Winter 2013

Editors

Editor-in-Chief

The New World Oceania

Prose Editor

Aquitayne

Cover Art

Upside Down Girl – The Merchant Republics

The NationStates Improviser

Winter 2013 Table of Contents

Fiction A Previous Engagement..........................................................5 Xoriet

13.13.13. ..................................................................................8 New World Oceania

Cacti Underfoot…………………………………………………………….11 New World Oceania

Poetry Recursion…............................................................................14 Page

Night Sky……………………………………………………………………..15 Bodobol

Kiss of Clarity……………………………………………………………….16 Page

Visual Art Auschwitz……………………………………………………………………..4 Nazi Flower Power

Karina………………………………………………………………………….13 Tippercommon

Upside Down Girl………..…………………………………………………1 Merchant Republics

Fiction

“Auschwitz” Nazi Flower Power Ballpoint on Scrap Paper

A Previous Engagement Xoriet

Fiction Finalist

Upon entry Zavod eyed her as one might eye a purchase, an undisguised want in his gray eyes. She had to repress a gentle shudder at the expression on his ill-featured face. He seemed as if he was trying to make an impression by standing silently with that same attempt at a dignified pose – and failing quite miserably. The mustard-yellow silk with a sash of golden velvet wrapped once about the Val’s thick stomach ruined any chance of impressing her. Ariyala smiled tolerantly even as she wished that he would spontaneously combust on the spot. Such an end for this repulsive man was more than suitable. “I was pleased that your father accepted my offer,” he said after an extended, awkward silence. His conversation was as gauche and heavy-handed as his silence. “My father was overjoyed to receive an offer as generous as yours,” she replied coolly. He prefers to wait until the price is right. Zavod’s expression tinged with uncertainty as he processed her words. “Do you not approve?” Ariyala smiled again with false warmth. “How could I disapprove of a choice my father has made?” she asked sweetly. “Such things are not done, Your Imperial Highness.” “You have perfect obedience,” the Val said thoughtfully, his eyes alight. “You will be an ideally passive display at my side, perhaps better than my own mother. And your position will make you a worthwhile asset indeed.” It was fortunate that she had perfected the mask which kept her disgust and outrage at the remark from exposure. He openly referred to her as nothing more than an object. “Now, Ariyala, I have summoned a meal to my quarters. You are fond of fruit, according to your father. I took the liberty of arranging for such dishes to be served alongside my own favorites.” You take more liberties than that, she thought disdainfully. If you are saying my name without asking my permission you must be truly contemptible to women. “How very thoughtful of you,” Ariyala said flatly. “You have my compliments on your generosity, Your Imperial Highness.” “Indeed, quite a purchase,” Zavod mused, his gaze greedy as he studied her features. Her false smile dimmed. “I would appreciate it if Your Highness did not refer to me as an object,” she informed him. He shrugged, plainly unconcerned by her opinion. “All women are ornaments to flatter a man. You are my woman, which raises you above other creatures of your gender.” Ariyala knew that her mask was fully intact, but she wished even a glimmer of her contempt would show through and discourage the Val. “As it pleases you, Your Highness.” “You do,” he assured her with a disgusting leer. A trio of servants brought in the meal. Ariyala looked at the selection and nearly gagged with revulsion. Like many of the peoples of Xoriet, she was not fond of meat, particularly not that of livestock. He had selected almost every meat dish imaginable. Zavod had allowed for two fruit salads, the variety of which was evidence that he had bought only the most expensive fare he could manage to acquire. Was he trying to impress her by displaying his wealth? Ariyala did not touch her food. Those unholy thoughts of his regarding her person erased what little appetite she had possessed in the first place. “I suppose we are well enough acquainted to move on to the next stage,” he decided after several minutes of one-sided attempts at conversation. Zavod rose to his feet and moved around the table towards her. “It is time that we should formalize this with the method of breaking in a woman for the use of a man.” That did it. Ariyala’s hand closed about the hilt of the knife to the right of her spotless plate. As he approached, unaware of his mortal danger, she stood and smiled brilliantly at him. “Goodbye,” she said, her tone as deceptively smooth as poisoned honey. He appeared puzzled at the word even as he reached for her.

Without hesitation she plunged the dinner knife into his chest with all of her strength, stabbing up under his breastbone to his heart underneath. She twisted the blade mercilessly until she was certain that she had penetrated his vitals. He opened his mouth uselessly several times. As the red waves of her righteous fury subsided, Ariyala stared first at his shocked face and then at the knife clenched in her fist. She could not move her gaze from the sight of the knife she had thrust into the heart of the Val of the Empire. A small amount of blood had trickled down the blade from his wound to drip to the priceless mauve carpets at his feet. She had just performed a deed that would change more than her own future. This would affect the entire Empire, not just her life. The reality of her situation left her gasping. During her time of unthinking panic she entirely missed the door to the apartment opening. “He died already?” said a slightly disappointed voice from the entrance. “What a shame. I was rather hoping that would see his last moments.” Her blue eyes snapped towards the threshold of the doors, her heart in her throat. Standing in the threshold was the last remaining son of Kath Zoreth, Zandion Beralis. The prince looked as if he would have been annoyed if he was not so amused. As always, she could not help but compare the two brothers in terms of appearance. Zavod Beralis was short, barely taller than Ariyala herself, unremarkable of feature or coloring, and verging on portly. His eyes were a plain medium gray, his skin sallow and drawn. His eyebrows were bristling and unkempt. The Val’s black hair was faded in color with gray at the temples. Zandion Beralis was eighteen to Zavod’s forty-two years. The younger prince was tall and slim in comparison. His eyes were a brilliant emerald green stood out against his fair complexion, and his striking face was framed by abundant black curls. “I–” she started as she attempted to verbally acknowledge the full imports of her crime. Now she would be executed at the tender age of seventeen for murder, set to execution by a furious Kath. Despite the icy dread that weighed her body down, Ariyala could not bear to be seen as if she had not acted willingly. She could simply not allow herself to seem lesser, even in the face of utter disaster. So she straightened and assumed a proud expression. “I have ended the life of the Val of the Empire of Xoriet.” “I can see that,” Zandion said admiringly, apparently disregarding the hard fact that she had forgotten to bow in his presence. “Well done, Lady Ariyala.” She looked intently at him. “You know my name, Your Imperial Highness?” He grinned lazily at her, his green eyes bright. “Of course I do. I didn’t spend all week arranging to poison Zavod on this particular night without reason. My Lady, if you look carefully at the food before him, you will see that there is a slight discoloration between the sweet vinegar sauce on his salad and the sauce of yours.” Ariyala controlled herself with the supreme composure that was the result of years of training under the tutelage of her late mother. “You say that you intended to do away with him tonight? How could you guarantee your success?” Zandion closed the door and leaned back against it with an amused smile. “It is a very potent poison I had specifically created for this purpose and then delivered here to kill him. I had counted on the fact that Zavod would make himself less than dear to you with his priggish, covetous attitude. Of course, his chauvinistic opinions are unforgivable. Now, I had not considered the notion that you would hate him to the point of blatant murder.” She opened her mouth to argue, but closed it with a frown. “What gives you reason to believe that, Your Imperial Highness?” “Because nobody likes Zavod,” Zandion assured her with the confidence of a beloved prince. “I didn’t believe that an intelligent, cultured lady with a strong will like yours would appreciate being handed over like a sack of potatoes by a greedy parent and then regarded as an object by an old man you are about to be forced without say to marry. Am I right on those counts, Lady Ariyala?” Ariyala did not appreciate his too-accurate analysis of her mind. “And what if I state that your deductions are faulty?” she asked loftily. He smiled at her tone. “If I am wrong, Zavod should have died from my poison, not from the blade of that knife. Your knife. Now, I suggest you step away and hand me the weapon, Lady Ariyala. It is for the best that you are not implicated in this matter. Internal politics involving the death of the princes are very convoluted.”.

Without waiting for her reply he walked forward and gently extricated the knife from her grip. She relinquished it with reluctance. Zandion looked at his brother and a flash of satisfaction crossed his face. Zavod was on his knees in the same place where he had been impaled. His dull gray eyes were glazed and unseeing in death. She saw by Zandion’s savage pleasure that the dead man had offended him greatly. “Why are you so pleased about this?” “He killed our youngest brother in the cradle,” Zandion said in a soft voice, staring hard into his brother’s sightless eyes with cold triumph. “He had Zelloan flayed alive. He pushed Xalrre into a vat of acid. Not pure acid, mind, but one that worked more slowly. I have it on very good terms that Zavod laughed while his younger brother drowned in acid.” Ariyala listened attentively to the story with a measure of morbid fascination. “Did you know,” Zandion said conversationally, “that I designed this poison to make him suffer infinitely greater pain than that of Xalrre and Zelloan?” “No, Your Imperial Highness,” she responded warily. “He was a foul excuse for a human being,” said the last living son and now sole heir of Kath Zoreth Beralis. “But the reprehensible Zavod has died. Now I am the Val, the final prince. This has been a long time in the coming, I must say.” “Who killed the other seven, Your Highness?” asked Ariyala before she could stop herself. “The casualties were all the same, but no-one could pin down the source of their deaths.” Zandion let out a soft snort of laughter as he abruptly kicked his brother’s body off the blade of the knife. “You mean who was responsible?” he said with amusement, wiping the red blade clean on one of the napkins laid on the table. He then carefully removed her fingerprints from the hilt. He dropped the napkin over his brother’s lap and knelt next to the body. The prince took two cloth gloves from his pocket and quickly slipped them over his hands. “Yes,” she said carefully. Carefully he wrapped the stiffening hand of Zavod about the hilt with artful skill and re-inserted the knife into the wound, carefully arranging the body to appear as if he had stabbed himself. When his critical eye was satisfied, he sat back and removed a single cut of melon from the salad with a pair of tongs. He inserted that into Zavod’s gaping mouth. Instantly a foam of red-tinted froth burst from his stiffening lips and the flesh about his mouth blackened. “As you can see,” he said, apparently ignoring her question. The Val carefully took his other hand and placed it on the butt of the hilt, being very careful to arrange the body naturally. “Contact with saliva and blood makes my poison react, enabling me to leave traces on his corpse. Policy says that the investigators do not look closely into the issue. As long as it seems as if I killed him, there will be no further investigation on the matter.” “Why are you protecting me?” she asked suspiciously. “Are you trying to achieve something by keeping my act from the public?” Zandion glanced at her, laughter on his face once more. “Achieve something? Like what, you?” he asked, his light tone deepening with amusement as he spoke. “What use do I have for an unwilling woman, Lady Ariyala? You seem to have mixed the princes up in that pretty head of yours. Zavod is a once-in-a-generation scoundrel. I am not like him.” That took her aback. “I didn’t assume that,” she objected inadequately. He shook his head. “Oh yes, you did, but it’s fine. I killed Zavod for my own gain; or rather, I planned to kill him for the stated reason. It is somewhat disappointing that the brother I really wanted to kill died before I had a chance to dispatch him myself.” She stared at him, but knew that she really was not shocked by this news. “You did it? Within three years?” Zandion rose, removing the black cloth gloves and neatly sealing them up in a plastic bag. “It was so easy to dispose of my elder siblings. I just endeared myself to them, and then arranged it so that each time I killed one, the blame fell to another. They all harbored the desire to kill Zavod, and thus did not think of me. That old man had his uses after all.” Despite the cold, almost threatening way he said that, Ariyala felt a sudden admiration for the young man who had never been afraid to forge his place in the world.

He tucked the gloves into the pocket of his dark green silk slacks. His expression was contemptuous as he looked down at his brother’s corpse once more. “I so hope that you do enjoy Eternal Chaos, Zavod.” “You know why I killed him, yes?” Ariyala said, shocking herself by speaking in such a calm voice and with steady determination. She was also quite rattled by his casual mention of Eternal Chaos as if it was not the worst punishment a Xorietian could inherit. “We’ve established that,” Zandion said, stepping quite deliberately on his brother’s body as he moved towards the exit. He paused briefly and ground in his heel as a final conveyance of his contempt and hatred. “Is there something that you wish to add to my conjectures?” Her temper flared briefly, but that calm inner voice still was in control. “I refuse to be a mere ornament by a man’s side.” “Oh?” He sounded as if he was amused again. “I would sooner die than become any man’s decoration,” she stated flatly. He paused at those words and turned back towards her slowly. The emerald eyes that always held at least a hint of mirth were utterly blank of inflection. They locked stares for a moment, his face unreadable, hers calm and proud. “If you refuse to be a decoration to a man, would you prefer to be a force of nature in a nation?” he questioned in an ambiguous tone. “Yes,” her calm voice replied, startling Ariyala as she finally realized what they had been alluding to with their strange dialogue. “I will not be regarded as an object. I am Ariyala of Libella and I refuse to be treated as lesser. You are not the monster your brother was. The Empire is safe with you at its head.” Zandion studied her with an interest he had not displayed before. “Then answer this question, Lady Ariyala of Libella. You blatantly rejected the hand of my brother. Technically you didn’t have a say at that time. Will you then accept mine? Yes or no, the choice is entirely yours. Ah, but you will have to accept it on the condition that you don’t stab me with a dinner knife, as that would be relatively inconvenient for the Empire.” “I will – accept, that is,” she said, her face finally relaxing into a smile of her own. “I can guarantee that I won’t stab you in a sudden flare of temper…or at all. You aren’t at all like your brother, Your Highness.” “Half-brother, actually,” he corrected in passing, but there was a wry note in his tone as he continued on. “You know, I had not thought in any form that I would leave this room as an engaged man. Certainly I did not imagine that I would leave engaged to the woman my ugly old brother wanted. I should have planned for every eventuality, I suppose, but then again, I had not considered getting married at my age. Oh well.” Ariyala accepted the arm he offered. “Oh well,” she agreed

13.13.13. The New World Oceania

"I know how it ends," she says, placing the book on a table before us. The Great American Pageant reads on the cover, and I look up to catch her eyes, arguably blue, drifting away from what might be a glance in my direction. I can't tell if they're blue, of course – the eyes are partly concealed by her hair, and I'm colorblind. "Enjolras," I say, "where did you find your name?" and Éponine responds for her; "It was under the mattress, just left of a cask of shattered wine bottles." I hold doubt she's being serious, but Enjolras nods, gazing towards the ground. I'm partial to Éponine's response, but I know it's true because I've heard it before, and I'm aware of the necessity because else I might not hear. Elsewhere in the cafe there is a drumbeat beginning, which I am tempted to jest at but I realize that neither Enjolras nor Éponine will hear me over the sound. Enjolras proceeds to stare down and Éponine looks away; I close my eyes and listen to the thudding of the drum machine whose rhythms are driven by the blood jet, and when I open my eyes I am found staring into her's which are now at their bluest, and the beating quickens to the point that I feel such a bray that it must explode from the bronze body it vibrates as it speaks to me: I am, I am, I am. Éponine says something inaudible, and the two of them rise. I can not see Enjolras's eyes but I presume they look elsewhere. She is standing, too, driving me to do the same at which point I stumble, under not any weight but from the balance demanded of my legs, which I may not maintain. Éponine has left the building once I regain balance, through the door which Enjolras now holds. I can not see her eyes, and as I approach she pushes through the doorway as if there is a force to be denied outside. As I pass through I realize there is truth to such a statement; I am shocked by the change of essence outside. It is a different air from what is within, infected not by the breath of e warming but the cries of the cold. No sun redeems them, but they are undeserving of such a thing. We passed the cacti, light enough to be presumed dead but with a sense of life in their mannerism. Éponine, presumably struck with inspiration at this point, turns to me. "Jean! You've left the garden!“ "Does he never leave the garden?" asks Enjolras. I break in before Éponine should speak pseudo-actions to my hand, coming ultimately to my regret in my momentary lapse of orality. "It's crowded. A bit, out there.“ Éponine mouthed the words out there, glancing at me cynically. This was a sadistic attempt, at best, to cure me of social ineptitude. "I stay there," I said, now more confidently improvising, "because I don't need to be anywhere else. I don't need to bother with anyone outside, either.“ Enjolras said nothing, and there was silence for a moment, distant from any echoing wails but broken by Éponine. "Do you cartwheel away at the day's close?“ "Indubitably," someone said. The library is no grand structure, a flat roof covering its two stories, excepting peculiarity that the second has no stairway leading to it. The windows, however, exhibit the insinuation of another floor, one of shelves filled with books read only by vandals managing to scale the walls by night. Within the library, there is a scent of dampened pages and the garden I previously resided in. On this entrance, I have passed Enjolras through the doors, which I immediately regret, and prior I could turn to assure my sight she was here was I caught by the librarian, staring through me with an expression harder than the counter which she stood behind, and I knew — through her eyes, a sharp brown which cornered dilated pupils — that her thought were but an enunciation of my own. I had left Enjolras in the cold, hadn't I? I'd left her with the screaming, the pain, with the walls of sculptures and resoundingly closing footsteps of murderers; a serial killer named Fois. Éponine approached me at my back once I had turned to face the doors. Enjolras swung open the door. Reaching into her satchel, she made her way to a table saying "Come here." Éponine followed immediately but I, overcome with the prospect of having left someone — at that Enjolras — in such a place, could not move. I glanced towards the librarian again, but she was gone. At the table, Éponine beheld a sheet of paper as if it was the Ark of the Covenant, and Enjolras leaned back. "What–“

"A poem," said Éponine. "Do you know Grantaire?" asked Enjolras. I shook my head to a side, and Éponine cut my actions short again, although Enjolras held her glance on me. "Is this about him?" she asked. "It's about her," Enjolras said. "Who is h– Who are they?" I despised the repressive mellowness of my now lackluster euphemism; the language's lack of a gender neutral term of singular form seemed existing solely to depreciate my attempts. "Grantaire," said Éponine. "We dated once," completed Enjolras. "Did you?" asked Éponine, apparently surprised but perhaps sarcastic. "Did you?" I reiterated. Enjolras smiled, but her lips turned down as she began speaking. "Yes, two years. For three, maybe. And she was done, and I'm to blame for that.“ "Enjolras!" cried Éponine, whom I half expected to embrace Enjolras, whom I entirely expected to burst into tears were her eyes such a blue. "It isn't your fault at all! I hadn't even known this.“ Enjolras grinned. "Hadn't you?" Éponine desisted amusement, but Enjolras proceeded. "It is me. I couldn't love her. I told her that very blatantly.“ "And could you?" I asked. "I could have, I'm sure, but I chose not to. She regrets it, I think.“ "She regrets it," I murmured. "She regrets it? What is it?“ Before Enjolras spoke, or could Éponine speak for her, the defender of time struck the walls, and a ringing sang from the clock standing upstairs. "Let's go," said Enjolras. "Wait," I said, gesturing towards the poem. "What about this?" "Keep it," said Enjolras, walking further away. "I have more. "No," I said. "This stanza, is it necessary?" Enjolras turned to stare at me as if I had suggested we consult a government official for advice. "Necessary? Of course; it makes the transition from one type of despair to another. Of course.“ "Right," I said. Éponine was silent as we left the library, and outside she grasped my wrist and began pulling me in the opposite direction of Enjolras. Her eyes were green. A murderer lurked.

Cacti Underfoot The New World Oceania

At a certain garden in Canada, there are plants, green in color. One can not blame them; they are cacti. Such cacti are various shades of green, some looking not even as cacti, but other plants, aloes, perhaps. In all fairness, they may well be aloes. A select few of the cacti are light; some are lighter. Some are far lighter, and some are far, far lighter; some are light to the point that a despicable number of qualifiers should be necessary to describe how light they are. None are dark. The sun is risen, light reflecting on the rocks, and the cacti can not be dark. Being dark is a sin, rivaled only by resistance against the rocks. The cacti do not blame the sun – they have never. The sun has lived longer than have, has seen far more than they have, in its daily rising and falling, and the sun does no evil unto the cacti, which are harmed only by the aloes which tower over them and the rocks which rest underneath. The rocks, hard and solemn, are nothing like the cacti; all pedestrians despise them, the lizards especially. The act of despising is nothing abnormal for the lizards, but the magnitude with which the lizards in the garden hate the rocks is astonishing. This is perhaps best displayed by the lizards' unprovoked tendencies to lie upon the rocks which, in most North American gardens, is considered to be a sign of utterly insulting lackluster courtesy. The lizards occupied the rocks for personal reasons, though the cacti were ever grateful, none the less. The rocks, per the lizards, could surely not continue to oppress the cacti in any manner, without the ability to move and disturb the soil, or hold heat where cold was needed. The aloes, however, projected their wrath towards the cacti moreso. Aloe plants are unlike cacti: firstly, they do not grow naturally; they are placed, by man, in locations to effectively oppress the cacti, wiping out wind and sun in place of poorly disguised plants of darker shades. What is worse is that the aloes die frequently, themselves objects of the oppression of man to be placed in such dire conditions. When the aloes died, they would transfer their power: the largest aloe presumed the patriarchal plant, his death would cause for great moaning and arguments among the aloes as to who would take his position (though the cacti lacked realization that the aloes had issues of their own). As far as the cacti could tell, the aloes were placed to silence the shouts of the cacti. Furthermore, the humans had failed. Consistently. Consistently, because consistently would the cacti consistently maintain consistent shouts, and they protested, daily as their occupation and by evenings as their hobby. They protested towards all which they could — the automobiles, which jested as they passed by, and the sky, which failed to give any means of redemption. The latter was a questionable choice of protest, as to face it was not only to face towards the sun, the giver of life, but also towards the aloes, though they were to ignorant to note the rioting cacti. As they would protest towards the sky in a particular November, however, the cacti began to note a change, and their riots dissipated into whispers amongst eachother. Plumes, painting the sky gray gave rise to the cacti's' final resistance. On the day which the sky grew to its murkiest point, and the heat dispersed for its annual escape, five of six aloe plants died. The cacti saw a sign from a yet unpraised goddess that now was the time to move. The men saw that pesticide had made the garden uninhabitable for plant life. The lizards died with the departure of cacti. Three-hundred and fifty-six meters away from this cacti garden, there is a sculpture garden. It is on fire. No human particularly seems to mind, in part because the fire does not affect them, otherwise because they have chosen to ignore the wails rising from it. Birds passing by, these ones irregulars of the area, sight the mist which rises indiscriminately of any wind, and they soar into it to be blinded, and then scorched, not by flames, but by ignorance, and not by their own ignorance, but the ignorance of the sculptures. The sculptures have been weeping since they learned of the fire, and in their weeping can no true fire be pinpointed. There is a fire, however, they say, And it is burning; Melting us away. The sculptures have been known to riot when they break from their melancholy, but rather than arguing, they simply exist. "We do," says the second eldest sculpture, a stone man whipping three wax horses, to a blinded bird, "cause issues to the oppression imposed on us, as so long as we are will we weep, and so long as we weep will there be more of us. But we will be made by those they say oppress us; what else shall we do?" "Charge towards them," says the bird, before back flipping into a shredder. The sculpture is apathetic. A tree and its branches, near — but not quite at — the center of the garden, are rustled by the wind. The sculptor works away in one of three buildings. There are said to be three by the sculptures, at least, but this is only another mark of incredibility on behalf of the birds, which could not

believe those saying that there are three buildings when they have clearly seen five. The building the artist works in, where the news sculptures come from (as joyous as they will ever be), is labeled "Building 3." A bicycle tearing in half, the eldest sculpture, should be gone by this point. To-morrow is its seventieth birthday, but at forty years it should have been worn away by the wind. The sculptures argue that he is the eternal manifestation of man in the garden, though they do not realize that their demises will, too, be delayed. There is no wind to tear the sculptures' flesh away, the latter being blocked by the third building. In the cacti garden, the wind was near continuous. When the cacti moved into the sculpture garden, they have known that have been fantastically successful. Not only have the moved in opposition to man but above all, they have killed the aloes; they must no longer listen to the taunts of the cars, as man, in submission to the cacti, has placed them among the sculpture garden. There is rest among the cacti, but the sculptures, proceeding to wail, mind them less than they would the birds. One cactus, who is somewhat lighter than the average shade of green, shouts to a sculpture nearby. "Are you not glad?" This sculpture was placed seven years ago; it does not look towards the cactus, but responds, faintly, between its wails. "The joyous are blind. They do not see the misinanthropy which we are choiceless in our endurance of." The cactus has never been a sculpture. "The oppression is over, is it not? The aloes are gone – the creations of men are no more!" "Are they?" asks the sculpture. His bronze body echoes with each hesitant word. Another sculpture calls out, her stone eyes boring well beyond the cactus's skin. "There is no redemption for those constructed by their controller. We may be moved, but rarely are. As we struggle, we crack, and so we cease this tomfoolery and weep. There is no redemption for those constructed by their controller, no afterwards for those created by their god," The cacti never spoke again. The sculptor ceased his work. The rocks went with the lizards. The off-center tree began to grow a darker shade of green.

Poetry

“Karina” Tippercommon Digital

Recursion Page

Poetry Finalist

I imagined myself standing between two mirrors In precise alignment and flawless proportion. And I came to believe that the person I saw Was nearly myself but not; it wore subtle distortions. Then I had the thought that in the eyes of the other Were neither mine nor its own but those of another. Those thoughts were the catalyst that began the recursion. So continued the sequence and in each reflection, Changes quite more apparent as the light traveled on. Unrecognizable the innumerable others became Until they were blurs, then a point, and then gone. And if sharper vision could extend their existence Still no light has the time to traverse the great distance Of a universe ever expanding, itself a recursion. For even replicas are which from replicas come. With this understanding, I lost my point of reference To perfection, the infinite, the first and the last. Those words from my mind, an irreversible severance. Now I invite others to stand in that same place And reflect on its nature until their minds erase Any doubt that we are but a single frame within the recursion.

Night Sky Bodobol

As I gaze into your timeless void In which man is both born and destroyed Inside me, a thought stirs anew As I observe your watch over late evening's dew Under you all winters flew And alongside them; the summer sky's blue I must find myself wondering Are they all the same to you? My thoughts have been stored In your eternal lockbox, forgotten Storing within the being, The essence of man I join the collective belonging in solitude Whom, since the dawn, wonder and marvel at you The definition of peace, and that of war Are they both the same to you? Out of you has been birthed Gods of death and gods of mirth Inanimate, yet so deeply alive After you, divinity always strived You are the mother Of both love and murder And still I must wonder Are they the same to you? As I gaze inside your timeless void In which man is both born and destroyed Inside me, a thoughts stirs anew As I observe your watch over late evening's dew

Kiss of Clarity Page

God is the heat, God is the wind A howl through time, waking chaos within The void is the mother, the void is the reaper Sunlight pierces waves but the trenches are deeper, And colder, I told her, To not wish otherwise. For our wishes are earthbound, Melt in front of our eyes. Dissolved, we’re absolved of longing. Even so I embrace with the truest sincerity How welcome to my heart Is this kiss of clarity. My muse falters when the void calls her Yet still she returns to me I hold my breath, tighten up my chest And God comes rushing through me.

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edition of the NationStates Improviser!

About the NS Improviser

The NationStates Improviser is an NS–wide literary magazine and a publication of artists in the Arts and Fiction board on the NS Forums. Created in 2013, The NS Improviser is fueled by a passion for the written word and artistic expression. The NS Improviser is the strongest example of our forum's mission to study and disseminate the crafts of creative writing and visual arts. A staff of scholarly, aspiring, and professional artists compile original work submitted by writers and artists from across the site. We publish four online editions per year, in February, May, August, and November, exhibiting the best art NationStates has to offer. The NationStates Improviser literary magazine accepts original fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, screen writing, plays and visual art from all NS users. We aim to produce four online editions per year, and one full compilation each October/November. We seek original, innovative, creative and nuanced work from around the world. In addition to writing, we accept digital files of visual art including photography, drawing, painting, ceramics, sculpture, mixed media, and printmaking. As long as you can provide a high quality (200 dpi or higher) digital representation of your work, we are open to considering it. The NS Improviser staff will select pieces for publication using the National Council for Teachers of English (NCTE) standards. Simultaneous submissions must be noted and will be accepted at the discretion of the staff. Users may submit up to four pieces.

More Information on the NS Improviser can be found at our thread in the

Arts and Fiction board on the Forums.