The Voice before the Void: Arcana, Story, Poetry

Meredith Potts is the executive director of the non-profit NGO FIRE, the Flagstaff International Relief Effort, based in Flagstaff, Arizona and Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia. Since 1997, FIRE has been administering aid programs in Mongolia, with a current focus on viral hepatitis and liver cancer, which are epidemic in Mongolia. As of May of 2015, FIRE has also begun a relief project for the survivors of the village of Langtang in Nepal; the village was almost completely destroyed by a landslide triggered by the earthquake of April 25. Learn more and help support FIRE at: fireprojects.org. FIRE is a non-profit organization; all contributions are tax-deductible. ⁓The Voice before the Void Plastic Bottles at Midnight in Mongolia Meredith Potts Dusk did not even begin until 9:45 PM on this May night in Mongolia’s capital city. Still feeling energized, I took the long way home from a friend’s house at 12 midnight through Chinggis Square. It has been more than four years since I was last in Mongolia. As I casually strolled, absorbing the dramatic changes in Ulaanbaatar, from the skyline to the abundant and overly friendly taxi drivers concerned for my safety at that late hour in new cars (not 20-year-old junk-heaps) to the new planters and upgraded sidewalks and well-lit streets, I became a bit annoyed with the plastic bottles everywhere. My first inclination was to pick them up and put them in the recycle bin. Then I remembered that I was not in the United States and there are no recycle bins in Mongolia. As an avid recycler, the thought of putting a plastic bottle in a trash can made me feel a bit awkward. So I tried to ignore the bottles. Across the square, I saw a husband and wife picking through the trash cans in search of bottles. Wearing everything they owned, including a winter coat in 60-degree weather, their stained skin and soiled clothes were the familiar dark-brown color created from years of layered dirt, telling a long, arduous, and painful tale. The rice bag he dragged behind him was almost full. I walked around the square collecting bottles until my arms were overflowing – something we volunteer to do at home. I walked over to the husband and unloaded my arms into the rice bag. One of the bottles still had some grape-flavored soda in it. I handed the bottle to him asking, “Is it okay?” (Zugeer uu?) to drink or “No?” (Ugui?) in my one-word, kindergarten Mongolian. I could see a tiny glint in his eyes, and the corners of his lips turned up ever so slightly. He gulped it down. We both thanked each other a few times over, as I was happy to know the bottles would be recycled. Though it is an activity of desperation for them, not choice, I was very glad someone was doing it. I started to walk out of the square. Again, the bottles were everywhere. With another armload, I walked back to the man with the bag. This time he was with his wife. I had found a bottle with some water in it; I handed the bottle to her. Sometimes the trash pickers are aggressive. Often, they are drunk. Almost always, they are adults. In 2004, during my very first week in Mongolia, a man was found dead in the stairwell of my apartment building. He had been beaten to death in a drunken fight over the rights to dig through the building’s dumpster. This couple was not aggressive. They were not drunk. His face was deformed from what looked to be a terrible burn. He was humbled and appreciative – me, the foreigner helping them pick up trash in the middle of the night. She was grateful and ashamed. Both were bewildered, with the same look on their faces I saw so often during my years of delivering clothes ger-to-ger, hand-to-hand. “What? Why? You have come from where? To do this, for me?” I gave them 5,000 togrog. My heart strained as I looked into their eyes for the few seconds they let me hold contact. For her, it was barely a split second.

Indonesia doesn’t even have a southern land border. “Yo, are you ready?” “Am I ready? What do you mean?” (Though provocative, I don’t agree with her assessment, largely because I consider my life to be characterized fundamentally by privilege, and really not at all by anguish.) ⁓The Voice before the Void Escape North to Indonesia: My Dream and Her Interpretation The Voice before the Void

Johnson makes the point well by depicting the Pride of Hell. O War. O War. ⁓The Voice before the Void “And the Greatest of These is War” James Weldon Johnson Around the council-board of Hell, with Satan at their head, The Three Great Scourges of humanity sat. Gaunt Famine, with hollow cheek and voice, arose and spoke,— “O, Prince, I have stalked the earth, And my victims by ten thousands I have slain, I have smitten old and young. Mouths of the helpless old moaning for bread, I have filled with dust; And I have laughed to see a crying babe tug at the shriveling breast Of its mother, dead and cold. I have heard the cries and prayers of men go up to a tearless sky, And fall back upon an earth of ashes; But, heedless, I have gone on with my work. ‘Tis thus, O, Prince, that I have scourged mankind.” And Satan nodded his head. Pale Pestilence, with stenchful breath, then spoke and said,— “Great Prince, my brother, Famine, attacks the poor. He is most terrible against the helpless and the old. But I have made a charnel-house of the mightiest cities of men. When I strike, neither their stores of gold or of grain avail. With a breath I lay low their strongest, and wither up their fairest. I come upon them without warning, lancing invisible death. From me they flee with eyes and mouths distended; I poison the air for which they gasp, and I strike them down fleeing. ‘Tis thus, great Prince, that I have scourged mankind.” And Satan nodded his head. Then the red monster, War, rose up and spoke,— His blood-shot eyes glared ’round him, and his thundering voice Echoed through the murky vaults of Hell.— “O, mighty Prince, my brothers, Famine and Pestilence, Have slain their thousands and ten thousands,—true; But the greater their victories have been, The more have they wakened in Man’s breast The God-like attributes of sympathy, of brotherhood and love And made of him a searcher after wisdom. But I arouse in Man the demon and the brute, I plant black hatred in his heart and red revenge. From the summit of fifty thousand years of upward climb I haul him down to the level of the start, back to the wolf. I give him claws. I set his teeth into his brother’s throat. I make him drunk with his brother’s blood. And I laugh ho! ho! while he destroys himself. O, mighty Prince, not only do I slay, But I draw Man hellward.” And Satan smiled, stretched out his hand, and said,— “O War, of all the scourges of humanity, I crown you chief.” And Hell rang with the acclamation of the Fiends.

A vision of a world in apocalypse. ⁓The Voice before the Void “The Star” H.G. Wells It was on the first day of the New Year that the announcement was made, almost simultaneously from three observatories, that the motion of the planet Neptune, the outermost of all the planets that wheel about the sun, had become very erratic. Ogilvy had already called attention to a suspected retardation in its velocity in December. Such a piece of news was scarcely calculated to interest a world the greater portion of whose inhabitants were unaware of the existence of the planet Neptune, nor outside the astronomical profession did the subsequent discovery of a faint remote speck of light in the region of the perturbed planet cause any very great excitement. Scientific people, however, found the intelligence remarkable enough, even before it became known that the new body was rapidly growing larger and brighter, that its motion was quite different from the orderly progress of the planets, and that the deflection of Neptune and its satellite was becoming now of an unprecedented kind. Few people without a training in science can realise the huge isolation of the solar system. The sun with its specks of planets, its dust of planetoids, and its impalpable comets, swims in a vacant immensity that almost defeats the imagination. Beyond the orbit of Neptune there is space, vacant so far as human observation has penetrated, without warmth or light or sound, blank emptiness, for twenty million times a million miles. That is the smallest estimate of the distance to be traversed before the very nearest of the stars is attained. And, saving a few comets more unsubstantial than the thinnest flame, no matter had ever to human knowledge crossed this gulf of space, until early in the twentieth century this strange wanderer appeared. A vast mass of matter it was, bulky, heavy, rushing without warning out of the black mystery of the sky into the radiance of the sun. By the second day it was clearly visible to any decent instrument, as a speck with a barely sensible diameter, in the constellation Leo near Regulus. In a little while an opera glass could attain it. On the third day of the new year the newspaper readers of two hemispheres were made aware for the first time of the real importance of this unusual apparition in the heavens. “A Planetary Collision,” one London paper headed the news, and proclaimed Duchaine’s opinion that this strange new planet would probably collide with Neptune. The leader writers enlarged upon the topic; so that in most of the capitals of the world, on January 3rd, there was an expectation, however vague of some imminent phenomenon in the sky; and as the night followed the sunset round the globe, thousands of men turned their eyes skyward to see—the old familiar stars just as they had always been. Until it was dawn in London and Pollux setting and the stars overhead grown pale. The Winter’s dawn it was, a sickly filtering accumulation of daylight, and the light of gas and candles shone yellow in the windows to show where people were astir. But the yawning policeman saw the thing, the busy crowds in the markets stopped agape, workmen going to their work betimes, milkmen, the drivers of news-carts, dissipation going home jaded and pale, homeless wanderers, sentinels on their beats, and in the country, labourers trudging afield, poachers slinking home, all over the dusky quickening country it could be seen—and out at sea by seamen watching for the day—a great white star, come suddenly into the westward sky! Brighter it was than any star in our skies; brighter than the evening star at its brightest. It still glowed out white and large, no mere twinkling spot of light, but a small round clear shining disc, an hour after the day had come. And where science has not reached, men stared and feared, telling one another of the wars and pestilences that are fo...

Mother’s Day Special: …until forgotten. ⁓The Voice before the Void “Matilda” Karrie Schaff My name is Matilda Shiff. They used to call me Tilly. I’ve had ten children, and an alcoholic husband. We had hard times, many hard times. I remember giving the kids a nickel the first day of school to purchase three pencils for the year. I remember making him a steak, while the kids and I had pork and beans. I hated when he came home drunk. He would go out by himself and leave his little old wife at home with the children. I remember when they sent Bobby away. They told Raymond to find a job or he’d be next. And I remember little Donny, who always helped with the housework. But now it’s all gone. They put me six feet down and on the brass plate they gave me it says: Matilda Shiff Mother 1913-1978

Battle of Carrhae Anniversary Special: A story of greed, deceit, genius, envy, and deep historical significance. ⁓The Voice before the Void “Battle of Carrhae” Wikipedia The Battle of Carrhae was fought in 53 BCE between the Parthian Empire and the Roman Republic near the town of Carrhae. The Parthian Spahbod (“General”) Surena decisively defeated a numerically superior Roman invasion force under the command of Marcus Licinius Crassus. It is commonly seen as one of the earliest and most important battles between the Roman and Parthian empires and one of the most crushing defeats in Roman history. Crassus, a member of the First Triumvirate and the wealthiest man in Rome, had been enticed by the prospect of military glory and riches and decided to invade Parthia without the official consent of the Senate. Rejecting an offer from the Armenian King Artavasdes II to allow Crassus to invade Parthia via Armenia, Crassus marched his army directly through the deserts of Mesopotamia. His army clashed with Surena’s force near Carrhae, a small town in modern-day Turkey. Despite being heavily outnumbered, Surena’s cavalry completely outmaneuvered the Roman heavy infantry, killing or capturing most of the Roman soldiers. Crassus himself was killed when truce negotiations turned violent. His death led to the end of the First Triumvirate and the resulting civil wars between Julius Caesar and Pompey. 1. Political background in Rome The war in Parthia resulted from political arrangements intended to be mutually beneficial for Crassus, Pompeius Magnus, and Julius Caesar — the so-called First Triumvirate. In March and April 56 BCE, meetings were held at Ravenna and Luca, in Caesar’s province of Cisalpine Gaul, to reaffirm the weakening alliance formed four years earlier. It was agreed that the triumvirate would marshal their supporters and resources to secure legislation for prolonging Caesar’s Gallic command and to influence the upcoming elections for 55 BCE, with the objective of a second joint consulship for Crassus and Pompeius. The leaders of the triumvirate aimed to expand their faction’s power through traditional means: military commands, placing political allies in office, and advancing legislation to promote their interests. Pressure in various forms was brought to bear on the elections: money, influence through patronage and friendship, and the force of a thousand troopers brought from Gaul by Crassus’s son Publius. The faction secured the consulship and most, though not all, of the other offices sought. Legislation passed by the tribune Trebonius (the lex Trebonia) granted extended proconsulships of five years, matching that of Caesar in Gaul, to the two outgoing consuls. The Spanish provinces would go to Pompeius; Crassus arranged to have Syria, with the transparent intention of going to war with Parthia. The notoriously wealthy Marcus Crassus was around sixty and hearing-impaired when he embarked on the Parthian invasion. Greed is often regarded by the ancient sources, particularly his biographer Plutarch, as his major character fault and also his motive for going to war. Historian of Rome Erich Gruen believed that Crassus’s purpose was to enrich the public treasury, since personal wealth was not what Crassus himself most lacked. Other modern historians tend to view envy and rivalry as his motivation, since Crassus’s long-faded military reputation had always been inferior to that of Pompeius, and after five years of war in Gaul, to that of Caesar. His major military achievement had been the defeat of Spartacus nearly 20 years earlier, and before that he had seen limited action, most notably the Battle of the Colline Gate. Plutarch notes that Caesar wrote to Crassus from Gaul, endorsing the plan to invade Parthia — an indication that he regarded Crassus’s military campaign as complementary and not merely riv...

Weirdness and crime and insanity come to a head of horror. ⁓The Voice before the Void “The Repairer of Reputations” from The King in Yellow Robert W. Chambers part 3 III One morning early in May I stood before the steel safe in my bedroom, trying on the golden jewelled crown. The diamonds flashed fire as I turned to the mirror, and the heavy beaten gold burned like a halo about my head. I remembered Camilla’s agonized scream and the awful words echoing through the dim streets of Carcosa. They were the last lines in the first act, and I dared not think of what followed—dared not, even in the spring sunshine, there in my own room, surrounded with familiar objects, reassured by the bustle from the street and the voices of the servants in the hallway outside. For those poisoned words had dropped slowly into my heart, as death-sweat drops upon a bed-sheet and is absorbed. Trembling, I put the diadem from my head and wiped my forehead, but I thought of Hastur and of my own rightful ambition, and I remembered Mr. Wilde as I had last left him, his face all torn and bloody from the claws of that devil’s creature, and what he said—ah, what he said. The alarm bell in the safe began to whirr harshly, and I knew my time was up; but I would not heed it, and replacing the flashing circlet upon my head I turned defiantly to the mirror. I stood for a long time absorbed in the changing expression of my own eyes. The mirror reflected a face which was like my own, but whiter, and so thin that I hardly recognized it. And all the time I kept repeating between my clenched teeth, “The day has come! the day has come!” while the alarm in the safe whirred and clamoured, and the diamonds sparkled and flamed above my brow. I heard a door open but did not heed it. It was only when I saw two faces in the mirror:—it was only when another face rose over my shoulder, and two other eyes met mine. I wheeled like a flash and seized a long knife from my dressing-table, and my cousin sprang back very pale, crying: “Hildred! for God’s sake!” then as my hand fell, he said: “It is I, Louis, don’t you know me?” I stood silent. I could not have spoken for my life. He walked up to me and took the knife from my hand. “What is all this?” he inquired, in a gentle voice. “Are you ill?” “No,” I replied. But I doubt if he heard me. “Come, come, old fellow,” he cried, “take off that brass crown and toddle into the study. Are you going to a masquerade? What’s all this theatrical tinsel anyway?” I was glad he thought the crown was made of brass and paste, yet I didn’t like him any the better for thinking so. I let him take it from my hand, knowing it was best to humour him. He tossed the splendid diadem in the air, and catching it, turned to me smiling. “It’s dear at fifty cents,” he said. “What’s it for?” I did not answer, but took the circlet from his hands, and placing it in the safe shut the massive steel door. The alarm ceased its infernal din at once. He watched me curiously, but did not seem to notice the sudden ceasing of the alarm. He did, however, speak of the safe as a biscuit box. Fearing lest he might examine the combination I led the way into my study. Louis threw himself on the sofa and flicked at flies with his eternal riding-whip. He wore his fatigue uniform with the braided jacket and jaunty cap, and I noticed that his riding-boots were all splashed with red mud. “Where have you been?” I inquired. “Jumping mud creeks in Jersey,” he said. “I haven’t had time to change yet; I was rather in a hurry to see you. Haven’t you got a glass of something? I’m dead tired; been in the saddle twenty-four hours.”

A portrait of weirdness and insanity and horror, indulgence and love, the city in springtime, forbidden knowledge, foreboding. ⁓The Voice before the Void “The Repairer of Reputations” from The King in Yellow Robert W. Chambers part 2 II I climbed the three dilapidated flights of stairs, which I had so often climbed before, and knocked at a small door at the end of the corridor. Mr. Wilde opened the door and I walked in. When he had double-locked the door and pushed a heavy chest against it, he came and sat down beside me, peering up into my face with his little light-coloured eyes. Half a dozen new scratches covered his nose and cheeks, and the silver wires which supported his artificial ears had become displaced. I thought I had never seen him so hideously fascinating. He had no ears. The artificial ones, which now stood out at an angle from the fine wire, were his one weakness. They were made of wax and painted a shell pink, but the rest of his face was yellow. He might better have revelled in the luxury of some artificial fingers for his left hand, which was absolutely fingerless, but it seemed to cause him no inconvenience, and he was satisfied with his wax ears. He was very small, scarcely higher than a child of ten, but his arms were magnificently developed, and his thighs as thick as any athlete’s. Still, the most remarkable thing about Mr. Wilde was that a man of his marvellous intelligence and knowledge should have such a head. It was flat and pointed, like the heads of many of those unfortunates whom people imprison in asylums for the weak-minded. Many called him insane, but I knew him to be as sane as I was. I do not deny that he was eccentric; the mania he had for keeping that cat and teasing her until she flew at his face like a demon, was certainly eccentric. I never could understand why he kept the creature, nor what pleasure he found in shutting himself up in his room with this surly, vicious beast. I remember once, glancing up from the manuscript I was studying by the light of some tallow dips, and seeing Mr. Wilde squatting motionless on his high chair, his eyes fairly blazing with excitement, while the cat, which had risen from her place before the stove, came creeping across the floor right at him. Before I could move she flattened her belly to the ground, crouched, trembled, and sprang into his face. Howling and foaming they rolled over and over on the floor, scratching and clawing, until the cat screamed and fled under the cabinet, and Mr. Wilde turned over on his back, his limbs contracting and curling up like the legs of a dying spider. He was eccentric. Mr. Wilde had climbed into his high chair, and, after studying my face, picked up a dog’s-eared ledger and opened it. “Henry B. Matthews,” he read, “book-keeper with Whysot Whysot and Company, dealers in church ornaments. Called April 3rd. Reputation damaged on the race-track. Known as a welcher. Reputation to be repaired by August 1st. Retainer Five Dollars.” He turned the page and ran his fingerless knuckles down the closely-written columns. “P. Greene Dusenberry, Minister of the Gospel, Fairbeach, New Jersey. Reputation damaged in the Bowery. To be repaired as soon as possible. Retainer $100.” He coughed and added, “Called, April 6th.” “Then you are not in need of money, Mr. Wilde,” I inquired. “Listen,” he coughed again. “Mrs. C. Hamilton Chester, of Chester Park, New York City. Called April 7th. Reputation damaged at Dieppe, France. To be repaired by October 1st. Retainer $500. “Note.—C. Hamilton Chester, Captain U.S.S. ‘Avalanche’, ordered home from South Sea Squadron October 1st.” “Well,” I said, “the profession of a Repairer of Reputations is lucrative.”

Walpurgis Night Special: A story unique and masterfully weird… and our world’s introduction to the King in Yellow. ⁓The Voice before the Void “The Repairer of Reputations” from The King in Yellow Robert W. Chambers part 1 Along the shore the cloud waves break, The twin suns sink beneath the lake, The shadows lengthen In Carcosa. Strange is the night where black stars rise, And strange moons circle through the skies But stranger still is Lost Carcosa. Songs that the Hyades shall sing, Where flap the tatters of the King, Must die unheard in Dim Carcosa. Song of my soul, my voice is dead; Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed Shall dry and die in Lost Carcosa. Cassilda’s Song in “The King in Yellow,” Act i, Scene 2. The Repairer of Reputations I “Ne raillons pas les fous; leur folie dure plus longtemps que la nôtre…. Voila toute la différence.” Toward the end of the year 1920 the Government of the United States had practically completed the programme, adopted during the last months of President Winthrop’s administration. The country was apparently tranquil. Everybody knows how the Tariff and Labour questions were settled. The war with Germany, incident on that country’s seizure of the Samoan Islands, had left no visible scars upon the republic, and the temporary occupation of Norfolk by the invading army had been forgotten in the joy over repeated naval victories, and the subsequent ridiculous plight of General Von Gartenlaube’s forces in the State of New Jersey. The Cuban and Hawaiian investments had paid one hundred per cent and the territory of Samoa was well worth its cost as a coaling station. The country was in a superb state of defence. Every coast city had been well supplied with land fortifications; the army under the parental eye of the General Staff, organized according to the Prussian system, had been increased to 300,000 men, with a territorial reserve of a million; and six magnificent squadrons of cruisers and battle-ships patrolled the six stations of the navigable seas, leaving a steam reserve amply fitted to control home waters. The gentlemen from the West had at last been constrained to acknowledge that a college for the training of diplomats was as necessary as law schools are for the training of barristers; consequently we were no longer represented abroad by incompetent patriots. The nation was prosperous; Chicago, for a moment paralyzed after a second great fire, had risen from its ruins, white and imperial, and more beautiful than the white city which had been built for its plaything in 1893. Everywhere good architecture was replacing bad, and even in New York, a sudden craving for decency had swept away a great portion of the existing horrors. Streets had been widened, properly paved and lighted, trees had been planted, squares laid out, elevated structures demolished and underground roads built to replace them. The new government buildings and barracks were fine bits of architecture, and the long system of stone quays which completely surrounded the island had been turned into parks which proved a god-send to the population. The subsidizing of the state theatre and state opera brought its own reward. The United States National Academy of Design was much like European institutions of the same kind. Nobody envied the Secretary of Fine Arts, either his cabinet position or his portfolio. The Secretary of Forestry and Game Preservation had a much easier time, thanks to the new system of National Mounted Police. We had profited well by the latest treaties with France and England; the exclusion of foreign-born Jews as a measure of self-preservation, the settlement of the new independent negro state of Suanee, the checking of immigration, the new laws concerning naturalization,

Walpurgis Night Special: …out there in the dark. ⁓The Voice before the Void “Legend tripping” Wikipedia Legend tripping is a name recently bestowed by folklorists and anthropologists on an adolescent practice (containing elements of a rite of passage) in which a usually furtive, nocturnal pilgrimage is made to a site that is alleged to have been the scene of some tragic, horrific, and possibly supernatural event or haunting. To date, the practice has been documented most thoroughly in the United States. Sites for legend trips While the stories that attach to the sites of legend tripping vary from place to place, and sometimes contain a kernel of historical truth, there are a number of motifs and recurring themes in the legends and the sites. Abandoned buildings, remote bridges, tunnels, caves, rural roads, specific woods or other uninhabited areas, and especially cemeteries are frequent sites of legend-tripping pilgrimages. Some places associated with legend tripping in the United States include the Waverly Hills Sanatorium in Louisville, Kentucky; the New Jersey Pine Barrens, said to be home to the Jersey Devil; Mudhouse Mansion in Fairfield County, Ohio; the Hornet Spook Light twelve miles southwest of Joplin, Missouri; Stull Cemetery in Stull, Kansas, claimed to be a “gateway to Hell”; Bunny Man Bridge in Clifton, Virginia; and the Devil’s Tramping Ground south of Siler City, North Carolina, near Harper’s Crossroads. Reactions and controversies Legend-tripping is a mostly harmless, perhaps even beneficial, youth recreation. It allows young people to demonstrate their courage in a place where the actual physical risk is likely slight. However, in what Bill Ellis calls “ostensive abuse,” the rituals enacted at the legend-tripping sites sometimes involve trespassing, vandalism, and other misdemeanors, and sometimes acts of animal sacrifice or other blood ritual. These transgressions then sometimes lead to local moral panics that involve adults in the community, and sometimes even the mass media. These panics often further embellish the prestige of the legend trip to the adolescent mind. The panic over youth Satanism in the 1980s was fueled in part by graffiti and other ritual activities engaged in by legend-tripping youths. In at least one notorious case, years of destructive legend-tripping, amounting to an “ostensive frenzy,” led to the fatal shooting of a legend-tripper near Lincoln, Nebraska followed by the wounding of the woman whose house had become the focus of the ostension.

Walpurgis Night Special: From autumn into spring, perfect weirdness from the regent of reality-challenging stories, Philip K. Dick. ⁓The Voice before the Void “Of Withered Apples” Philip K. Dick Something was tapping on the window. Blowing up against the pane, again and again. Carried by the wind. Tapping faintly, insistently. Lori, sitting on the couch, pretended not to hear. She gripped her book tightly and turned a page. The tapping came again, louder and more imperative. It could not be ignored. “Darn!” Lori said, throwing her book down on the coffee table and hurrying to the window. She grasped the heavy brass handles and lifted. For a moment the window resisted. Then, with a protesting groan, it reluctantly rose. Cold autumn air, rushed into the room. The bit of leaf ceased tapping and swirled against the woman’s throat, dancing to the floor. Lori picked the leaf up. It was old and brown. Her heart skipped a beat as she slipped the leaf into the pocket of her jeans. Against her loins the leaf cut and tingled, a little hard point piercing her smooth skin and sending exciting shudders up and down her spine. She stood at the open window a moment, sniffing the air. The air was full of the presence of trees and rocks, of great boulders and remote places. It was time—time to go again. She touched the leaf. She was wanted. Quickly Lori left the big living-room, hurrying through the hall into the dining-room. The dining-room was empty. A few chords of laughter drifted from the kitchen. Lori pushed the kitchen door open. “Steve?” Her husband and his father were siting around the kitchen table, smoking their cigars and drinking steaming black coffee. “What is it?” Steve demanded, frowning at his young wife. “Ed and I are in the middle of business.” “I—I want to ask you something.” The two men gazed at her, brown-haired Steven, his dark eyes full of the stubborn dignity of New England men, and his father, silent and withdrawn in her presence. Ed Patterson scarcely noticed her. He rustled through a sheaf of feed bills, his broad back turned toward her. “What is it?” Steve demanded impatiently. “What do you want? Can’t it wait?” “I have to go,” Lori blurted. “Go where?” “Outside.” Anxiety flooded over her. “This is the last time. I promise. I won’t go again, after this. Okay?” She tried to smile, but her heart was pounding too hard. “Please let me, Steve.” “Where does she go?” Ed rumbled. Steve grunted in annoyance. “Up in the hills. Some old abandoned place up there.” Ed’s gray eyes flickered. “Abandoned farm?” “Yes. You know it?” “The old Rickley farm. Rickley moved away years ago. Couldn’t get anything to grow, not up there. Ground’s all rocks. Bad soil. A lot of clay and stones. The place is all overgrown, tumbled down.” “What kind of farm was it?” “Orchard. Fruit orchard. Never yielded a damn thing. Thin old trees. Waste of effort.” Steve looked at his pocket watch. “You’ll be back in time to fix dinner?” “Yes!” Lori moved toward the door. “Then I can go?” Steve’s face twisted as he made up his mind. Lori waited impatiently, scarcely breathing. She had never got used to Vermont men and their slow, deliberate way. Boston people were quite different. And her group had been more the college youths, dances and talk, and late laughter. “Why do you go up there?” Steve grumbled. “Don’t ask me, Steve. Just let me go. This is the last time.” She writhed in agony. She clenched her fists. “Please!”

Columbine High School Shooting Anniversary Special: Their children murdering themselves and being murdered by firearms in their schools is such a fixture of U.S. life that the Americans routinely consume songs about the subject on their radios. ⁓The Voice before the Void Better Run: U.S. School Shootings, 1991-2014, and 3 Songs: “Jeremy” by Pearl Jam, “Youth of the Nation” by P.O.D., and “Pumped Up Kicks” by Foster the People Data from the Wikipedia incomplete “List of school shootings in the United States”: 1991 4 school shootings, with 1 person injured and 8 people killed 1992 4 school shootings, with 15 people injured and 8 people killed The single “Jeremy” by the band Pearl Jam was released 1992 September 27. On the U.S. Billboard charts, it reached #79 on the Hot 100 chart, #5 on the Modern Rock chart, and #5 on the Mainstream Rock chart. “Jeremy” Eddie Vedder At home, drawing pictures of mountain tops With him on top Lemon yellow sun, arms raised in a V And the dead lay in pools of maroon below Daddy didn’t give attention To the fact that mommy didn’t care King Jeremy the wicked Ruled his world Jeremy spoke in class today Clearly I remember picking on the boy Seemed a harmless little fuck Oh, but we unleashed a lion Gnashed his teeth and bit the recess lady’s breast How could I forget? And he hit me with a surprise left My jaw left hurting, dropped wide open Just like the day Like the day I heard Daddy didn’t give affection And the boy was something that mommy wouldn’t wear King Jeremy the wicked Ruled his world Jeremy spoke in class today Try to forget this Try to erase this from the blackboard 1993 6 school shootings, with 6 people injured and 7 people killed 1994 4 school shootings, with 4 people injured and 5 people killed 1995 4 school shootings, with 4 people injured and 5 people killed 1996 6 school shootings, with 5 people injured and 11 people killed 1997 5 school shootings, with 16 people injured and 9 people killed 1998 6 school shootings, with 38 people injured and 12 people killed 1999 5 school shootings, with 33 people injured and 16 people killed 2000 4 school shootings, with 2 people injured and 4 people killed 2001 4 school shootings, with 19 people injured and 3 people killed The single “Youth of the Nation” by the band P.O.D. was released 2001 December 25. On the U.S. Billboard charts, it reached #28 on the Hot 100 chart, #18 on the Top 40 Mainstream chart, #6 on the Mainstream Rock chart, and #1 on the Modern Rock chart. “Youth of the Nation” Sonny Sandoval, Marcos Curiel, Traa Daniels, and Wuv Bernardo Last day of the rest of my life I wish I would have known ’cause I’d have kissed my momma goodbye I didn’t tell her that I loved her or how much I cared Or thank my pops for all the talks and all the wisdom he shared Unaware, I just did what I always do Everyday the same routine before I skate off to school But who knew that this day wasn’t like the rest Instead of taking the test, I took two to the chest Call me blind, but I didn’t see it coming And everybody was running But I couldn’t hear nothing except Gun blast, it happened so fast I didn’t really know this kid though I sat by him in class

Springtime Special: Gone and gone for evermore. ⁓The Voice before the Void “Song of a Second April” Edna St. Vincent Millay April this year, not otherwise Than April of a year ago, Is full of whispers, full of sighs, Of dazzling mud and dingy snow; Hepaticas that pleased you so Are here again, and butterflies. There rings a hammering all day, And shingles lie about the doors; In orchards near and far away The grey wood-pecker taps and bores; The men are merry at their chores, And children earnest at their play. The larger streams run still and deep, Noisy and swift the small brooks run. Among the mullein stalks the sheep Go up the hillside in the sun, Pensively, —only you are gone, You that alone I cared to keep.

Springtime Special: A poet’s everlasting lament. ⁓The Voice before the Void “Joy of the Morning” Edwin Markham I hear you, little bird, Shouting a-swing above the broken wall. Shout louder yet: no song can tell it all. Sing to my soul in the deep, still wood: ‘Tis wonderful beyond the wildest word: I’d tell it, too, if I could. Oft when the white, still dawn Lifted the skies and pushed the hills apart, I’ve felt it like a glory in my heart– (The world’s mysterious stir) But had no throat like yours, my bird, Nor such a listener.

Springtime Special: The arrival of spring is ever of note. ⁓The Voice before the Void “Biking in the Spring” Steve Kosbab Rolling out the wheels after a winter’s rest, Inspecting all to make sure it is right. Jumping on the seat, Gripping the handlebars, testing the brakes. Then, wow! I’m off, like a dragracer or derby horse just Out of the gate. The wind in my face, the fresh spring air Through my lungs. The sun on my back. Speeding, swaying, swerving Right into a puddle, and down. Back on my bike, Riding on into summer Where there are no puddles.