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ARCHIVE -- CHARGEUSSE

FIRST ISSUE
FALL 2011

SECOND ISSUE
SPRING 2012

THIRD ISSUE
SPRING 2013

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Solidus Online



Aaron Records

XXVIII

Yggdrasil – the Tree of Life –
Is here upon my wall,
Shifting in shape – so, so small –
Gone without a trace.

My Hand shows up on the wall –
Transcends all fixed form –
Presence being to adorn,
But there’s only space.

Light flickers – veers to the right,
Sounds of a passing –
Both Hand and Tree try to fight
But fall from wall’s grace.

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Cephalopods

“Androgynous octopi,” he says. “They’re a bitch ta wrestle…”
“Where did you find something like that?”
“Up there.” He points up.
“Up there?”
“Up there, sonny.” He takes a breath and spits his dip into a pan nearby. “Ya know what’s up there, boy?”
I shake my head.
Adding more dip to his lip, he says, “Up there’s where I go fishin’. A giant pond’s all. But only now an’ then – gotta give a man a break, y’know. It’s a long ways.”
“How do you get up there?”
“A while back a saucer felled inta my ya’d here; I use that ta get ta the deepest wata.”
“Wata?”
“Wa-ter to you, city boy. You ain’t been here long ‘nough yet. But I get myself near Betelgeuse usually. That’s a giant sun, sonny.”
“Like that one?” I point to the Sun.
“Like that one, but they got a difference: that sun’s smaller and less wa’m than Betelgeuse. Betelgeuse’s big an’ white-blue. Ya can’t see it ‘cause this small sun keeps it from ya.” He stands up out of his rocking chair and wipes his grey brow, spitting into the pan again. It’s full to overflowing with the brown slim. “Ah… that feels good on the legs, I tell y’what. Come here, boy; stop standin’ on them steps.”
The porch wood creaks as I amble to where he leans on the railing. The wood is old and grey, just like the man.
“Ya see them there weeds, over there, by that damned shed?” He motions toward a small, worn down shed with black dead vines covering it. I can’t see where the door is. The only thing I can see is a window, shattered with glistening bluish shards and blackness beyond. “That’s where the saucer is. Drinks fuel like a turbine! I’d show it ta ya, y’know, but I’m not sure if I can trust ya.”
The railing croaks at his arm.
“You can trust me,” I say.
“Oh, can I, bud?”
“Yeah, you can, sir.”
The sun bites my eyes as he moves back to his chair. He lights a Camel with a match, asks me if I want a toke, then snuffs it out on his house’s splintered siding as if he never asked. There’s a black blotch from the repetition.
“Nah. There ain’t nuthin’ there, boy.” He grins like a horse. “But them weeds ain’t got no saucer in them. Nope – they’re just seaweed, ya understand?”
I didn’t understand.
“Oh, I guess it don’t matter, boy. Ya wait long ‘nough an’ an androgynous octopus’ll swoop on by, maybe wrestle ya all the way ta Betelgeuse. They come in flocks for me, like small white clouds, wrap around me till I can’t move. But I always escape by retreating ta the big pond – ta go fishin’.” He looks to the sky. “I don’t think ‘pus wrestling is like fishin’. I can’t relax ‘round no octopi. They stink and leave terrible ink near here sometimes.” He eyes the house’s charred siding and turns hesitantly to look through the broken window. His eyes dilate. “I hate them. They hate me too. But I hate them more. It can hurt sometimes, sonny.”
I’m back near the steps. “Why would I or anyone wait to get hurt, sir?” I asked.
“How old are ya, boy?”
“Six and a half, sir.”
“Ain’t you a young un! My Lord, so young!”
Blood rushes to my face as he laughs.
“You’re too young ta understand, sonny.”
“How do you know that?”
“’Cause I’m too young ta understand, and I’m going on seventy-two, little man!”
“Oh.”
He asks me if I want some chew. I say No thanks. The sound of tires on gravel reaches us. It must be Mom searching for me. I look to the road and sure enough I see her car. I look back to the man. His face is a grimace – a little dribble of dip rolls out from his lip and off his chin onto his twitching hand.
He starts muttering, “Oh… no… no… no… No, No, No, NO NO NO!” He screams and shakes.
My Mom pulls up and shouts, “Brandon! Come here right now! Get away from that man!”
She seems mad, so I choose to obey – I don’t want trouble. But she doesn’t give me that choice. She sprints to the porch steps and grabs me, picking me up and placing me against her shoulder. As she turns to run away I can see him and his large white-blue eyes staring at me in fear, unmoving.
Mom ran me back to the car and tossed me in the back. I immediately get on my knees and look out the rear window at the man.
Then I saw them, spouting blackness – a flock of white octopi descending upon him.

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Aaron Records

is currently a creative writing major and philosophy minor at Colby-Sawyer College in New London, New Hampshire, USA. He focuses on writing prose, including essays, fiction and philosophical dialogues, and on occasion writes poetry. His essay on Joseph Conrad has been published in a Yearbook of Conrad Studies (vol. VII 2012) by the Jagiellonian U in Krakow, Poland.