The Lexian Reader, March 2013

7/29/2019 The Lexian Reader, March 2013

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T h e L e x i a n R e a d e r | 1

The Lexian ReaderMarch 2013

Volume 1, Issue 2.

edited byNathan Paton


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The Lexian Reader is published as a co-operative art project by

the students of St. Thomas University in Fredericton, New

Brunswick. Its goal is to promote and distribute the work of

STU students in a meaningful way, while allowing students to

gain experience in the realm of publishing.

This document is intended to offer a regular which will

complement existing publications at St. Thomas University.

Any current St. Thomas student is welcome to submit work of any

kind to The Lexian Reader.

Please contact Nathan Paton at [email protected] to

contribute, to pose questions, or to express interest in editing

or collecting works.

The Lexian Readeris currently an independent publishing project

and is in no way affiliated with any aspect of the University.
mailto:[email protected]:[email protected]


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Contents

PoetryAll The Worlds A Stage, Kirk Girouard4

Car Shadows, Kathleen Groves7

Mama, Kathleen Groves8

Short StoriesMarvel, Greg Everett9

The Story of the Bears and the Bandifrigs,

Nathan Paton13

From Atop The Tower of Babel, Greg Everett17

DramaClosed Doors, Andrew Sketchley20

Visual ArtGirl, Chris Brooks26

Untitled Works, Elizabeth Harrison27,28

Words, Katie Clow29


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All the Worlds A Stage

Written by Kirk Girouard

I close my eyes and I am eleven years old again,

trying to ignore my mom again,

when she tries to give some helpful words:All the world's a stage.

It almost works, I ask her to explain, but she says nothing more,

instead pushes me out the door to catch the bus to school.

And I am terrified,fretting, among the lowest feathers on the middle school wing.

Worried,

What if the grade eight giants ask me sing or dance, or say something interesting?

What if?Because charm for me is an impossibility,

Since I am short,

since I am skinny,since I am toyed with often.

because I annoy people often,

scare them off with my lectures on the dangers of swearing And my voice is too tinny:

Swearing is a very very very bad thing

They haven't ever paid attention, so no harm done

But it's like I can't make any noise. No room gives me volume everyone just assumes I have one thing to say:

swearing is a very very very bad thing.

Two years later, I am walking up the stairway to my Grade Eight Home Room.

By now I have hopped up on top of my world

and it is my world!My frail figure can now actually bail me out of bad situations.

I no longer fear the language of my peers.

People can hear me.

I am coming from a drama meeting I am even coming from a drama meeting.

But on the way back to class,I happen to take a few extra laps around the hall,

looking at the artwork tacked to the wall,

asking it about my future.


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Dear Artwork,

Do you know anything at all?

I press, and I press,

But the artwork holds back,teasing me just enough to make me return with more questions.

So I continue to the room, holding the bit of paper, the permission slip

that should assure my teacher that I had been removed from classfor nothing more than an approved meeting...

A stretch of the truth, so I prepare my good-boy 'honesty face

that should sell the 'sincerity' of the permission slip

But my not-so-moved teacher stands at the doorway,

takes one good look at my good-boy 'honesty' face

and saysAll the world's a stage.

I don't get it, but I am intimidated,

So, taking my seat, I listen to less scary things.

By age sixteen,I am spending the few minutes between class time and bus time

bending around people, who are in and out of their the lockers.

I drop in and out of several different character versions of myself,

- one character for every clique -

Until, I finally reach my locker,

only to receive a tap on the shoulder from behind,from some grade nine kid who looks at me and whispers

All the world's a stage.

And for a second or two I am thirteen years old again, three years younger again,for I am shutting up to avoid trouble from my teacher.

Then I come back to reality,

the fourteen year old fool smiles; he walks awaymaking me think.

Making me think

maybe he has answers like the artwork on the wall?

I sit down by my locker.

All the world's a stage.

I ponder until the other kids are gone,


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Mike the janitor suggests I call my mom for a ride home.

All the world's a stage.I think about it -

I have found piles of volume,

people will listen to me in any room.

but I'm a fraud.

And I am for years.

But years later, I start to get it.

If the entire world is often a stage,

Then just as often, it is a front row seat.

Sitting down, I can relax,

Knowing that people are also performing to please me.

Sure, it's insincere...


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Car ShadowsWritten by Kathleen Groves

Tabletop dressed in books, we talk about

the places weve wandered, ran, been, saw,felt.

Butter chicken makes our eyes leak from

spice. You make me nervous.

You tell me youve changed your name;

youre not the same.Figure me out, tell

me more, you dare.

Were so hungry.

You tell me its you and I, but

you need to be

you

and me to beI.

Do you understand? (For you, Imthinking.) Are you OK? What are you

thinking?

My brain is plastered on my face, you

point at it, but you tell me,Its a nice

brain.(Im starting to believe you.)

We abandon life for a bit, sit in yourkitchen and listen: scars and hands and

legs and yesterdays. You tell me, The

cool thing about living downtown ishearing the city wake up. He yawns

outside the window, car-shadows slink

across the ceiling. Rhythmic and un-

rhythmic, we sink.

But itsYou

and

I.


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MamaWritten by Kathleen Groves

Symbiotic organismsclinging, feeding, needing.

A dissonance,a hairline fracture.

But Mama, we reflect!

This cant be.

I feel it in my teeth;

the clench of our truths.

The Monster slept on his couch,

So I left: just like you.

You play Bocelli loudly,

I shut curtains and close windows.

Hairline fractures bend bones,

Doctors say, take a month off.


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Marvel

Written by Greg Everett

It was an hour on foot down the gulch road to the camp. Arlowe stood in the doorway, dripping

with rain, the sound of the downpour behind him eclipsed by the din from the tin roof. He slung

his raincoat onto a hook on the covered porch and sloshed across the room to the pot-bellied

stove. The kindling was stacked and dry and there were long matches in a waterproof container.

He arranged the kindling in a rough log cabin in the stove with paper torn in strips at the center,

old newspapers and catalogues and things. The first match didnt light; he struck it on the rough

black edge of the stove and the head smoked without sparking, but the second flared to life and

stung his nostrils with a burst of sulphur. Touched it to the edge of a strip of paper and the fire

started almost instantly. A stick of kindling caught and he let them all get going and then he put

in a couple of bigger sticks with a split piece of cordwood.

The stove was in the centre of the room and out from the wall a bit so there was space to walk

behind it but not much else. There was a rough frame of iron bars underneath the elbow of the

flue that the kindling was stacked on, and hooks on the wall to hang things for drying. Once the

fire was going and his raincoat had dripped off he hung it there. A pea green thick cushioned

sofa and two matching chairs sat on the left side of the room; they seemed decaying. On the

other side of the room there was an old dining set with a table you could extend by adding leaves

to it, and five chairs. Above the door was mounted a wide rack of antlers; there was another

splayed above the table, and a prodigious mooses head, with a gnarled and broad spread,

occupied the space over the sofa.

His dry clothes were in a bag in one of the bedrooms. Boots and socks, pants, and flannel shirt

he stripped off and left piled by the stove until he had changed. There was a large room along

the back of the cabin with bunks, and a space the same size had been made into two rooms across

the hall; he chose to sleep in the small room that had a window. When he had on dry socks,

trousers, and was buttoning up his shirt, he looked out through the rain at the woodshed and past

it the dripping forest, running in an irregular border around behind the other two cabins that

squatted malignantly between the trees and the riverbank. In the hallway he could still see the

cold, wet footprints he had left preceding him backwards through the door to the steaming

clothes on the floor.

There were books at the camp, and cards, magazines, so that even in the persistent rain there

were things to do. For the most part he sat and thought, the noise from the tin roof comforting in

its negation of the need to listen. He didnt close his eyes but let them wander around the easy,

familiar contours of the furniture, and the simplicity of the cabins cardinal points: the sitting

room, dining room, and kitchen in an L around the bedrooms, the only area that was walled off.

There was a ladder at the end of the sofa up to the quarter-attic, where there were some old


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chests and a wardrobe. The logs of the walls were rough but they had been daubed well so that

no wind blew through and they kept the heat in; it wasnt long before the fire was up, and the

cabin warmed quickly.

A half-century earlier those Black Spruce logs had been living trees, part of the vast

congregation that stretched generally unbroken from the meadows on the edge of the river to themain road, and really on a grander scale straight to the Appalachians. Now felled, hewn, heaped

on top of one another, roofed; a dirt track wide enough for vehicles was cleared, but barely any

ever used it. And though it had been there fifty years, the cabin, which was dark with rain clouds

and the waning day, had been raised next to two others, almost ancient. Almost part of the forest

after all that time; two vast and leafless trunks of trees standing across the clearing.

Later Arlowe turned on the gas lights and range and began to heat some fat in a pan. There was

a refrigerator too that ran on gas, and he took out a brown paper wrapped package. It was deer

steak, a ruddy slab, and when the fat was melted he put it in the pan to let it sizzle. Cooking it

didnt take long. He ate it alone, out of the pan. It was quite dark outside, the windowsmirroring the room so that the cabin seemed to have laid stealthy claim to more ground. There

was plenty of kindling but not much cord wood left, so that as soon as he had eaten and felt that

sense of well-being from having food in his stomach he put his raincoat on to go back outside.

Witch-fire in the black forest; rain. The impenetrable sound of raindrops falling onto leaves,

branches, boughs, the tin roof, the river, the corrugated walls of the woodshed, falling onto

everything. The phosphorescence was enough not for sight but for a general impression of

seeing. Walked around back of the cabin to the shed and even managed the latch without

fumbling. He stacked split pieces of softwood into a canvas bag off the floor and fastened the

latch again behind him. The wind rose and the rain started to lash him so that he wanted to curseit; wanted to, but it felt meaningless there in the dark.

For an instant he felt afraid; not a firing of synapses but a primal consensus of blood, bone, and

muscle, meteoric in duration and intensity; a flash of instinct passed down from the men who had

felt it first, surrounded by primeval forest and battered on all sides by wind and rain. They had

hacked at the woods around them and made a small bastion of warmth and light; now it rotted in

the weird luminescent blackness to his right, but for what he could see there might be anything

there. The only concrete image in that bluster of wind and rain and glowing night was the cabin,

solid and reassuring on his left, struggling to emanate warmth and light but only succeeding to

hold its own against the storm, not push it back.

He put just enough wood in the fire to keep it even, and he stripped off his wet clothes again

without bothering to change into anything else. His two sets of clothes, one damp and one

sopping, were arranged like guests on chairs near the fire. One steamed gently and what the

other one did was imperceptible. The noise of the squall was once again reduced to an anti-

sense; a gentle lulling of the ears and a reminder of the comfort of the cabin, for there is no


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quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. He lay naked, pacified, staring up

at that shaggy mooses head with its affected majesty, its flared nostrils and defiant eyes made

absurd by the shellacked plaque its neck was bolted onto. A small gold plate beneath it was

inscribed MARVEL - 1932: not praise for the animal itself but for the man who had killed it;

Arlowes ancestor, a patriarch.

The killing was less an act of sustenance than it was subjugation, contempt, and desire. Marvel

had found signs of the moose, had stalked it, obliterated its massive hoof prints with his own. He

shot it in the lung as it stood ankle deep in rank water, staring at him neutrally, nonplussed at the

presence of man in the eldritch boreal timber. It kneeled, rasping and heaving, not quite

realizing what had happened, not reacting to the impulses to fight or flee but transfixed by this

man that waded to its side; that thrust his hand between its ribs to squeeze the struggling lung;

that held his face close to its mouth and nose and sucked at the breath and blood and bile.

By superhuman strength and will he hauled the moose out of the muck. He didnt skin or gut it,

but left it at the edge of the foul deadwater while he dug stones from the mud and made a smallpyramid. At its center was a palm-sized black stone from a ceramic case in his pack; it began to

heat the other stones while he broke sticks and branches from the living trees. They smoked and

hissed threateningly when he set them to light on the radiant altar. It was dusk, but suddenly, as

if the sun and the day had been absorbed, or rather eclipsed, by the smoke and the heat from the

stones near the mooses belly. And when the fire was hot, and the stones dug from the muck

were groaning as they cooked, and smoke roiled from the green needles and branches, smoke

which covered the swamp and somehow the whole forest with the trace carbon of its own body;

when it was full inky unnatural night, Marvel put his face to that mooses mouth and nose and

breathed life back into it.

He arrived at the clearing by the river not riding the moose but driving it before him in a mad

frenzy. It stamped up to those cabins, the second of which even then had been laid out and

chinked fifteen years earlier, and the spell seemed broken; it once again collapsed into dead

weight and unnatural angles. He stained the ground with its guts then, split it open and pulled

them out, but kept its organs to prepare later; same the bones, and the hooves. The hide he made

into a great throw rug adorning the single room of the second cabin, which he inhabited; the head

was mounted on the wall. Over time he ate the meat, muscle, bones, and brain; but only over a

great time. By then he hungered less and less, or else his hungers were of a different sort.

The mooses head, a pathetic totem of the forest, mounted and left to stare at the inside of thathovel until its builder no longer returned to it. And then it, along with a sparse few blankets and

implements, were moved into the newest cabin, as had been done too when the second was just

built. Likewise the flesh and blood; transmuted, perhaps, but of the same essence; Arlowe, and

Marvel, and Abraham even before that. Fosters all, a bloodline, with yet another one, Arlowe

this time, fortified against the stormy expanse of night, left to contemplate the works of those

who had come before.


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It was late. The persistence of the weather and the familiarity of his surroundings gave time a

static quality. He decided to go to bed, and stacked up the fire so that it could burn down. The

coals would last overnight. When he had shut out the gas lamps the stove shed enough light to

see by but not enough to cause the windows to reflect; there was still nothing to see outside but

the sheets of rain and the wind as it rippled through them. He threw the bolt on the door and

padded across the cabin, stopping at the stove to bask before finally creeping past the corner of

the wall and into the hallway. He closed the door that opened into the kitchen; the doors of the

two spare bedrooms were already shut. The one with the bunks had never been used, and

probably never would be. The other bedroom hadnt been used for decades.


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The Story of the Bears

and the Bandifrigs

Written by Nathan Paton

The following is an unfinished excerpt.

Long ago, and for as long as time had progressed, the Bears and the Bandifrigs had lived

together happily. The Bandifrigs were tall and elegant creatures, as fragile as they were beautiful,

and they loved to eat the starnuts which grew high upon the cliffs. The Starnuts covered the

cliffs, and thrived on the clean crisp air which blew in high upon the winds. As a result, they

couldnt possibly grow low enough for the Bears to reach them. But the starnuts were tough and

almost impossible to crack; the Bandifrigs couldnt open them on their own. The Bears too lovedto eat the starnuts, and their strong paws made easy work of the nuts. But the starnuts would only

grow high upon the cliffs, and there was no way a Bear could ever climb so high. So together the

Bandifrigs and the Bears were able to collect and eat the starnuts, and either side never had any

want. That is until one day Ursa, the leader of the Bears had an idea. I love the starnuts so

much! He thought. They are just so fresh and tasty. If I were able to get the starnuts on my

own, I wouldnt have to share them with the Bandifrigs.

And so Ursa the Bear set his mind to thinking, in order to devise a scheme to reach the

starnuts without the help of the Bandifrigs. He approached the cliffs, and surveyed his

surroundings. The starnuts were awfully high; and there was no way he could ever climb such asheer cliff. Yet he spied the large boulders lying about at the base of the cliff, and he had an idea.

If I can push these stones to the base of the cliff, Ill be able to reach the Starnuts. So with a

great heave Ursa pushed a large stone across the ground until it laid to rest at the base of the cliff.

With a sly grin on his face he scrambled up the boulder and stood triumphantly upon it. The

smell of the Starnut wafted into his nostrils, and he salivated at the prospect of the treat he was

about to enjoy.

He turned to face the cliff, and saw that the Starnut was just overhead. Ursa reached

upwards with his mighty Bear paws, and shook loose several Starnuts. They fell to the ground

with a thud, and he hurried down after them. Once on the ground he crushed the shell with hispowerful paws and instantly the scent delicious fruit of enraptured him. He quickly devoured one

nut after another until there were none left, and sat in a state of pure bliss, equally satisfied with

his cleverness as he was with his spoils. No Bear had ever enjoyed such a feast of Starnuts, and

Ursa felt he was on to something big.


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He rushed back to the Bears den where he met with and talked to some of the other

Bears, who too felt they needed more starnuts, and didnt want to share with Bandifrigs anymore.

We are so much bigger and stronger! agreed one other Bear. Why should we have to share

with something as helpless as the Bandifrigs? And so the thought went from Bear to Bear, each

one agreeing that the Bears didnt need to help the Bandifrigs anymore. Bears need to put their

own needs in mind! Ursa shouted, and the other Bears roared in agreement.

Meanwhile the Bandifrigs were hard at work near the cliffs, harvesting enough Starnuts

for both Bears and Bandifrigs alike; as winter was coming and there needed to be enough for

everyone. The Bandifrigs were happy to work together with the Bears, as they had always done

so. It would have been impossible for any Bandifrig to ever open a Starnut, as they just didnt

have the strength. Beside this, they were generous creatures who regarded the Bears as friends.

It was as the Bandifrigs worked that the Bears approached the cliffs in a large group,

laughing and cheering as Ursa led the way. Never had the Bears had such a fool proof idea. Why

hadnt they thought of it sooner? Finally they reached the Bandifrigs, and Ursa stepped forwardto share with them the Bears new resolution. Randy, the eldest Bandifrig, stepped forward to

greet the Bears. Hello Ursa my friend! What brings you here on such a fine day? Youll be

happy to see that weve collected lots of delicious Starnuts for the winter! The other Bandifrigs

nodded happily in agreement as Randy spoke. Meanwhile the Bears looked greedily towards the

cliffs as the smell of Starnuts wafted in the breeze.

Ursa looked back towards the Bears, who nodded in approval, and he stepped forward to

speak with Randy. Randy, we Bears have come here today to alert you to our very own great

leap forward. As you surely know, for all time we Bears and Bandifrigs have worked together to

harvest and eat the Starnuts. But as Bears, we must work to ensure our own health, oursurvival!We are not as fragile or delicate as the Bandifrigs! We simply cannot go any longer on such a

meager diet of Starnuts. And as the cliffs supply more Starnuts than either of us could ever eat,

from here on out, we have decided to harvest our own supply! The Bears burst into applause as

Ursa finished his speech, feeling the sense of success which was upon them. The Bandifrigs

meanwhile had stopped what they were doing and had grown still as they Ursas words reached

them.

Randy looked at Ursa with a sense of shock. Surely you must be kidding?! When we

have worked together for so long? We Bandifrigs we could never harvest the Starnuts on our

own! And you Bears how is this possible? Ursa smiled as a feeling of pride gripped him. WeBears are clever and wise. We have found our own way to harvest the Starnuts. Im sorry for any

inconvenience, truly I am. But from here on out, we Bears work alone. With that Ursa turned to

take his leave, and the other Bears followed, leaving Randy speechless in their wake. Shocked,

he turned to the other Bandifrigs who anxiously murmuring to each other behind him. One

particularly worried Bandifrig yelled nervously to Randy. What can we do? What option do we

have?! Were doomed! His anxiety seemed to be shared by all the other Bandifrigs, as his


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questions set the others into a frenzy of panic. Randy interrupted the panic, as he had come to a

decision. My friends! It seems the Bears have chosen to act as they see fit, and as such we are

left with little option! We will find our own way to open the Starnuts, and there will be no

problem!

Randys enthusiasm was contagious, and the Bandifrigs soon forgot their woes. An all-out campaign was launched amongst the Bandifrigs to discover a way to crack the Starnuts, and

each dove into the endeavor wholeheartedly. All initial attempts such as biting, stomping and

dropping proved fruitless, and more creative methods were imagined. The Bandifrigs learned

that dropping a rock did little to damage the fruit, nor did throwing them over the cliff. Banging

two together had no effect whatsoever.

Meanwhile, Ursa and the other Bears had enjoyed much initial success in the Starnut

harvest, and all had eaten like kings. No other time in Bear history could rival the sheer pleasure

those Bears enjoyed as they had begun to harvest the Starnuts. Yet an unforeseen problem began

to develop as the Bears all too quickly ate every Starnut in sight. The Bears ate more quicklythan the Starnuts could grow back, and as a result they had to push bigger and bigger stones to

reach higher and higher into the cliffs. Where in the beginning one Bear could reach all the

Starnuts he could ever want, it now took three or four Bears to push the stones for only a few

Starnuts. Yet the Bears pushed on, savoring their newfound independence and wealth.

Such wealth was lost on the Bandifrigs, for as each attempt tried and failed, their former

enthusiasm turned to desperation, and finally, into despair. Ursa watched on as the Bandifrigs

failed to open even a single Starnut, and felt a pang of sympathy as he revelled in his own fruit.

Yet what help could he offer? They had decided to work alone from now on. It was for the best

he reassured himself. He turned his back to the Bandifrigs as the other Bears called to him forhelp with a large stone.

Summer soon gave way to Autumn, and the Bandifrigs now faced starvation. They hadnt

been able to open a single Starnut, and Winter was fast approaching. Frost covered the ground

one morning as Randy awoke, and it was clear that he could delay action no longer. He gathered

together the weary Bandifrigs, and spoke with authority. My friends, the time has come.

Though we have tried our mightiest, we just cannot make our way all on our own. Just as the

Starnuts need the sun to grow, so too do we need the Bears. Yet they refuse to help us, and

therefore it is with a heavy heart that I say we must leave this place and seek our livelihood

elsewhere. There is nothing left for us here. Sadly he cast his eyes towards the Starnut cliffs.While they had once seemed a symbol of strength and opportunity to him, they were only a

reminder of heartache now. Silently he turned his back to the cliffs, and with the other Bandifrigs

following suit, they began the long and uncertain march toward a better tomorrow.

Ursa awoke that very same morning and he and the other Bears made their way to the

Starnut cliffs in hopes of having a delicious breakfast. They had grown accustomed to the


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Bandifrigs being there when they arrived, and had even secretly enjoyed laughing at their

humorous attempts to crack the Starnuts. But it was with great surprise that Ursa rounded the

corner to the Starnut cliffs and saw that the Bandifrigs were nowhere to be seen. He surveyed all

around the cliffs, their cave, the forest, and saw no sign of them. A pang of panic and guilt

gripped him as he searched for his missing friends. His search was to no avail. Besides, he could

not search long, as the others needed his help in moving the stones for the days breakfast.

Harvesting Starnuts had come to be hard work, and it took all the help they could get. Ursa was

beginning to doubt if they would have enough for the winter, as the Starnuts became more and

more scarce.

And so the Bears worked to harvest the Starnuts, and each day they pushed higher and

higher into the cliffs to reach the prized fruit. But each day the harvest grew sparser and sparser,

and the weather became colder and colder. Finally the day came that the Bears could no longer

reach any Starnuts, and they all spent the day in hunger. They looked to Ursa for guidance, and

he turned to address the crowd with confidence, but it thinly veiled his own sorrow. It is true, I

fear, that we can no longer reach the Starnuts. They are just simply too high, and we have eaten

too many! But we are Bears! We are much smarter than the Bandifrigs, and we will surely find a

solution. The Bears nodded and clapped in applause, and turned their attention to solving the

problem of the lofty Starnuts. But day after day passed, and little progress was made. Ursa

couldnt help but think back to the Bandifrigs, and how he had laughed at their desperation. If

only they were here now!

The snows of winter had arrived and weighed heavily on the spirits of the Bears, and it

soon proved to be more than they could withstand. As they tried and failed again and again to

reach the Starnuts, finally one of the otherBears called out to Ursa Please dear leader, help us!

For if we dont eat today, we will most certainly starve to death! It pained Ursa to hear this, for

he most knew it to be the harsh truth. He could deliberate no more, so he called the Bears

togetherto give them an address. My Bears, times have grown tough as the days have grown

colder, and it is with a heavy heart that I cede to you this; there is no hope of survival here. We

must do all we can to flee this place as the Bandifrigs have, and hold faith for a better

tomorrow!

The Bears were desperate, and so without deliberation they began the wary journey to a

better future. But the winds blew strongly, and the snow fell heavily all around and made their

trip and difficult one. Ursa led the way, and it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the

other. He trudged forward in gritty determination for some time, and as he walked, he became

aware of the silence around him, and gravely he came to realize that his companions had been

left behind. One by one they had fallen exhaustedly into the snow, and came to welcome death

where they lie. His sudden realization of isolation frightened him thoroughly, yet still Ursa

trudged on, unsure what exactly drove his body, until he was aware that he stood truly alone in

the barren snow. Night had fallen around him, and he roared sorrowfully into the empty darkness

as he solitarily trudged on.


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From Atop The Tower of

Babel

Written by Greg Everett

Silicon; carbon fibre; the thrumming respiration of machines; what air remains sucked at and re-

circulated by myriad fans and ducts; and above, nothing but the inexorable stillness of time; light

without warmth; white; the coldest spectra.

First the insinuation of movement and then movement itself; optics align, a delicate application

of force; revolutions per minute; the transmission of data.

Playback: Once More a Fall From Grace: A look down from atop the Tower of Babel

Though overzealous scholars and historians of religion may balk at the notion, it is expedient at

this apex of mans development, so long after the death of God, to revisit certain archaicreligious lore in a non-moral sense. Without the arbitrary moral compass of God, what is there

to be learned from the Biblical mythos? From the very beginning we see mankind punished for

the pursuit of knowledge, a myth that yokes man with birth and death to curb his over-reaching.However, without our fathers reactionary scolding, we see quite the opposite. We see man

ease the burden of his mortality through knowing.

So, too, is the story of the Tower of Babel altered; for, since we can now confidently say thatman built God in his image, and not the other way round, we may say just as confidently that,

rather than nearing the face of God, the Tower of Babel was nearing the pinnacle of human

achievement. That is, the entirety of humanity united in one house, as it were, under onelanguage; a pinnacle denied us by our division: linguistically, culturally, and geographically.

We have gone forth and multiplied; we have pursued out petty differences for generations. Andnow, in the age of quantum mechanics and faster than light communication, we have built the

Tower of Babel. And rather than being cast down, we are instead reaping the fruit of our labour.

The Global Community is experiencing the benefits, economic, protective, and political, of

living in one house. Since the near unanimous adoption of Esperanto and the Ultranet, it ispossible for virtually any individual on the planet to communicate instantly and effectively with

any other. The exceptions remain, of course, large parts of what were formerly South andCentral Africa, and most of the South American Archipelago. The body of work to which this

essay is an introduction consists of several re-examinations of the Babel myth, as well asanthropological studies of three key regions of dissent, through which it will become clear that

the Global Community constitutes mans near-pinnacle, and that those who refuse to aid in its

realization are perpetrating mans fall from Grace.

- End of Excerpt -


18/29


Playback: DiarySubject: Visser, N: recovered from remains of Riebeeck Internment Camp

Most of the men in the camp now are Xhosa. They were brought in under one of the Unity Act

amendments. We know this, and we knew they were coming, because for the past seven cycles

our muzzles have been on full broadcast: TFP Ishimura back in Earth Orbit; Unity ActAmended; GC raids on Xhosa Dissent Zone via newly secured Bellville. I use webut reallymost who were here before the Xhosa have been taken somewhere else. The muzzles dont tell

us where, or what happened to them or what will happen to us; they tell us the Ultranet has

expanded to parts of Cape Town and the Brazilian mainland. It wasnt until the Xhosa werebeing muzzled I realized I wasnt writing this journal in my own language. They fought like

wildmen while their tongues were pinned down and their jaws clamped shut, and I could see the

shock and outrage in their eyes as the Xhosa in their heads was replaced by noise from the

muzzles, vibrations transmitted to their eardrums through their clenched teeth. One of theOperators made the same joke I heard him make when us Afrikaners were muzzled: Niggers are

chomping at the bit, a callback to pack animals made a pun in the digital era. When he said it

he laughed and spit and a young Xhosa headbutted him under the chin so that when he spit it wasa piece of his tongue he had just bitten off. In the same thought a Sentry acquired target and

fired; the sliver of tongue hit the ground among the Xhosas brain and bone; Centrists clash

with Regional Dissenters in Cape Town droned through our teeth and out of the young Xhosas

shattered brainpan, amplified by the sinus cavities. Another Afrikaner and I were ordered toclean up the remains while the rest of the Xhosa were processed. As we worked, the false-night

of Ishimuras shadow covered us. Our hands, the blood and brain matter, the skin of the dead

man and the packed sand beneath him turned ashy in the twilight. Broadcasts still poured out ofthe broken skull in an eerie echo of what seemed our own thoughts: Terraforming Planetoid

Tests Successful; Ishimura Lays By in Earth Orbit. Almost involuntarily we looked over our

shoulders to the TFP in orbit above us, to its bulk and shadow and reflected light, light without

warmth. Later, when I uncovered my journal, I felt by abandoning, however involuntarily,Afrikaans, I had betrayed the dead man, and the Afrikaners who were muzzled alongside me.

There is a rational part of me that struggles against that guilt when I remind myself of why I am

writing; if Afrikaans and Xhosa are dying, it is nave to believe in a translator.

- End of Excerpt -

Playback: Operations Log: TFP IshimuraGlobal Standard Year 26:45:2

Begin power cycle; systems checkcheck ok.

Extending arrays [NH3], [CH4]done.Extending CFC emittorsdone.

Engage atmospheric modifiersmodifiers engaged.

Begin initial stage terraforming: 36 hours remaining

Average temperature reading: 16.23.24 hours remaining

Average temperature reading: 17.41.

12 hours remainingAverage temperature reading: 18.05.


19/29


0 hours remaining

Average temperature reading: 19.23.

End initial stage terraforming.Retract CFC emittorsdone.

Retract arrays [NH3], [CH4]done.

- End of Excerpt -


20/29


Closed Doors

Written by Andrew Sketchley

CAST:

THE HISTORIAN - Attempts to be calm and refined, but has a tendency towards frustration

when things don't go the way they should. Chooses words with extreme care for fear of sounding

stupid. Wears old, secondhand formal clothing, but takes clear care of it.

THE GAMBLER - Rowdy and impulsive. Rarely shows signs of forethought, instead choosing

to live in the moment. Wears expensive, gaudy clothes, but they are stained and torn.

THE ARTIST - Idealistic and self-absorbed. Has difficulty telling difference between reality and

fantasy, is often trapped in own thoughts. Wears absurd-looking self-made clothing.

SCENE I

[Setting - outside an apartment complex]

GAMBLER: [sits on doorstop, drinking absinthe, singing poorly and loudly to self]

[Enter HISTORIAN]

HISTORIAN: Excuse me, are you quite alright?

GAMBLER: [stops singing, continues drinking] Fine, fine, thank you. I'm fine, I assure you.

HISTORIAN: What's this then?

GAMBLER: What's what then?

HISTORIAN: You.

GAMBLER: Me?

HISTORIAN: Yes, of course you. Who else would I be talking to? You're sitting alone outsidemy apartment, clearly drunk, and raising an awful racket! So I repeat: what is this then?

GAMBLER: Hah! And so I repeat to you: what is what then? Am I not within my rights to be

allowed to sit, to drink, to sing?


21/29


HISTORIAN: No, actually. You're not. You don't live here, I've never seen you before in my

life. You're clearly loitering. On top of that, public intoxication is very much illegal. As should

be the singing too, quite frankly, before we all go deaf, or worse, as tasteless in music as you.

GAMBLER: Tasteless, am I? Must be from the absinthe! Hah! [waits for response] Because of

the alcohol. The alcohol drowns out all the other tastes. See, I was taking what you said-

HISTORIAN: [cutting off GAMBLER] I know damn well what you were saying. I just don't

understand why you're doing this.

GAMBLER: Why I'm doing what?

HISTORIAN: Why you're making such a fool of yourself. Why you're sitting out here and

drinking your life away while giving everyone in a half-mile radius cause to strangle you.

GAMBLER: I think you're dwelling far too much on my singing. I've clearly struck a nerve

there. Sorry, I suppose? It's hardly like I've done any real harm. As far as my location isconcerned though, I'm afraid my usual haunt burnt down not so long ago. I do believe it was

some irresponsible fellow who didn't take proper care while drinking highly flammable liquids.

Nasty turn of fate, that.

HISTORIAN: This fellow wouldn't happen to be you, would it?

GAMLBER: You know, now that you mention it... Yes, yes, I think he just might happen to be

me. Funny how these things work.

HISTORIAN: I hardly see how this is funny. If this is true, you've caused considerable property

damage, probably put people's lives in danger, and are now a drunken wreck outside myapartment.

GAMBLER: Exactly! Comedy gold!

HISTORIAN: Why my home of all places? Couldn't you have found somewhere else? Perhaps

down at the police station? I'm sure the drunk tank is completely empty at the moment.

GAMBLER: Why here? I don't know. Seemed good a place as any to stop. I was tired. Needed a

rest. Might have thought this place looked interesting. Or did someone leave me here? Am I

waiting for someone, maybe? Hmm... The mysteries of life, I guess!

HISTORIAN: Maybe if you were still sober, you'd be able to remember the things that happened

to you. It couldn't have even been that long ago, you weren't here when I left this morning.

GAMBLER: I think I've offended you. Are you upset with me?

HISTORIAN: Yes, I am very upset with you.


22/29


GAMBLER: You're very upset with me?

HISTORIAN: Yes, that's what I just said.

GAMBLER: It is what you just said, yes. Why?

HISTORIAN: Because you asked me if I was upset with you. Which I am. For a number of

reasons. The foremost being your filthy, drunken nature.

GAMBLER: You have a problem with my drinking?

HISTORIAN: I do. It makes you loud, crude, completely vulgar, and worst of all, completely

insufferable on a personal level.

GAMBLER: Well, while I'm glad I personally bring no suffering, I must take offense at this. My

drinking is not of choice, but necessity. You see, this is medicinal absinthe.

HISTORIAN: Medicinal absinthe?

GAMBLER: Medicinal absinthe, yes.

HISTORIAN: What for?

GAMBLER: An old childhood injury to the hip, I'm afraid. I can't walk more than a hundred

metres before it starts burning in agony. The absinthe keeps this from happening.

HISTORIAN: Ah, so it helps dull the pain?

GAMBLER: Not quite. When I drink enough of it, I can barely walk a few steps at all withoutfalling over. My hip never even starts to bother me.

HISTORIAN: That is pathetic. You are hopeless.

GAMBLER: Now that's hardly true! I'm solving the problem before it begins!

HISTORIAN: Of course you are. I'm sorry, but I cannot agree. You are a complete wreck. It's

not even two in the afternoon yet and you're too drunk to stand!

GAMBLER: Well, what's the sense in waiting? I'm awake, and it's all that holds my interest

since the fire. Why should I hold off from it?

HISTORIAN: For one thing, your health, and for another, your sense of dignity. I mean, casual

drinking is one thing but-

GAMBLER: [cutting off HISTORIAN] Now let's have none of that slander! I am not one for

casual drinking. I partake in my interests at a strictly professional level.


23/29


HISTORIAN: God... How long ago even was the fire? There's no way you've kept up drinking

this much for so long and survived.

GAMBLER: Oh, I reckon it's still burning. Got out of there rather fast. Due to the fire and all.

HISTORIAN: You know what? I give up on you. Keep your singing down and don't die on mydoorstep, otherwise I'll need to call the police. Good day. [goes to enter apartment]

GAMBLER: That's it? After all this, you're just leaving me? I thought we had something! How

could you do this to me? Hah! I'm hilarious. Really, you should stay. I've got plenty more where

this came from! Comedic brilliance is what it is. And liquor, too. Plenty of that.

HISTORIAN: I'm serious, I'm going. I have important things to do.

GAMBLER: Like what?

HISTORIAN: If you must know, I have research that needs to be done. I've brought back several

large historical volumes from the library, and they really ought to be read before the week is

through.

GAMBLER: This sounds painfully boring. Why would you do this to yourself?

HISTORIAN: Maybe because it interests me? Maybe because it's my job? Either way, it's

something I intend to do, now please let me be.

GAMBLER: But we were having so much fun!

HISTORIAN: No. We weren't. Now if you'll excuse me. [goes to leave]

[as HISTORIAN goes to enter the apartment, the door opens and THE ARTIST appears]

ARTIST: Oh, sorry, didn't mean to interrupt anything. Just on my way out for some food.

HISTORIAN: Ah, no problem. I was just leaving either way.

GAMBLER: It's true. You should stay instead to keep me company. It's been ever so boring out

here all alone.

HISTORIAN: Then go someplace else. And would the both of you get out of my way?

ARTIST: Hmm? What? Were you trying to get in?

HISTORIAN: Am I the only one who remembers what's been said? This is ridiculous. Please,

just move. I can't deal with this any longer.

ARTIST: Oh, sorry. [ARTIST moves, allowing HISTORIAN to finally exit] Do you think he

was mad at me?


24/29


GAMBLER: Maybe? He just seems an overly angry person in general. I think it was my singing.

ARTIST: Your singing? Are you a singer?

GAMBLER: Not by trade, no, but I suppose since I was singing, that does make me a singer of

some sort, I suppose. A casual musician! How's that?

ARTIST: That sounds lovely. We can't do everything full-time after all. I know I can't anyways.

GAMBLER: How so? What do you do?

ARTIST: Full-time I follow my muse, part-time I try and live my life. I'm a painter, a sculptor,

an engraver, whatever the muse demands of me. I cast the brilliance of my mind unto a canvas or

whatever else is a fit medium. I suppose you could say I'm an artist, though I'd hate to label

myself that. I'd rather not come off as being pretentious.

GAMBLER: Oh, don't worry about seeming pretentious. I have no doubts about the matter.

Absinthe?

ARTIST: Lovely! I always do enjoy a cup. But enough about me, I suppose. I do hate it when

people talk on for too long about themselves. I'd certainly not want you to think me self-

obsessed, though I was simply explaining my life to you and all. Now what was this about

music? If you could play me some, that would be lovely. I do love music. Nothing gets my

creative juices flowing quite as well, except maybe for a sunrise or the leaves in Autumn. I'm

always more inspired in Autumn, I find. But music, it's inspired some of my best work. Paintings

mostly, and a few charcoal sketches, but also sometimes things a bit more esoteric. Bas reliefs,

soap carvings, even light displays. I don't like to be held by genre restrictions, you see. Oh, look

at that! I seem to have finished my drink already. You wouldn't mind if I poured myself out

another one, would you?

GAMBLER: Of course not. Help yourself.

ARTIST: Thank you so much. It's good to get something in my stomach, I've forgotten more or

less to eat for the past few days. You know how that is.

GAMBLER: I most certainly do. It seems you've forgotten how liquor works as well though. It's

not a good idea on an empty stomach.

ARTIST: Nonsense! My stomach's not empty, I had a slice of bread ten hours ago! I'll be fine.

Besides, I'm on my way for food after this, so I'll be properly nourished in no time. While I'm

savouring this drink though, why not treat me to a song?

GAMBLER: I'll see what I can do. Let me just find my mandolin and I'll play you something

wonderful. It's somewhere here. [GAMBLER begins sorting through pile of belongings]


25/29


ARTIST: The mandolin! So exotic! I look forward to it! Oh, I seem to be out of absinthe once

more. A third glass would be fine, right? Thank you. Delicious. You know, I tried learning how

to play an instrument once or twice. It just didn't go for me. I'm a visual artist. My works are of

sight, not sound. No matter how I tried, I could not get more than a few pleasant notes out at a

time, so after a few hours, I returned to my paints.

GAMBLER: That sounds quite a shame. I'm sure you would have worked wonders. Aha! Here it

is, the sneaky bastard. Thought you could hide from me, eh? Still want the song?

ARTIST: I could always use some inspiration. May your notes spur on the strokes of my

brushes. May your voice-

GAMBLER: [cutting off ARTIST] You don't say? Anyhow, here you go. This isn't anything I

wrote, but I only heard it played the once, so it's probably close enough to my own. [GAMBLER

begins playing his mandolin, which is incredibly out of tune. The song is quite clearly being

made up on the spot, but the ARTIST is enthralled, though not enough to keep away from theabsinthe]

ARTIST: [when GAMBLER has finished playing] Stupendous! Magnificent! By God, this is the

most beautiful thing I've heard in years! I've never felt so inspired by someone else's art. My

muse has spoken! There is no time, friend. I thank you beyond words for what you have done for

me. I must go now, before these ephemeral images leave my mind's eye!

GAMBLER: Glad to keep you busy. Don't you still need to eat though?

ARTIST: Think nothing of it! Art is more important than food. More important than life! When I

finish, I shall eat, and not one moment sooner! Take care, for I will never forget this!

[exit ARTIST]

GAMBLER: Dumb bastard. Seems a nice enough place though, might as well stay for a while.

[empties bottle into glass and starts tuning mandolin]

[CURTAIN]


26/29


Girl

Painting by Chris Brooks


27/29


Untitled

Painting by Elizabeth Harrison


28/29


Untitled

Painting by Elizabeth Harrison


29/29


Words

Painting by Katie Clow

Documents

The Lexian Reader, March 2013