Ick’rus –melted off— when he mistook Corona, Sun for Beer, and flew too near, plucking his persona. The snake-haired Gorgon made it safe, but soon encountered trouble. Since solar flares, while fairly rare, immediately doubled. The Ocean’s Twelfth— Greek God of Myth (and some will claim the greatest) I told to see his family— and help me with this latest— —this Melting Ball of Fairy Wax, and since endless flares killed Zombies, I feared reprise– from neighbor guys, who co-owned Abercrombies. My hope was that, Poseidon could– tell his bro’ Apollo, to stop this lot of hot sun spots, or else provide marshmallow. Medusa and her hissing hair– were stroking from the heat. (or so she claimed) I quite refrained– From looking at the beast. In the end the Ocean God– Couldn’t stop Apollo,


but deigned to spew, a ton or two, Pacific he had swallowed. This cured the snake-haired bitch at once– by turning her to Stone, But flooded out, the roundabout, The House of Wax called Home. PEG - ASSIST (7) Flooded out were Cookie Jar, Teddy, Cat & me. Jar the more so— when his torso, filled with sudden sea. Runoff what the God of Tides used to slake the heat. Came too late to alter fate— House became wax beads. It matters less then you might think, this downsized waxy dwellin’. I have endurance —and insurance— to salvage drips now gellin’. Providing we survive the tide—that’s flushing me and friends, down the lane, toward sewer drains, wherever they may end. Cat is hanging on by threads—and claws! dug through my shirt, Cat won’t swim, and Teddy skims, the surface like a bird. Since holding Cat, away from Sea, is using up resource. The more, the sweet is my relief— to spot a flying horse.

Look above! Up in the sky! Is that a bird or plane? It’s neither, nor– and not Centaur, But Pegasus who came. Late as ever— bless his heart, (his trouble telling hours.) In shakes of two, we leave the slough, On finely feathered horse-power. Presently we— are ensconced, atop the quilly steed. gripping mane, instead of reins, at willy-nilly speed. HEAVENS TO HELICON (8) The reason for Peg’s incidence—in Hollywood was greater— than our plight, he stopped mid-flight, North of the equator. Our feathered Mount was in between—another Mount and fountain —Hippocrene— on Greece’s peak, of Helicon,his outing. There was a need at present time, to reprimand the Muses, at mountain fountain’s source of poems— the Broods were lately useless. The Muses weren’t themselves these days, Pegasus admitted. Art was sketchy— Science tetchy— Textbooks retrofitted. I scarcely heard a word past font, and future destination, So thrilled I was— from pending buzz, I’d catch from poem hydration. Just imagine! Cat—I said, hugging Teddy tightly.

The font is full of minerals— to maximize my writing! I’ve heard the Muses, teach a class— of ballet in the geyser. Not to tone— the butt, but poems, making them seem wiser. Cat was less— impressed than I, while Teddy was distracted, by wax in Sea, now quite congealed, in interesting fashions. And all the while— we flew toward font, the wax in Sea kept setting, forming globs, that gently bobbed, like clouds do in the heavens. WAXEN SHIPS ON THE WATER (9) By break of day, We’d flown halfway, to Peg’s important meetin’ At which time— The thrill to ride, A feathered horse was beaten. Crossing datelines tires you out— as many travelers know. And though Cat slept the Tedster kept— wakeful on the go. To Teddy’s mind, the hardening wax, beneath us in the brine, looked like drifts— of clouds and mist, the runoff just like sky. And thinking thus insisted on— reassigning purpose; a different use, for wax refuse, bobbing on the surface. Look right there! Ted had pointed— down, declaring: bunny. And though I scanned Sea at demand, he wasn’t on the money. The thing afloat, to me screamed: boat, or Ship of Sealing Wax, and to the East, there— I thought the piece, there, Looked like oyster patch! A pair of shoes, popped out as well, (the short boots Beatles wore) Zombie Kings,


And other things, That weren’t from Carroll’s lore. How it was, that items from Wonderland’s Weird Whimsy, transcended Lit— to Godly Spit, At first tell seemed quite flimsy. Peg explained, that in the night, the flood Poseidon left, had split like glass, Into Morass— of Tears Big Alice wept. Since as he spoke, the sky grew dark, with Pigs on airborne Brooms. The flying hogs— lent travelogue, little wiggle room— —And worse! The Swine were Biker Bad— I don’t mean just on weekends, They Swiffered us, Off Pegasus— brushed us off his deep-end. The only way it is today— I’m still around to discourse, is Waxy Ship, seen in the Spit, Was just beneath the Winged Horse. We fell through sky and Morals, too— through Myths and Allegories, barely missed a Giant Fish there That’s another story Cat and Teddy made Wax Ship— deck—safely, as did I, Safely stuck, in waxy muck— casing to my thigh. THE HOOK (10) I rubbed and twisted ---at my legs… to free the waxen goop. Teddy, too But in Cat’s view, He outdid Puss in Boots. I cared naught--- what Cat thought, of waxen shoes on paw. For on horizon--- My eyes espied a vessel on the yaw. A pirate ship complete with sails--- flags of bone and skull, had turned its bow

and with it, scow, its cannons toward our hull. And since the wind was at its tail--- I saw with second look, the fellow driving was conniving--- Blackguard Captain Hook. Cat! I called--- and Teddy, too, We haven’t time to dally, Grab an oar, and go full bore, Paddle toward the Valley! The three of us, made haste to mimic, outriggers in motion. Which might have worked if---waxen skiff still floated on the ocean. The portholes were exactly that--- pock marks minus glass, Our troubles doubled, without bubbles, sealing up those cracks. And by the time, Hook and his Boys, had sailed into our riddle, we were half under--- so more the wonder, that Teddy played the fiddle. The vagabond made haste to fire, on sinking bow and deck Sending troops, In tiny sloop--- to take us from the wreck. And as Lost Boys bound feet and wrists, tightly with a truss. Out from the brine, ---in nick of time--- Came Carroll’s wondrous walrus. Followed by, a Carpenter--- and seven maids with mops. who swirled and swished like wild dervish’--- absorbing all the slop. The Sea of Tears became salt flats with blotting of the sound. Poseidon’s spit, Took same hit--- ‘running Hook aground. Stop the music! I told Teddy-- For now our fight begins. Just look---who’s joined the floatless Hook--- Carroll’s Tweedle-Twins.

DON’T ASK ALICE (11) Freshly back, from Looking Glass, were Tweedles’ Dum & Dee. And worst of all— came with them—faux tall— Alice, high as trees. And mad as hell! (about dried sea) Since she owned its beachfront. Leasing shacks--- for huge greenbacks, a resource rendered defunct. And though I wanted more details--- I felt it would be mental To go ask Alice--- (full of malice) more about her rentals. Some Fairies, also, * reappeared * freshly waxed and dried. Balded—scalded— —Zombies that— withstood the melt of Hive. Bluebeard was among the horde of reinvigor’ed Lore Folk He seemed in shock from sudden dock, or maybe from his wax soak. His face was shorn of famous beard— as in Rapunzel’s case. The difference was, he had peach fuzz, of azure on his face. On terra firm’, His fight returned, and brandishing machete, he gave pursuit —with Twins and Hook— Tall Alice, quick but sweaty. Clutching Teddy— to my breast, with Cat, I ran for shelter. Aided by— Pawns on the fly, revealed in the welter. Cheshire Cat— kept pace with us,


in spirit and in smile. Advising we— turn left sharply, and run another mile. And so we did, Cat, Ted and Pawns –the Waxing Cheshire, too– which working adverb, seemed absurd— in light of our to-do. We changed our tack —as fast as that— and when we did my heart skipped. We weren’t in Cally’s— —Plastic Valley, But on Sin City’s famed Strip. Impromptu sail— aboard the ship, had veered us from our course. Else it might be— the sudden flight we— took upon the Winged Horse. Despite the Cheshire’s broken drone— that kept suggesting Harrah’s We ducked inside, a church to hide, that charge ten bucks for marriage. We hid behind, some folding chairs— lined neatly in a row. Quaking—shaking— —ear drums aching— listening for our foes. You needn’t battle! —Came proclaim. You still possess the choice. And though I searched, the whole darn church, A Haze obscured the voice. HAPPY HOUR (12) The Kushy, Purple cloud smells good! Like brownies, plus a burst, of herbilicious additive in which nature I’m well-versed. I draw the cloud apart with air---inhale--- enough to see, whence smell came---from one and same---some Worm upon Tum Weed. But smoke-stung eyes feel compromised, by Haze that smells so killer. A second toke amends the bloke to Carroll’s Caterpillar. Perched to left of streamered aisle

in potted Tum Weed---hiding wormholed wall--- through which he crawled--- through sheetrock, and through siding. A vagabond! thinks I---in shock, a stinking reprobate! Like our pursuers, But this wrongdoer, Is Wormwood now he’s ate. I take affront on many levels--- the biggest disillusion. I’d always thought, that smoking pot, discouraged such intrusion. And weirder still the Wormy Chap, has catered his ransacking. Like that masked dude ---who hawks fast food---- Though he’s more snack than snacking. Four of Slugman’s crab-like hands--- proffer steaming pile, of fresh-baked treats too hot to eat, until they cool awhile. Still more hands are cradling one of many---long stems to draw--- attached to tall--- multi-player Bong. In play it was! All stems in use--- by Fairy heroes and villains. Morals untold, and quarrels on hold, the mood relaxed and chillin’. I’m not surprised to recognize--- the smokers nearest me, March Hare and Rat atop the hat of toasted, Host for tea. An Emperor (in ermine robes) is quick to offer hose which I think kind until such time--- as he removes his clothes. Sleeping Beauty’s present, too, the lungs on her quite strapping! She stays awake, until she’s baked, But then goes back to napping. Poseidon’s taking part, as well, or maybe that’s reversed. Since the Greek God’s scaly, fish bod’s--- in the bong, immersed

It’s good to see the Muses Three, have taken a vacation. Book’s retired, And Art’s inspired Science on sedation. You see, intones my friend indeed, Tum Weed’s the better bet, than to fight with what’s inside, a disenchanted text. As if commanded by this candid--- bid to pass the hookah. Our peace is broken As door’s opened, by Wonderland palookas. Tall Alice fronts the fearsome crew, of Bluebeard, Hook and Tweedles. The Twins red-faced, From sudden chase, to Vegas church and steeple. And just as war--- seems on for sure! The Tum Worm intercedes. Reminding us--- to love and trust, Between Tum puffs of Weed. No cause to fret! The Sage protests, ‘Twill only bring more mimsy. Life’s too brief To forego spleef, It’s best to indulge whimsy. I advise, you compromise--- and open a casino. Use your peeps, to staff it cheap, (the profit is in Keno.) The time has come… Weed Worm concludes, tapping wrists a’plenty, To talk instead--- of busting heads. Pinch me---it’s 4:20. END “FAIRY TALE HIVE SERIES”


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Peter Able’s screenplays have beeen finalists with Scriptapalooza, PAGE In-ternational, and the New York Television Festival. He lives in Woodway with his family. He is currently the director of Fi-nancial and HR systems for Baylor Uni-versity.

Pamela Ahlen is program director for Bookstock (Woodstock, Vermont), a Fes-tival of Words, one of three Vermont liter-ary festivals. She has organized literary readings for ILEAD (Institute for Lifelong Education at Dartmouth). Pam received an MFA in creative writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her poems have most recently appeared in Bloodroot, Ca-hoodaloodaling, Birchsong andThe Sow’s Ear. Her chapbook Gather Ev-ery Little Thing is forthcoming from Fin-ishing Line Press.

Diane Arrelle, the pen name of Dina Lea-cock, sold more than 150 short stories and 2 books. When not writing she is a senior citizen center director. She resides with her husband, her younger son and her cat on the edge of the Pine Barrens in Southern New Jersey (home of the Jersey Devil).

William Blackrose. I grew up traveling a lot, so developed an early love of the writ-ten word. I eventually grew tired of seeing the same story and decided to start writing my own. After writing my first book at 12 years of age and having my poetry pub-lished at 13, I have never stopped writing.

Neil Bryant grew up in Pflugerville and Austin, and has lived most of his life along the I-35 corridor. When he’s not writ-ing, he’s on Facebook sharing personal anecdotes that are mostly true. Accounts of discussions between him and his wife, Leslie, are popular with all his Facebook friends…except Leslie.

Artist / writer Mallory Hobson’s work has appeared in Hex Magazine, Champagne Shivers, and Kate Harper Cards. Her love of creepy dolls and other dusty items has been evolving since the day she was born. She lives in cloud covered grey Portland with her ever growing collection of small humanoid figures.


CJ Hudgins is a born and raised Wacoan. He is what you may call a jack of all trades in the creative sphere. Photography is simply one of his loves and passions. CJ runs and operates Vember Photo, a photog-raphy business.

A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has published six collections of poetry, avail-able on Amazon.com. She has published her work in numerous national and inter-national literary journals. She is currently the editor for Kind of a Hurricane Press literary journals ( www.kindofahurricane-press.com ).

Pat Jones became interested in photogra-phy six years ago. Finding very little help when starting out led him to seek out pho-tographers to work with and later to start a forum for local photographers. Pat lives in Robinson, TX. He does wedding, pin-up, boudoir, fine art, and glamour.

Abigail Larson is an illustrator of all things strange and macabre. Her work has been featured in numerous publica-tions and galleries in New York, Los An-geles, London, and Paris. Her first chil-dren’s book “Sarah Faire and the House at the End of the World” was released October 2013.

Ron. Lavalette lives in Vermont, barely a stone’s throw from the Canadian bor-der. He has been widely published, both in print and online. A reasonable sample of his published work can be found at EGGS OVER TOKYO: http://eggsovertokyo.blogspot.com

A 2012 finalist for the Richard J. Margo-lis Award, AprilJo Murphy is a doctoral candidate in creative writing at the Univer-sity of North Texas. She currently serves as the Web Editor for American Literary Review. Her writing has been published in Animal: A Beast of a Literary Magazine, Hippocampus Magazine, Mason’s Road, and the Irish American Post. April is cur-rently working on her first book Adiron-dack Exorcism: or, Pangender Menace. She lives in Denton, TX, with her dog Roan and can be reached at http://www.apriljomurphy.com.


Bonnie Neagle is a native Texan who is married with 3 children; Alley, Isaac and Parker. Her love for photography started during middle school and has grown ever since. She was recently featured on Senior Style Guide’s blog. She also co-owns First Sight Photography with Marcel Van Es.

Sandra Robonson. I am a 22 year old college student, born and raised in Waco, Texas. During my internship at the Col-cord House Bed and Breakfast this sum-mer, I came across this terrifying doll, which is creepy enough to make it into a horror movie that was filmed at the B&B. It’s over 100 years old, and it just watch-es... and waits.

Ms. Robiscoe’s work has appeared in Handful of Dust E-Zine, Whistling Fire E-Zine, Yahoo News Network, and journals: Spectrum at UCSB, Postscripts to Dark-ness, KY Journal, & Dark Light 3. Keep up with the impending debut of urban fan-tasy: Spirited Remix: An Insider’s Look at Posthumous Redemption--at Charron’s Chatter.

Stephanie Rystrom is a photographer, model, fashionista, and momma in Central Texas. She’s a bohemian at heart, currently working on her BA in horticulture, and en-joying life day by day.

In Texas since 1993, Genna Ware, 43, has been shooting alongside Pat Jones for one year. She’s a 911 Operator of 8 yrs. Photography is an incredible passion of Genna’s and she enjoys all types.


Gary Lee Webb is a 16-year resident of Waco. He has lived on three continents, visited four, and speaks many languages … badly. His credits include over 210 public speeches, four decades of confer-ences and contests, and both non-fiction and fictional publications. He is 57, mar-ried 36 years, and has 4 daughters.

Cynthia Wheeler is a Waco native and mother of three. She writes, paints, and does graphic design. Her true love is photography. She has been a volunteer at Waco Center For Youth for four years.


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17. Bohemia - October 2013

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