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"It’s a thrill and a treat to read a writer who isn’t afraid of pushing their reader to the edge by testing their audience’s limits. Only by being stretched further than we think we can go do we experience new and original ideas/feelings. The writer in such an instance needs to take their reader out to a place where there are no stars, where they must rely only on the unique strength of their singular vision to try and light the way." Paul Edward Costa's review at Entropy
Print 1.95
"It’s a thrill and a treat to read a writer who isn’t afraid of pushing their reader to the edge by testing their audience’s limits. Only by being stretched further than we think we can go do we experience new and original ideas/feelings. The writer in such an instance needs to take their reader out to a place where there are no stars, where they must rely only on the unique strength of their singular vision to try and light the way." Paul Edward Costa's review at Entropy
Finger : Knuckle : Palm
A New Wave Fabulist Novelette by Ariana Den Bleyker
A New Wave Fabulist Novelette by Ariana Den Bleyker
“But if not, then listen to me; be silent, and I will teach you wisdom.” ~ Job 33:33
hyp·no·sis noun \hip-ˈnō-səs\ : a state that resembles sleep but in which you can hear and respond to questions or suggestions
“Listen to me and I will explain to you; let me tell you what I have seen.” ~ Job 15:17
Prologue
“Waking up in darkness isn’t like waking up at all. I can’t, can’t feel. I’m aware of me without sensing myself.”
“Relax. Start from the beginning.”
“Everything’s, frozen, disjointed.”
“Do you know who you are?”
“I know nothing. I see, smell, feel nothing.”
“These things take time. You’ll get there.”
“I want to see. Why do I know what seeing is but can’t see?”
“Visualize yourself. Don’t worry. It’ll come. You should learn to embrace what you have, that you can think, that you are.”
“I know that my redeemer lives, and that in the end he will stand on earth.” ~ Job 19:25
Digging
“Where are you?”
“I’m standing in a clearing, a shovel in my hands, a dark figure hovering over me. There are clouds gathering in the sky, enveloping the moon, the last source of light. The maple leaves streaming around me are black. A raspy voice murmurs: start digging.”
“What do you do?”
“I tremble, sink the blade of the shovel into the moist ground, and soon the first lumps of soil fly in the air. The figure watches me work, smoking, the smoke enveloping its features. It’s colder than it should be. The shovel hits something hard. I lean down and after a few minutes of hard work, uncover a pine box. The figure points down: open it.”
“But now stretch out your hand and strike everything he has, and he will surely curse you to your face.” ~ Job 1:11
Hands
“Do you know how old you are?”
“I’m a child.”
“What are you doing?”
“Restless, I feel the need to move my hands and fiddle with objects. I’m unable to keep still. I’m impulsive. I touch everything that isn’t mine. The impulse is innate. I can’t feel or even notice my own movements. My fingers twist and contort. I call out. I tap my fingers on every solid surface. It becomes a habit. Over time my fingers become more noticeable than any other part of my body. They drag, curl, rapidly spread apart and close, I’m compelled to tighten and stretch them. I attempt to restrain them. I wrap both of them in duct tape, force each joint and knuckle into a tight, immobile fist. They shake under the tape, rub against it, generate a mix of cold sweat and burns. I force my arms down to my sides, sweat excessively as my fists begin to itch, burn, ache. I rip off the tape with my teeth when the pain spreads up my wrists. My freed hands twitch and jerk, every muscle and bone moves all at once.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“Tired. I fall asleep. I dream of my hands coming to life, rising above me, above my head, pulling my arms along with them until I can feel them crack and break from the stretching. The hands twisting as if trying to escape from my own joints, like my body is a prison. I feel them rip away, until they slowly lowered down, both in sync with each other’s movements. They move like they are a machine, each finger extended.”
“Can you feel your body?”
“I’m sweating, breathing heavily. I wake, turn my head to look out my window, see a full moon in the sky, light pouring over my face, the room. I sense my hands. My fingers are tapping, slowly, in a calm but noticeable rhythm. It’s consistent enough for me to count the cadence in my head. I view each tap as an audible footstep, an invisible being approaching to possess my hands and wreak destruction. My hands begin to occasionally twitch, fingers still tapping and tapping. The fingers tap faster, harder. I shake. The fingers tap until the tapping grows in speed and strength, until my hands shake entirely. I search for restraint.”
“What do you reach for?”
“Nothing. I stumble into the bathroom, using all my energy to keep my hands down. I have trouble opening the door. I find scissors in the bathroom. Pain spreads throughout my body as I grab the scissors with my right hand. I strike my left hand. Blood rises from my hand, runs across the counter and onto the floor. I strike it repeatedly until it severs. Realizing I won’t be able to severe the right in the same way, I make my way to the kitchen. I walk slower to the kitchen than I did to the bathroom. Blood continues to pour from my left wrist. I walk to the sink, strain my right arm towards the drain.”
“Are you scared?”
“Yes. I hesitate then reach for the disposal switch. I flip the switch, scream as my remaining hand grinds away. My body shakes. The sound fades. I close my eyes.”
“What he tears down cannot be rebuilt; those he imprisons cannot be released.” ~ Job 12:14
Jackhammer
“Is there anymore noise?”
“Yes. I hear a strange noise coming from the air conditioner. At first it’s almost imperceptible from other noises. It starts out as a slight clanking sound. Everything in the house is making some kind of noise. The washing machine shakes, the dishwasher sounds like a jet taking off, the refrigerator kicks and hums. I turn the television up to drown the sounds. I fall asleep.”
“Do you dream this time?”
“No. I wake to scratching in the walls, the electricity flickering in and out, an occasional thump. I flip the light switch up and down but nothing happens. I get up, walk around and test all the appliances. Nothing turns on, except, all of them are making noise, increasingly louder noise. Everything rattles and sounds as if it’s running until there were sparks. There’s a loud pop. My breath quickens. My heart stops. There’s a figure in the corner knocking holes in the wall with a hammer. It stops, looks into the most recent hole with a flashlight. It smashes the wall again with the hammer until the hole is big enough for it to squeeze through and disappear into the wall. I close my eyes.”
“Can you visualize the hole? Does anything stand out to you?”
“I try not to. My head feels like a drill is boring into my temples. I turn and run faster than I’d ever had before. No. I run even faster than that. My heart’s a jackhammer. I’m lost. My breath comes out in harsh gasps. I feel my muscles scream. My chest burns. I look around, trying to find a way out but see nothing. I’m inside the wall. Stacks of boxes. Steam. Long, metallic walls stretching far up. Strange-looking pipes of different sizes stretching endlessly along the walls. Sweat drips down my face. Into my eyes. I run again. Out of the corner of my eye I see a large, mechanical-looking device, mounted on a pedestal. Smeary image, but familiar. Something common, like something I had seen before, large, mechanical. I run toward it. It’s bright, shiny, chrome-like and curious, spiraling pipes and ripples extending from it. I felt something else nearby. Something. I run past the machine. I hear footsteps behind me, quickening.”
“Are you scared?”
“Of course. Behind me there’s another sound. A familiar sound. The sounds of hooves. I look ahead of myself, but there are spots. I’m blacking out. My body pitches forward and my hands shoot out. My feet falter, and I barely catch myself, desperately trying to keep running. My mind surges, knowing I’m doomed to fail. Running to stay alive. Running. I look down the long corridor in front of me. I run toward it. My legs begin to give. Motion ceases. I close my eyes.”
“Why do you keep shutting out the world around you?”
“I don’t like what I feel, what I see.”
“What do you feel? See?”
“I feel my arms pull in toward my chest. I see red. Red, like a smooth velvet sheet spread over rounded boulders. Boulders contorted like muscle. Red skin. Muscular chest. Right in front of my face. Grabbed. No longer running. Locked into a grip by terrible, strong hands. Hands. Hands digging into my skin. I scream, the sound deadens, pierces through laughter.”
“Fear came upon me, and trembling, which made all my bones shake.” ~ Job 4:14
Licked by Flames
“Where did you go?”
“I’m not sure. I’m passing over into another realm. I’m disconnecting from my body. There’s a hum in the distance growing louder, a grinding rising into a whine. As I draw closer to the sound, I experience myself at all angles. It’s hot. The closer I get to the heat, the faster time passes. The heat absorbs into my skin, passes, rushes through me. As it escapes, I stop abruptly. It’s dark, yet I’m able to see clearly. It’s an endless void, a total absence of light, an enveloping black. My body is pulled further into it like a hand wrapped around my waist, clutching me, an undefined power roping me into it. It pulls me to a ledge, the tips of my toes no longer grounded. I’m leaning forward, stiff, at a awkward angle. I can no longer see through the blackness. I extend my arms, make tiny circles with my hands. They don’t pass easily through the air. My palms meet resistance, the air feeling heavy against them, almost like water, like I’m cupping fluid. The space around me is tight. I’m confined.”
“Is it possible to free yourself? Can you sense anything around you?”
“The grinding is below me now. There’s a smell of metal on metal, a burning, though not like a fire, not brimstone. I begin to feel as though I’m in hell. Not the hell I learned about as a child, a different hell. I’m incapacitated by the darkness, aware only of the sounds beneath me, voices in the distance. The voices are unclear, more like hushed exchanges, children whispering. My fear rises from my heart into my ears. There’s a deep voice behind me. It isn’t loud but feels as though it’s crashing over me like a wave. The voice seems angry, an anger deep enough that one word could destroy the universe, could coax life away from earth.”
“Do you understand what the voice is saying?”
“Is this what you really want?”
“Does this question mean anything to you?”
“No, but the voice now in front of me becomes my focus, bursts through a pinpoint of light swelling as it speaks until it’s suspended across from me, hanging like the sun in the sky, just beyond the black wall holding me above the abyss. The light is more brilliant than the sun. It soothes my eyes.”
“Does this voice have a body?”
“Maybe. I know it has a hand. It waves to me. I’m only able to see the glimmer of the tips of its fingers in the fire. It calls me again. Is this what you really want? ”
“Do you answer?”
“No. I’m trapped by the question, unable to answer. The words of the question burst like fireworks, tiny balls of light erupting, penetrating my body. The voice trails off. I have done this for you.”
“What has the voice done for you?”
“I don’t know, but I’m pulled toward it. It grabs me, stuffs me into it, subsumes my life into its, embraces my fear as its own. For a second our bodies are one until I’m no longer grounded. I’m floating, hovering above the darkness then falling unable to see but feel the displaced air. There are flames licking my back. The heat is prickly, a thousand thorns digging into my flesh. I open my eyes. They melt, pour down my face.”
“You fasten my feet in shackles; you keep close watch on all my paths by putting marks on the soles of my feet.” ~ Job 13:27
Dead Stalking
“Are you able to open your eyes again?”
“Yes."
“Are you still in the dark?”
“No. I think I’m close to the coast. It’s dark. The ocean breeze hauls itself through the streets. I imagine the masts of ships passing in the distance, rising and falling their way across the asphalt.”
“Do you hear anything else?”
“Wind chimes chime in the distance, hang loosely from the branches of the trees across from me. They’re dream catchers. A figure in the distance looks up at me, catches my eye and advances, its intent harmful, its hunched form stabbing me with fear. I flee.”
“Where do you go?”
“I can’t see. The sun rises. The figure lurks in the passing crowds walking down the street, slips between the buildings, stalks me, though I’m motionless. I glimpse it through the throng of people. The people disappear.”
“And you?”
“The street is deserted. The figure appears alone, waiting, beckoning. I’m motionless. I close my eyes, fall asleep standing.”
“Can you visualize your dream?”
“The figure is in my dream. The chimes are no longer dream catchers. The figure is holding one out in front of it. Its string is pinched between its fingers. I wake. I’m still standing in the street. It’s autumn now. The buildings are mountains. The street a shallow river. I’m wading in it. The figure is standing on a mountain side, leering from a cliff. It’s everywhere. Behind me. In front of me. In the river. It too is still, its presence burning me. I tremble. I feel it anticipating my escape.”
“Do you escape?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m sitting on an airplane. The figure is seated a few seats in front of me. It turns towards me, grins, gestures its hand in a deranged motion. The figure disappears. I’m relieved.”
“Where do you land?”
“I don’t. I’m back on the street, motionless. The people walk around me, through me. I dread the figure’s absence more than its physical presence, for I know it will return, feel it with me. It’s lingering right behind me, cold hand running through my hair, tracing the side of my neck gently. I hear it licking its lips, its tongue moist against them. It wants me. I fall asleep.”
“Where do you wake up?”
“I wake up inside a house. The sound of the ocean outside is now a hoarse rasp rather than a deep roar. There’s a tapping against the window in front of me. I walk towards the tap. The tap becomes a dragging, the sound of metal against glass, sliding down, a shrill sound forcing itself into me. I throw the curtains wide, face the figure. I see its face. Its dreadfully burned lips begin to tremble. It fears me.”
“Though he slay me, yet will I hope in him; I will surely defend my ways to his face.” ~ Job 13:15
Running with Scissors
“Close your eyes. Let go of your body. Where are you?”
“I’m sitting in a cemetery at the base of a large tree. The bark presses unevenly into my back. I’m naked. My eyes are closed. I smell fire and lavender mixed in the air. It’s bitter. The stars seem to trickle above me. The air is full of energy, blowing stiffly around me. It feels like winter. A lone leaf falls on my knee, slides to the side, slowly falls to the ground. The wind is dancing. I stand to walk into it. There’s an urgent need to move forward.”
“Where do you feel the need stemming from?”
“My gut. I begin walking, my motion quickening and unconscious. My heart races, balloons, pushes against my ribs. There’s a crunching sound behind me, at my feet. The sounds are indiscernible. I look to my hands, move faster. I begin to sprint, my fear animalistic, the skin on my feet splitting. I catch the corner of a tombstone with my foot, sink into the fresh dirt. I fall forward, grab the tombstone with both hands to break the fall. My palms rip open against the stone, bleed heavily down it. I right myself, continue to run, my back crawling with fear. I’m escaping. I run full force into something solid, a rough and blunt hit.”
“Can you see what you’ve run into?”
“No. My vision is stunned, my eyes blur, regain focus. I start crying. A deep pain burns through my arm. A hand is holding it tightly, digging into it. It bleeds. The hand is cold; the blood warm against it. The hand lets go, pierces my back, tears into me. My vision dulls, almost blackens. I fall to my knees, slowly, try to rise. I feel another deep cut into my back but with considerably less pain, almost bearable. The skin on my back gives, pulls down and away from my spine. It feels peaceful. I turn my head, try to make out my attacker.”
“What do you see?”
“The figure. It’s blurry, dark pants, dark shoes caked with mud. I try to discern its face. I make out strong lips. I feel weightless, unfocused. I fall sideways into the figure, forget its lips. It grabs me with strong, hot arms. It holds me. I feel numb, secure, fade away.”
“He performs wonder that cannot be fathomed, miracles that cannot be counted.” ~ Job 9:10
Winter
“Have you managed to find yourself?”
“Yes. It’s the first snowstorm of the new year. Green is something you see in pictures tacked to the wall or in a memory from what felt like years ago. Outside there’s a white swirling mixture of ground and sky. Set against the bright seamless backdrop is the outline of a dark figure. It’s fading in and out with each gust of wind, like a Polaroid gone backwards. But I see it. I see the tip of one of its fingers poking out of a hole in its glove. Its hands are up against its mouth, its breath flowing a long slow billow of white smoke, like the mouth of a gutter under a frozen street. Its hat is pulled down over its eyes, which make them seem brighter in the shadow. I don’t scream.”
“Why?”
“Because I feel nothing. Not even nausea. Nothing. I stand still. Frozen. I watch the figure until it disappears into the endless white. I close my eyes.”
“Stop closing your eyes. You need to see.”
“I see the figure’s outline in front of the fat moon shining right behind it, casting a line of white around its face. I rub my eyes. My hands move away from my face. I look for it but there is only snow. It erased it my pale hand. I open the door, put my face into the cold, the kind of cold that feels more like fire than ice, and I look for it. The snow is covered in ice. I go to speak. The wind steals the words and spreads them out across the trees, the pavement, the silver trash cans.”
“Can you see past the trash cans?”
“I see snow, the flakes zooming straight at me, but now I’m inside a car. The car smells. When I breathe in through my nose I can taste smoke. A hand grabs my leg hard. It moves up toward my pocket. I feel a familiar pain in my stomach. The pain that keeps my voice locked up. The pain of things being taken away. The hand hurts. I feel words kicking their way up my throat.”
“Do you scream?”
“It try very hard to. The hand moves to my pocket, pressing down hard. It digs into my hip. My mouth is burning, and then—I scream, my voice, my words crackling. The words, tired of waiting inside, spill out too fast. My voice shakes my body. I breathe deeply. The hand thrusts backward, hangs in the air like a claw. I feel warm and cold at once. I see my breath in the air and wonder if that’s what my voice looks like. The air smells of snow but my throat is still burning. I lock my voice back up inside. I can’t help but close my eyes.”
“Open them. Tell me what you see.”
“The figure walks to my window, cups its hands around its face to peer inside. It looks sad. Its cheeks pulled up and forehead wrinkled. Its shaking. Its cold. It puts its palms flat on the window. Frost forms where the tips of its fingers touch the glass. I picture the figure at the window, staring into the tiny mirror on the door, with a gun inside its mouth. I watch as it pulls its hands down from its face and down to its sides. It stops, looks at me, right into my eyes, for a few seconds that seemed to stretch out longer than any other few seconds of my life. It walks away.”
“Can you still see the figure?”
“No because the sun is rising. I’m driving now. I’m almost out of town. Pulling onto the road, the sun hits my face. I realize how long it’s been since I actually felt the sun. How good it is to feel its warmth. I bask in it, roll down the windows, and accelerate. I don’t know what I’ll find out there, but I’m free. Alone, but free. Dead but risen.”
“Even then you frighten me with dreams and terrify me with visions.” ~ Job 7:14
Falling Upward
“Are you still in the car.”
“I wish. I’m on my hands and knees in the middle of a small airplane. I blink away a tiny bead of sweat. I laugh.”
“Why are you laughing?”
“There’s not an inch of free space around me. The door opens up into a bowl of sky, 13,000 feet high. I want to stop, turn back, sit the rest of the flight out. The doors fling open. I lean out to get a better view, take a deep breath. I back up and try to sort out some of the little things, like the best place to jump from, where exactly my feet should go. I buckle my helmet, pull the goggles down over my face. I push off.”
“What does it feel like?”
“The air swirls wild around me. A whistle blares in my ears loud and long, like a train barreling down on me as I stand in front of it in the middle of the tracks, the engineer refusing to remove his hand from the pull cord. The straps are tight around my crotch and armpits. I’m spread eagle toward the earth. My eyes blink open. I look beyond the goggles. The ground rushes toward me. I’m weightless, intently focused, relaxed, committed to letting go. There’s a body just below me. Dark. Black. I want to tap it on the shoulder, ask a question. The air rushing into my mouth forces the question to the back of my throat. I wait for a chute to fill with air, pull me toward the sky. The ground rushes upward. I look up. There’s no chute, nothing twisting and whipping above me. The body beneath me turns its head to look up into my eyes, to measure its fear against mine.”
“Who do you think is more scared?”
“Me. The gulp in my throat is dry and hard. The body raises its hand into me, slices clean right through my ribs, pierces my heart. I scream. The body, still connected to me by torn tissue and blood pulls me to earth. Its hand wet, slick. My head tingles, ears pop. My eyes close at impact.”
“When he passes me I cannot see him; when he goes by, I cannot perceive him.” ~ Job 9:11
White Light
“Do you think you’re dead?”
“I’m not sure.”
“How can you be not sure. Where are you?”
“I’m crossing the road, sun glinting slightly, not in my eye but against the bicycle leaning against the street light. I hear a child’s laughter. I walk toward a house, avoiding the stones strewn along the walkway. The figure is waiting at the door, smiling and all-knowing. I take its hand and try to ignore its coldness. I feel another hand grip my hand. It’s cold and small. It doesn’t grip in a loving or trusting way, it’s more urgent. I feel the grip lessen. There are other small figures moving around my legs. I can only make out shadows, although for a second I glimpse a face, white, with eyes gripped shut.”
“Is there anything else you recognize?”
“There’s a faint smell of perfume, slightly stale, as if someone had passed by days ago. The dark figure appears to my right, just out of eye shot, yet I know it’s there and turn my head towards the greenish light surrounding the entrance to the room. I shift over toward the wall.”
“Why the wall?”
“I need something solid to lean against. A rush of air shoots around my waist. I hear a moan. It sounds fearful. I can’t tell if it’s coming from me, or if it’s around us, bouncing off the walls.”
“Where are you? What can you see?”
“The dark figure pauses before we entered the adjoining room. There are wild animals, beasts of some sort, entangled with human forms, climbing up and around the top of the doorway. I reach out to touch the doorway. The figure grabs my hand. The coldness penetrates me. There are noises everywhere. I feel my fingers flicker, whispers shooting through my arms. The figure holds out its hands, makes a sweeping motion around itself. Something hits me from behind. It feels foreign. Something bright catches my eye. Utter sunshine, brighter than I’ve ever seen before. It’s the sun from the sharpest summer’s afternoon, fresh and inviting. The sort of light that draws you in. There’s a pine door ajar at the end of the hallway. The sun beckons from the other side of the door. I feel myself pull toward the light. The door bangs shut before I get there.”
“No what?”
“I don’t know. I’m standing in the street. I’m very, very cold. It feels like a continuance.”
“They grope in darkness with no light; he makes them stagger like drunkards.” ~ Job 12:25
Dark Passages
“Are you still outside?”
“No. I’m walking down a hall. The smells around me seem important.”
“What do you smell?”
“I’m not sure. The smells are quickly replaced by other smells, clean smells. There’s a crossing point. A light glimmers in front of me. A door is pulled open, heavy and silent, no loud bangs or clanking of keys. An electronic buzzer sounds. I stand. There’s a van parked close to the wrought gates outside a small window. I shiver.”
“What is around you?”
“I touch the walls. The walls are bare, but there’s moss, other lichens and molds festering, exposing the dark interior of the house. The beams are eroding, the stairs falling into ruin. I step carefully. I whirl around swiftly. The dank, shadowed room stretches behind me. The dim light reveals a chair, plush, comfortable, homely, rotting. I pivot on my heels, my breath more of a ragged gasp, sweat seeping out of my forehead and onto my lips. I have to choose.”
“What do you have to choose?”
“The room or the hallway.”
“Is there a difference?”
“The hallway stretches into the black dankness. The room seems brighter.”
“Which way do you go?”
“I step toward the room. The chair becomes more visible, though the rot and mold make the house seem more lived in. There are holes. The floor is rotting. The holes are big enough to swallow me. The light grows slowly closer. Step by step, I make my way closer to the light. I stare at it, into it. It captures me. I shouldn’t be here. I hear a creak in the distance. I rush back down the hallway, my feet pounding away on the empty floorboards. I glance back toward the light. It’s gone. The hallway seems endless, looped, strange, menacing. Every step brings the same wallpaper, the same floor, the same and same again. I feel hands on my shoulders. Waxy skin. I scream. I force my eyes shut.”
“Why?”
“I’m scared.”
“Open them. Where are you?”
“I’m outside. I lie down on the grass, the soft grass. I giggle then cry.”
“Why do you cry?”
“Because I’m back in the house. The same one. I turn around. The figure smiles.”
“I am nothing but skin and bones; I have escaped only by the skin of my teeth.” ~ Job 19:20
Little Teeth
“You look sad. What’s wrong?”
“My teeth are falling out. I stand in front of the mirror convinced my teeth are not my teeth, but there is a triangle of visible bone forming at the base of two of my four lower incisors and the lower gum itself. I peel back my bottom lip until it hurts. The monstrous, tendons and hanging lines of raw-steak matter and the hard spinal ridge of white beneath I don’t want to notice. The teeth themselves appear to be longer than teeth are supposed to be. When I place my forefinger upon their edges and wobble them about, they seem to wobble about, too, my teeth, unsteady, coming out.”
“Stop touching them and walk away from the mirror.”
“Ok.”
“Where do you go?”
“I return to the bedroom. I’m careful not to clench my teeth in anger or in stress for fear it will weaken them. I see the mirrors everywhere, smile.”
“Can you see yourself smile?”
“Yes, but I feel my heart beating furiously. Cold sweat. I frantically look around, panting. I’m suffocating. Trapped.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“I feel fear burn through my body. I stand, stumble over to the light switch and flip it on. I feel stuck between dimensions. Everything seems less solid, appearing to only be patterns, rippling, hazy waves of energy. I hear a telephone ring. A screaming freight train. I hear electricity, currents, humming. The sound of my breath, my walking are amplified to a roar. I try not to move. Everything is brightly colored, visually intense and distinct. My eyes hurt. I feel like a spiraling, flowing column of energy, my hands and arms more transparent. I’m floating. I bite my nails, my right index finger. I hear shuffling. I stare at the ceiling. There are curious spiral patterns in the stucco. They’re spinning. There’s a figure peering out from behind the closet door. I put a hand to my cold, sweaty forehead.”
“Do you fall?”
“No. I’m in front of the mirror brushing my teeth. I’m forcing myself to do it. I stare blankly into the mirror. It’s covered in duct tape. The room seems dim, entirely made up of pulsating blue currents. I tip my head down to spit out the thick, minty foam from my mouth. I bring it back up. I almost choke on the remaining toothpaste. The mirror is no longer covered.”
“Do you see the figure?”
“Yes. The figure is in the mirror. It’s behind me. I can only make out an outline, something powerful. I feel as if there’s no floor beneath me. I grasp for the sides of the sink, drop the toothbrush. Spit and foam vault off of my lips. I spin to face the figure. There’s nothing there. Nothing except a curious pressure in my chest, a feeling of cold air. Slightly relaxing, I turn back around to face the mirror. The figure appears.”
“What do you do?”
“I attempt to punch the figure. With great force I draw back and throw my fist. My arm plunges deeply into the mirror, without breaking it, all the way up to the shoulder. A light pours from the mirror. I struggle to cry. There’s a flash. Another flash. Then again. And again. Each time, it was a little bit longer, until the figure becomes clearer. I shake, my hands gasp for anything, my fingers tap the sink uncontrollably. I fall back, land on the floor with a thump. I stand. I close my eyes.
“I wish you would stop doing that. It’s important you see.”
“I open my eyes, begin combing my hair, staring into the mirror. A whole mirror. A mirror covered in duct tape. I begin removing the tape. I slowly peel it until the entire surface is revealed. I curiously admire my reflection. I stare through myself. I grab the sides of the mirror, and thrust my head through the mirror, close my eyes tight to avoid the glass.”
“He reveals the deep things of darkness and brings utter darkness into the light.” ~ Job 12:22
Lost
“Do you feel pain.”
“No. I’m outside again. There are people looking for me. I hear them call my name.”
“What are they saying?”
“They can’t find my body. They find a porcelain doll nearby. Its head is poking out from the dirt just inside the woods. Its left eye is missing, a worm burrowed into the empty socket. They think it’s me at first, nothing but dirt smudged into its dress. It appears as though there’s a flicker of emotion in its remaining eye, a desperate flicker of emotion. The doll has a pretty face, forever trapped in youth. Its curls are colorless and flaccid, the face blotchy and scratched.”
“How do you know what the doll looks like?
“The doll is slumped over staring at me. I’m staring at it. Its remaining eye meets mine. My eyelids fall heavy. The doll’s face turns enquiringly at me. The darkness warps reality, twists everything out of perspective.”
“Do you notice anything else unusual about the doll?”
“She’s not here anymore. I’m walking.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m not sure. I’m walking through the woods. Everything surrounding me has a sepia tinge. A figure is calling to me from somewhere, but I only see flashes of it through the trees. I’m not sure whether it is moving toward me or vice versa, but its wrinkled face is leering into mind behind branches and leaves. It laughs loudly, the laughs quickly turning into a knocking. The doll is at my feet.”
“Again.”
“Yes, but it’s not the same doll.”
“How so?”
“The doll is a little girl. A dead girl, pale, with empty eyes, a bloody mouth. I try to scream. The figure turns, its wrinkled face taking forever to incline toward me. It raises an eyebrow. The girl is curled up, dirty hair hanging over her face. I hear shouting, vague and wordless. The figure’s eyes are uncertain. I begin to walk away, cast a casual glance backward. The figure is doing the same. Our eyes meet. We turn away and keep walking.”
“Where do you go?”
“Into a house. Into a bathroom.”
“What’s in the bathroom?”
“There’s a ceramic tub with clawed feet filling with hot water. Steam rises into the air and shades my eyes. The mirror is glassy and steamed over. The temperature of the room rises steadily; the sweat runs down my arms and drips into the tub. I hear steps, deep thuds approach the door. The door slams open. The figure emerges. I refuse to meet its eyes. The figure walks to the tub.”
“Do you speak to it?”
“No. I undress it, working through each layer of clothes until I reach the bare and wrinkled flesh. The clothes hit the cool white tiles. Steam rises from them. They burn at my feet. I’m shivering. The figure steps into and lowers into the tub, the clear water ripples around it, as though it weren’t actually real. The figure leans its head into my stomach, head lolled, decaying face nodding against my heaving chest. I stroke its head, stare hopelessly into the steam. The figure nestles its head further into me. I feel its muscles twitch, hear its tongue lick its lips. I’m still for what seems like an eternity. The figure lifts its head, eyes widened. It sneers. Its hand reaches from the tub and grabs my hand. Water runs from its skin to mine.”
“What does it look like?”
“Its eyes are on fire, more life burning inside of them than the life inside my own body. I pull away from its grip on me. My flesh tears. Its lips snarl. My hand frees, slips against the wet cool surface of the tub, against my own blood. I lose my balance, fall. I miss the porcelain by inches. I steady myself, rise, shaking. The figure rises from the tub; the water slithers down and across its body. I run. My head throbs. I reach the woods behind the house. I stop, laugh, fall to my knees, close my eyes, break into a million pieces.”
“But he knows the way I take; when he has tested me, I will come forth as gold.” ~ Job 23:10
Crossroads
“Do you pick your head up?”
“I don’t have to. I’m sitting in a car on a road. The road doesn’t have a name, it’s not on the map, and technically, it doesn’t even exist.”
“Do you drive?”
“Yes. I begin driving down the nameless road. I don’t turn on the radio, use the phone, open the windows. I drive under 15 miles per hour. I’m buckled in. Time seems to have stopped. There’s no turning back. For the first mile, I don’t see much change. The road passes through mostly woods. It feels colder. I turn on the heat. In the second mile, it becomes even colder. I focus on the road. On the third mile, I spot silhouette in the lining of trees. The road becomes dirt, narrower than the beginning. On the fourth mile, I hear voices. There are whispers, echoing whispers. They become bothersome and distracting. I try to listen closely to them. On the fifth mile, I enter a clearing. The lining of trees disappear and there’s a lake ahead of me. A lake with no end, just moon over water. The moon’s light is so spectacular I can’t see the headlights. The stars and moon disappear, leaving the sky an empty, black abyss. Everything disappears but the headlights and they flicker from time to time.”
“It’s quiet?”
“Yes, but the radio turns on. A calm voice radiates from it. I visualize its words but can’t hear them. I speed up. The figure returns. The voice coming from the radio is its voice. It doesn’t sound like a whisper this time. I slow down. There are sharp turns in the road. The headlights flicker more, sometimes shut off for a few seconds. I stop. The figure reaches out toward the windshield. It’s right outside the door. Its hands are clawing at the window, desperate to feel me.”
“Do you scream?”
“No. The car moves past it. The headlights shut off. The car stalls. The windows begin to crack. I look in the rearview mirror and the figure is in the backseat. In the darkness, I see a growing red light. I close my eyes and cover my ears.”
“Why do you keep doing that?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Open them.”
“Ok.”
“What do you see?”
“The red light. The red light is another clearing, but there’s no moon or lake this time. I feel my flesh burn off my bones as I get closer to it. I stop the car, unbuckle. Nothing happens, and I feel disappointed.”
“Why are you disappointed?”
“Because I’m at the beginning of the unnamed road again. I turn to look in the backseat. There’s nothing there. I’m where I started. The road’s right in front of me. I buckle up, put the car in gear, tap my fingers on the wheel, drive.”
“What they trust in is fragile; what they rely on is a spider’s web.” ~ Job 8:14
Crawling
“Are you still driving?”
“Yes.”
“Are you on the unnamed road?”
“No. Not this time.”
“What do you see?”
“Tall grass. It slaps the bottom of the car. There’s rusted barbed wire clinging to rotted posts alongside the road. In the untilled fields, scrubby bushes spring up like mushrooms. I stretch my hands and feel nothing. Everything goes black.”
“Everything?”
“Yes. It’s dark.”
“Can you feel anything around you?”
“I grope in the air, catch a hold of something. It’s a line, a sticky line. I pull the line. Something rustles above me, floats around me. I’m in a large, open space. Thin shafts of light stream around me. I hear a rustle. It’s hot, but I shiver. I lick sweat off my upper lip, crawl across the ground. Shadows of old machinery and tools loom around me. A leather harness hangs from the wall. It smells, the sickly, sweet scent of rotting meat.”
“Is there a way out?”
“Maybe. I make my way toward a light. There are boards nailed in front of it. The first board is half-rotted. I pull at it. It falls apart in my hands. More light pours through the new hole. I grip another board, begin pulling. The nails squeal and the board starts to move. Then it stops. I yank the board again. It doesn’t yield. Balancing on one foot, I brace the other against the window frame and start pulling again. The muscles in arms and back bulge. I hear tapping on the floor behind me. Something strikes me.”
“What strikes you?”
“I can’t tell. I’m face first up against the wall. Blood trickles from eyes and down my face. I turn around slowly into the light. The figure approaches me, extends its hands toward me. Its eyes looked like black fists. It inches forward. It touches my shoulder. I wince and step backward into the wall. I’m trapped. It plants its hands firmly into my shoulders, forces me to my knees. For a brief moment, we look into each other’s eyes lovingly.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“Odd. I’m caught off-guard. The figure plunges its hands deeply into my chest. Instantly, white hot pain rips through me. My hands are numb. Gasping for air, I throw myself against the boards again and again, slump willingly onto the floor.”
“Then, free of fault, you will lift up your face; you will stand firm and without fear.” ~ Job 11:15
Blind Rage
“Get up.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I’m sitting inside a car again. The car is moving fast, cutting corners, tires screaming. My mouth is dry, my heart hammering in my throat. I’m paralyzed. I’m in the back seat, twisted with my arms around my legs. I try to open the door. I look up into the rear-view mirror, see nothing but a hat, black eyes. There’s a sound of two fingers rubbing one another. I’m confused.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m gasping for air under the unbearable weight of the figure’s body, stinking of burns, old sweat and garlic.”
“How can that be?”
“It isn’t. The reflection and the figure merge into another. I kick them. They hit my face, each of them trying to separate from the other, heads moving in and out of each other, four hands waving in the air. They snarl, sharp fingers around my neck. I make eye contact with one face, the other eyes push forward through them, stare into me. They laugh, echoing into another. I fight back nausea and dizziness, cover my face with my hands. The car is driving down a bumpy road. I try using my teeth, nails, feet, fists. The dominant hand reaches for my hair, pulls my head up by it. The figure gnashes its teeth into my throat. I close my eyes in pain.”
“Can you open them back up?”
“They’re heavy, but I open them to fluffy white clouds floating in front of me.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m floating or walking, not sure which, or if I’m even real. I feel like I’m moving, rounding the same corner over and over again. I look around. There’s a fire in front of me. It’s the car pinned to the trunk of a tree. Inside the car, draped over the steering wheel, is the figure. The wind is blowing my hair around me. I keep floating or walking. I stop on a precipice. I feel fluttering in my stomach.”
“Is that all you feel”
“No. I feel pressure at the small of my back, fingers digging in. I smell fire. I consider jumping, the rush of air both pushing me down and pulling me up, my limbs flailing. I feel breath on the nape of my neck, something pressing into the side of my neck. I step forward to jump, feel a hand push through my back, the force of the retraction forcing me off the edge. I cover my eyes with my hands, feel blood running down my face, smile, close my eyes.”
“Withdraw your hand far from me, and stop frightening me with your terrors.” ~ Job 13:21
Forceful Union
“Are you falling?”
“No.”
“I’m standing naked in the open. I hear voices. I raise my head into the hot afternoon air.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes, but I feel something near.”
“What?”
“A hand.”
“A hand?”
“Reaching out.”
“Do you run?”
“No. It pulls me into darkness. The hand holds me down. I struggle with it and the black figure attached to it. The figure is on top of me. We’re lying on a thick patch of dirt. I’m trapped on my back, my fleshy legs spread by the figure’s hands. Its waist is thrusting into me, between my thighs. My face twists to the side. I’m trying to tear away from my body. I feel my skin bruise, my nose break, the breath huffing out between my lips from the physical exertion forced on my body. I’m shaking with each thrust. I can’t tear away from the brutality of how vulnerable I am, of wanting it to stop, to see through it, to not give in. My thighs are forcefully parted, shaking harder.”
“Try to move.”
“I wiggle. The figure’s hand comes off my thighs, but my thighs stay parted, shaking now with a pleasure that shouldn’t exist. I raise my sideways-turned head off the grass, acknowledge the pleasure, lift my legs into the impact, feel the dirt caked on them, the sweat, swing my calves across the figure’s back, mold around its hips in a guilty embrace. I begin rotating my hips, angle my waist upwards. My lips squeeze out a long sigh that has no protest left in it, the final acknowledgement that my pleasure, now known, can’t be recapped. I lift my head higher yet. My hair falls behind me, sweat pours into my eyes, down my face. My bruises and broken nose slide off onto the ground.”
“Can you see?”
“Yes. I widen my eyes, stare off into the distance, grab the hand drawing me in, feel the blood trickle to my elbow, pull my hand back, run it through my hair, feel my hair thicken with the blood, pull strands of hair from my face. I see the figure inside the sunset. It’s a rose or reprieve. It dwells in the swells and curves of my body, my body now the absence of color in the blackness of its eyes. I let out a breath, close my eyes.”
“For it did not shut the doors of the womb on me to hide trouble from my eyes.” ~ Job 3:10
Aphrodite Rising
“Are you still lying down?”
“Yes. On a large bed in a hot, dim room. I smell dust and grime. I sit up, lean my back against the headboard; my damp hair plastered to my forehead.”
“Are you alone?”
“The figure is sitting beside me urging me to breathe regularly. There’s a nurse at the foot of the bed leaning forward. I’m in excruciating pain, and it isn’t easing with the passing time. I scream and pound on the bed, twist my body back and forth, push with all my might to relieve myself of the burden causing me so much pain. The figure is silent. The only sounds I hear are the rush of my blood and violent screams falling into soft whimpers. The nurse paces.”
“Feel yourself.”
“I do. Blackness washes over me, my panting transforms into the cries of a baby. The nurse holds up the baby. The figure nods, its fingers summoning the nurse toward it. I double over in tears. I slam my fist against the wall. The small room around me fills with dirty sinks and toilets. My eyes focus in an out. My breath is raspier.”
“Can you see anything?”
“There’s a body in the middle of the room, roughly cut, covered in blood. The room smells of damp, decaying leather. The figure’s hand strikes my face. My head hits the headboard. The nurse hands the figure the baby. The room grows darker and darker. Everything fades.”
That’s it?”
“No. I hear a door shut, a key turn a lock. I’m lying naked, curled up in the middle of the room on a concrete floor.”
“How did you get to the floor?”
“I’m the body. There’s blood pouring out from between my thighs. I reach between them with my hands. A cold hand reaches back. The hand reaches a finger to my lips. I say nothing. I feel the inside of my body crawl, breath even, clutch the hand, draw in a small breath, let my sudden stillness fill the empty room. I fall limp, asleep.”
“Mortal, born of woman, are of few days and full of trouble.” ~Job 14:1
Lullaby
“Are you still on the floor?”
“No. When I open my eyes. I’m standing on the edge of a lake. It’s silent. I sit down at the base of the water and listen to nothing. My mind drifts.”
“Is it cold?”
“The wind is strong and pressing on me. I hold my head down to keep my face from the gust. I slide off my shoes and socks, throw them down, stare out into the lake. I see a ripple in the middle.”
“Just a ripple?”
“No. There’s a black lump in the water. I look closer and see it moving. There is a lump in my throat, a terrible feeling in my gut. I stand up and call to it. The lump turns to me. I call to it again and wait. It begins to swim toward me. I stand up, take a few steps back. The lump gets closer, rises from the water.”
“And?”
“A black head of hair emerges, long hair. The figure stands on the surface of the water and stares. Its skin is white. It’s naked. It lifts its head and pulls back its hair. Its eyes are empty. It begins to sing. The song rushes into my ears, through the trees. My body weakens, knees buckle, fingers pull apart. I fall, continue to look at it.”
“What does it do?”
“It opens its mouth. The song stops. Everything stops. I can’t hear anything. Its eyes are white. Pearl white. It lifts its right hand toward me, grabs my throat. My throat closes. I try to cough. The tightness of my throat stops me. My breath tightens. I struggle. My feet sway beneath me. The figure drags me into the lake.”
“How does it feel?”
“I feel peace, feel music vibrate inside my lungs. The figure kisses me. My lips freeze. Its body nestles against mine. My clothes are soaking wet, my feet bare. The lake is calm. The figure begins singing again. Everything’s static. I feel the figure’s fingers dig into me. I hold onto its neck, wrap myself around it, fall limp. My emotions fade from me. I lose warmth. I let go of the figure’s neck, hear the song and wind from outside my body, replace them with my own sobs. The figure cradles me, swaddles me with its hair. It whispers.”
“What does it say?”
“I can’t understand it.”
“Why?”
“I’m consumed by water, my lungs full. My hand begin to move, stroke the figure’s face. Then, as my head submerges, I walk into silence, darkness, look into the figure’s eyes, fade into the darkness.”
“You will call and I will answer you; you will long for the creature your hands have made.” ~ Job 14:15
A Grain of Salt
“Are you the bottom of the lake?”
“No. It’s still dark out, I’m hot and dry.”
“Where are you?”
“I can’t see, but I hear someone walking across the floor. The footsteps come closer. I hear a creaking sound. The figure enters the room. It walks slowly and silently. I smell it. It’s skinless. It doesn’t seem to be looking for me. It could easily grab me, but it doesn’t. I’m confused, shivering. The shivering is painful.”
“What do you do?”
“Standing, grab onto a door knob.”
“Can you open the door?”
“No. I freeze.”
“Why?”
“The figure’s bony, slippery fingers are on my shoulders. I back away, look at it. It approaches me. I try to speak, to struggle. The figure grabs my head, thrusts it toward the wall. My teeth loosen. I fall to the floor, limp, unable to stand, move. The figure steps on my hands, my fingers crack. I tear. The figure’s boots cut through my skin, into my bone, my knuckles. Pain passes through my body like electricity, peels back my flesh, radiates through my palm. My vocal chords strain to sound. The figure loosens its step.”
“Are you able to escape?”
“I free a hand, grope for anything around me, above me. I limply grab a cup, throw it. Grasp a fork, drop it. A wet tea bag falls to the ground. I find a saltshaker, thrust it up at the figure’s face. It grunts, falls backward and off my other hand. The shaker falls to the floor, salt pouring out. I scoop the salt up with my broken hands, throw it into the figure’s eyes. Its body stiffens. It reaches out its hands. I roll away.”
“Does it follow you?”
“I can’t be sure. I’m running, broken hands flailing at my sides. My skin is burning. There’s salt all over my body, in my wounds, resting on my lips, my cheeks. I taste it. Throw myself into a fire, watch the smoke rise around my body. The fire dies.”
“You will surely forget your trouble, recalling it only as waters gone by.” ~ Job 11:16
Moment of Becoming
“Is it cold now?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m inside a house,”
“Where? What are you doing?”
“I’m standing in front of a mirror. The figure’s behind me. I stare long and hard into the mirrors until the focus is no longer my body, my face, my eyes. I focus on my pupils. They’re as black as the figure’s. They remind me of water that looks darkened by depth from a distance, and I’m convinced I’ll go blind for staring so long, no longer being able to see my face clearly enough to feel the sleepless nights, long hours, the faint line on my forehead, the crease at the corners of my eyes, lips.”
“And?”
“I float. Not the kind of floating that is uplifting, the kind that pulls the body from itself like it is rising. I float, but it is a subtle pull, pulling down. I float, fall into the darkness. The figure, all of the angles, the lights, they stay above me, in my periphery, they stream, flood toward me, strike my hands. I’ve never been this cold before. Not the type of cold that aches in the feet, causes convulsions in the jaw—the kind that freezes the mind, thoughts stuck on repeat with no volume control or power button to stop them. Really cold.”
“Can you feel yourself?”
“I feel my body twist, my hands passing in front of me, my breath coming in a whisper, words I’ve not known trailing along the tip of my tongue. The deep red of muscle flexing beneath my ribs, seeping into my vision, pushing past my thoughts in some semblance of words. I float above it. My hands pass through the light, rays splaying through the spaces, shimmering off my fingers. Everything slows down. I’m hyper-aware of myself, every fault amplified a million times. There is no sound of breathing, of life. The oxygen seeps into me through the light. I sink. The light dulls, fades, becomes more particle-like, specks of energy shimmering in front of me. I’m awake. Half-awake. I’m suspended.”
“Suspended?”
“Yes, but there’s resistance surrounding me. It takes more effort to wave my hand. The particles chase my fingertips, stream behind the motion; stars escaping from my pockets, yellow pennies bubbling from my skin. I settle slowly. I’m frozen. Thump. Thump. Thump. I hear it though I’m not sure I’ve ever felt it. Fear. It’s protecting my body from pain. I turn my head and see the white of my skin. I’m still and quiet. There’s no friction. This is as close as I’ll get to seeing myself dead. I pull my hands to my side. They’re heavy. They follow slowly. I lift my arms into the weight, the viscosity, fold my hands on my stomach, each one resting on the other. I look hard and deep into the light, look for signs of motion, hold my breath and listen for moving air.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I wonder if, even hope, I’ll die soon so this moment is all I’ll need to feel my own passing. It’s a much more silent, tender moment, private even.”
“Are you dead?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. I pull my hands up to my breast, they flex at me. I press firmly, wait. My chest doesn’t rise, but I feel a beat through the points of my fingers, almost a vibration radiating through my wrist. I wonder whose beat I’m really feeling. The light waves its soft tentacles. I return the gesture. My eyes close.”
“How do you feel?”
“I’m hungry. I bite down hard on my tongue to satisfy my sudden starvation, hoping the pressure would alleviate my growing discomfort. I smile awkwardly. The seconds grow colder, and for a brief moment, the hunger, my vision fades. I feel alive, haunted, and for now, it’s enough.”
“For he wound, but he also binds up; he injures but his hands also heal.” ~ Job 5:18
Marrow
“Are you still in the water?”
“No. I’m behind an open door, sitting, curling myself into the smallest shape possible, hiding. The figure is outside the door. I swallow the huge lump in my throat. I wait. I smell the figure.”
“What does the room look like?”
“The room is featureless, completely white, though there’s a sense of darkness surrounding me, seeping into me, spilling forth from me, the kind of darkness that has been categorized, documented, named. The figure approaches.”
“Can you see it clearly this time?”
“Yes. It’s tall, lean, wearing a wedding gown and a hat. It stops abruptly at the entrance of the door. The air is warm. I feel it listening. Blood drips from its hand. With each step it takes, one, sometimes two drops hit the dirty floor, leaving a sparse trail of splatter. The figure takes slow but steady strides, allowing its hands to hang at its side. A noise behind it stops it.”
“What does it do?”
“It turns slowly to face the direction of the sound. It brings a hand to its mouth, licks the blood off its fingertips, smiles. It speaks out in a low, raspy voice. It peeks its head around the door. I inch back further into the corner. I study its face, burned, scarred. One of its hand arcs forward and up in a blur of motion toward me. It slices my chin. The hand continues its upward sweep, catches my cheek, then quickly strikes across my face, slashing straight across.”
“Do you run?”
“No. I lunge toward the figure with abnormally strong legs, bite it deep on the neck. The figure, caught by surprise, steps backward. I loosen my grip. It reaches behind me with its other hand, grabs a hold of my neck, thrusts me away onto my back.”
“Can you get up?”
“I sit up quickly and turn around on all fours. The figure doesn’t move. It laughs. I pause for a moment, then slowly back away. Nausea overcomes me. I vomit the bit of blood I sucked from the figure. I’ve never tasted blood. I stand up slowly and stare at it. The figure kneels down, puts its hands on its chest.”
“What do you do?”
“Wait. It turns out its palms. A black, smoky tendril rises from them. I approach it cautiously. There’s a long, disquieting silence. Its hands fall from its wrists.”
“What do you do?”
“I pick up the hands, spread the fingers. I quickly reach out toward the figure. Its chest is exposed. It’s staring at me. I thrust the hands into its chest, pull them back. Its chest cavity opens, heart torn, bleeding out. The figure falls back, disappears into the darkness. The hands disappear.”
“What do you do?”
“I raise my arms, stare at the stumps of my wrists, cry.”
About Ariana Den Bleyker
Ariana D. Den Bleyker is a Pittsburgh native currently residing in Upstate New York, a wife, mother of two, a writer and an editor. When she's not editing or writing, she's spending time with her family and every once in a while sleeps. She is the author of several poetry chapbooks and collections. Ariana is also the founder of ELJ Publications, LLC, a micro press specializing in the author, featuring a number of serials, including Emerge Literary Journal and scissors & spackle. She can be found at www.arianaddenbleyker.com.
Review by Paul Edward Costa
Review by Steven Stam
Review by Paul Edward Costa
Review by Steven Stam