The Kraken's Spire Literary Magazine (Volume 1)

1

a literary magazine
Volume 1 November 2019

Copyright © 2019 The Kraken’s Spire
All rights reserved.
Staff
Patrick Johns | Founding Editor
Katie R. Herring | Editor‐in‐Chief
Front Cover Design
Laura Lucieri

Table of Contents
Essays
Where Did All the Bogs Go?
Edward Cornthwaite ......................................................................................................... 2
Poetry
Breathe
Nicole M. Gravalis ............................................................................................................ 6
Skillful Sailor
Robert Hamilton................................................................................................................ 8
The Red Tides
Robert Hamilton.............................................................................................................. 10
My Greatest Fear
Patrick Johns ................................................................................................................... 12
Omnimorbus
Jin Kim ............................................................................................................................ 14
The Elderwood
Jin Kim ............................................................................................................................ 16
Monday Martyrs
Kalah McLaughlin .......................................................................................................... 19
Flannels and the Night Sky
Kalah McLaughlin .......................................................................................................... 20
The Artist
Kalah McLaughlin .......................................................................................................... 21
Pruning Friendships
Tiana Villery ................................................................................................................... 22
Instance of Human Nature
Tiana Villery ................................................................................................................... 23

Photographs
North Carolina Dusk
Louis Kattenfeld.............................................................................................................. 25
Natural Hue
Louis Kattenfeld.............................................................................................................. 26
Short Stories
The Waiting Room
Casey Finley.................................................................................................................... 28
Reap What You Sow
Bailey McInturff ............................................................................................................. 36
A Moment
Emily Walters ................................................................................................................. 45

The kraken has risen from the sea. From the spire he claimed, he gazes
upon untold creativity.

Essays
1

Where Did All the Bogs Go?
Edward Cornthwaite
I TURNED 29 last May, which means I am now, undoubtedly, in my late 20s.
While complaining about this to a younger friend of mine—who is 24, the
spritely young thing—she tried to reassure me (or shut me up) by telling me
that at least we were in the same generation. Technically she isn’t wrong. We
are both Millennials. Anyone born between 1981 and 1997 can call themselves
a millennial. But seeing as one of the first Google search results for the word
‘Millennial’ is an article named, Are Millennials fucked?, I’m not sure why
anybody would want to call themselves one.
All of this got me thinking: generational terms are meaningless. The world
I grew up in was sufficiently different to the world in which my friend did. For
example, it was perfectly acceptable to use the word ‘gay’ to mean ‘generally
bad’ or ‘annoying’ in my school playground. People my age had to learn why
this was morally wrong and work to actively change our behavior, while someone
born four years later would naturally pick it up from their social surroundings.
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Another big divide is being able to remember a time before the Internet. No
one born in 1997 can have anything other than the dimmest, and quite possibly
fabricated, memories of a time before the web. Unknown to them is the unforgettable
sound of the family computer connecting to the Internet using a terrifying
series of screeching noises. It seems to me that generational terms are
arbitrary. As they show no sign of disappearing, I propose that we make the
system for stratification equally arbitrary.
When I was growing up, no film was complete without one of two things:
bogs or quicksand. Every film, and many TV shows, would end in the nailbiting
climax of the goodie and the baddie falling into a bog or a patch of
quicksand. The goodie, often inspiring friendship and loyalty by being a generally
decent sort of chap, would have a faithful ally to rescue them from
drowning in the mud or sand. Whereas the baddie, usually being a bit of a shit,
would have no
one to save them. Of course, once out of danger, the goodie would then in turn
try to hold out a stick or umbrella or rope or something long to help the baddie,
but this would invariably fail. If this reminds you of most of the films you saw
as a child, congratulations! You and I are of the same generation.
It is difficult to impress upon the reader just how much of an effect bogs and
quicksand had upon my childhood. I lived in constant fear that my life (and
everyone else’s for that matter) was heading towards a crescendo where I
would either be dragged to safety, or sink into a muddy nothingness. A sinkor-swim
moment. Or rather, a sink-or-be-dragged-to-safety-by-an-affablesidekick
moment.
3

The 2002 film adaptation of The Hound of the Baskervilles, starring Richard
Roxburgh and Richard E. Grant, modified the story so that Stapleton, excellently
portrayed by Grant, died not in the Grimpen Mine, but in the Grimpen
Mire. Watching horrified, I vowed never to visit Dartmoor. Incidentally, an ex
of mine arranged a weekend trip to Dartmoor for my 24 th birthday—I spent
most of the time prodding any patch of ground with a stick before placing my
foot on it and secretly suspecting my ex of trying to do away with me.
Bearing all of this in mind, imagine my surprise that I have so far never sunk
into a bog or met anyone who has (and lived to tell the tale, obviously). One of
the greatest fears of my childhood was thrust upon me simply because it was a
lazy and overused plot device. All of those hours I spent worrying about bogs
and quicksand were utterly wasted. I feel so betrayed. The only upside I can
think of is this: if I meet someone who remembers the abundance of treacherously
soft patches of earth, I will feel a kinship and sense of solidarity far
greater than if they were simply born between ‘81 and ‘97. Let’s all agree that
‘Millennial’ is far too broad a term to identify with. Let us separate into
smaller, yet more relevant groups, with increasingly ridiculous sounding
names. I could call my new generation the Boggers, or the Drowners, or the
Saved by a Bough of a Tree or a Rope or Something. At the very least, I would
love to read a serious article titled: Are Boggers fucked?
4

Poetry
5

Breathe
Nicole M. Gravalis
I remember waking up that morning,
Without knowing what happened that night.
I didn’t know that you had—
Gone and taken the light.
I didn’t know what to say,
Would it have mattered anyway?
I wish I could breathe—
And let you out, like you let yourself in.
Breathe and let it go,
But you can’t forget
What, what you don’t know.
You just breathe.
I can’t breathe.
Brings me back to seventeen—
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Waking up wishing it was just a dream.
But dreams don’t haunt like ghosts do,
I wish I knew to be scared of you.
Because to you I was just a game—
You didn’t know the price I’d pay.
I feel your hands, they’re suffocating,
Pulling me down—I need to break free
I need to breathe
And let you out, so you can’t come back in.
Breathe and let you go,
Can’t forget but I’m stronger now.
I just need to breathe.
Just breathe.
7

Skillful Sailor
Robert Hamilton
The aboriginal man, who when in Rome didn't act like the Romans.
The lack of conformity, lead to the door to endure the roughest of seas.
Poseidon reminded me that all good things come with a fee.
Tree with greenest of leaves, produced a fruit full of minerals.
The greenest pastures were afterwards, or after work?
Pressurized conditions lead to formulation of diamonds,
Serpent slithering, sizing its meals.
To see if its kill can fit in its stomach.
If you need it and you want it.
But up to this time, couldn't have it.
Sporadic in ways to devote time.
So you’re telling me randomness could damage this…Ship.
Iceberg ahead in this system’s glitch.
Promises to never let go?
My flow with an against current breaststroke,
Was just to rest with my folks, I was lonely.
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Here for an example and to sample the experience.
Along a peaceful amble through the wilderness.
A perfect location for where my spirit is.
Honesty reflected to consciousness.
Clearing all the confusion.
9

The Red Tides
Robert Hamilton
The mere attempts were pedestrian, my dear pestilence Pegasus,
Malevolent irrelevance but they are molesting the etiquette.
Messing with the message under Tangled twisted elements,
Altering developments, fucking up the filament.
It was mended but not fully healed, the end was soon to be revealed.
Pretending was ignorance creating a
Deep to the spirit hit, but there is
Importance in forgetting this.
Oh, my superior eloquence,
As my heroine swings on vines towards nirvana.
The Storm winds turned to the mantra, I became the reason I conquer.
Means to the end of this pattern, via a manipulation of matter.
Oh, glass, please don't shatter, just wait there in time.
As my heart reminds my mind, we are all sure to remember this place we
shall find.
To be kind…or to not?
10

Now where is the river to wash off this sin?
The path was dim but found,
Mind uncharted, unbound, and free to the wind.
Alone with the sound of her voice and the feeling of her skin.
Reasons were my choice, but I remained poised.
Let’s please enter the void, where the others folded the king remained golden.
He was accustomed to the scolding, as if it constructed up this boldness.
After being shy…well behold this!
A soul drifts back and forth, the ghost questions if it's dead?
Come read my thoughts, let them mess with your head, one of the numerous
poems, the extraterrestrial read.
From a spirit we all thought was dead…
11

My Greatest Fear
Patrick Johns
You asked me why
Why I didn’t want to date you
I told you why
I didn’t want to lose you
I’d rather talk to you forever than one to two years
And never hear from you again—
That’s my greatest fear.
You said
We got this
I’ll be there until the end
But little did you know
That’s what the last one said.
However
I never learn—
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So we dive in.
It’s a year down the road
Now you’re not even my friend.
13

Omnimorbus
Jin Kim
The restless mind wanders the halls,
It searches the darkness, crying to the Gods.
No reply, no echo,
Not. A. Sound.
The brave, the eccentric, the uncomfortable shuffle ahead.
Further into the cold and unease.
Spirit looking for shadow.
Yet.
Deep within tendrils of black,
Lies a powerful beckoning call,
Invisible, immovable, immense.
An Eldrich terror.
It consumes the weary, the exasperated wandering,
Its foul, sickening stench draws and creeps upon curiosity.
It defiles through heavy blight paralyzing through the skin.
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It maddens the brightest of stars.
It grows its younglings within the eyes and the brain.
Putrid and ghastly,
A desecrating consumption.
A revelation of the sinister pre-birth.
A kindred union.
15

The Elderwood
Jin Kim
the smell of green and lush forest,
rolling hills, the sea of tender grass
the sweet unsettled, savory and full
a cool breeze and warmth in the heart
the fairies dance, the sunlit flowers
glowing with spring magic
the flower spell, the gentle caress
the path is clear
to The Elderwood
it beats its heart
it pulses its ancient roots
deep within the forest song
a mystic stag, tall and mighty
shimmering eyes, silver hair
an ancient beast with runic power,
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its steady gaze to the wild one.
solo beats. the lone moon.
a leap into the everwood,
past illuminating orchids,
shining lunar moths,
over crystal creeks.
the rushing clear river’s
reflections echo
the wild one running with the stag
deeper into the trees.
the air greener, glistening with sap
the trees rustle to tune.
the song swells.
the stag stares deep,
the wild one's kiss.
The Elderwood awaits.
in the heart of the everwood,
lies the oldest of gods,
the mother of the wild ones,
the man of crows,
the child of the stars,
it glows with primal power,
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radiant and ever-present,
whispers, cosmic secrets,
the surge of primal spirit,
a feral fire, gritting fangs
gnashing claws, dense roots
the flame of heart,
a roaring verdant inferno
the wild one consumed,
iridescent, iridescent
evergreen.
18

Monday Martyrs
Kalah McLaughlin
The platform is full at rush hour.
My anxiety’s reeling at the public space consumed with Monday martyrs.
The music blaring from my headphones is as loud as my thoughts.
One step forward and a train could tear through me. (I consider falling.)
I fidget with the diamond studs throbbing in my ears.
I’m waiting for 35 miles of high speed silence, or a migraine.
I decide against falling and board the train.
I steal the window seat and claim the aisle too, for the sake of morning
melancholy.
The conductor punches my ticket 11 times—I counted—for no apparent
reason.
We rush past a desolate town that seems out of place, but systematically isn’t,
and my heart feels bruised.
Monday mornings in motion are not for the easily afflicted.
19

Flannels and the Night Sky
Kalah McLaughlin
Our legs are intertwined, your hand in mine,
your other hand pointing out constellations.
Your finger traces Gemini, and I can’t find
a better view than the blue of your eyes.
I shiver and you wrap me in your flannel,
your kiss as soft as petals—I don’t remember falling.
But I hold tight to the memory of you at twilight.
20

The Artist
Kalah McLaughlin
When we first met, I was your work of art
I never wanted to be a muse
You mold me as you see me, not as I am
You pressed me so thin and painted me in layers of gold
But now I’m bleeding out all of my shades
Didn’t they tell you that gold fades?
Now you stencil me in a dull gray
And I curse the day I let you steal my color
21

Pruning Friendships
Tiana Villery
The house smells of clove and cinnamon,
the autumn rain, orange and gold,
marks the beginning of expiration.
Amidst the morning mist, across the potter’s field,
speckled in dew and hues of September,
trek to the plot where planted friendships
in Spring were left untouched—
festering / budding / stagnating
in the warmth of Summer euphoria.
The fertilizer of old memories and honeyed promises
strong in nose marks the spot. With soil-caked nails,
scrape the dirt from the surface patch,
muddy your shoes on recollections,
pick the green stems from their heads and
pray the harvest is enough to nourish
come the frost.
22

Instance of Human Nature
Tiana Villery
Up at break of dawn
Coffee in hands, heart warmed by
passing stranger’s smile
23

Photographs
24

North Carolina Dusk
Louis Kattenfeld
25

Natural Hue
Louis Kattenfeld
26

Short Stories
27

The Waiting Room
Casey Finley
BRIGHT LIGHTS. ALWAYS with the bright lights. Fluorescent light bulbs
hummed softly through the room, stirring Riley’s focus back to attention. She
realized she was sitting on a firm, wooden bench and directly in front of her
was a sturdy looking blue door with a gargantuan neon sign next to it. The sign
blinked ‘THE REAPER WILL NOW SEE JOHN HUMBOLDT’ in rhythmic
fashion, as if it were in time to some silent beat that only it could hear. A click
resounded through the room. The door unlocked. A man on the opposite side
of the bench stood with a whimper before he began walking towards the door.
Riley could hear muttering. It was only then she noticed the other people sitting
around her, each one occupying a space in her mind upon recognition from her
eyes. There were people of all walks of life here. Some from faraway places
she had never heard of, others from right down the road. Why, she noticed Mr.
Terry sitting just a few spaces from her! She contemplated waving to attract
his attention, but Mr. Terry refused to remove his gaze from the spot in which
he had planted his feet. The man who had stood moments before shuffled
through the door, letting out cries of horror as the metallic behemoth walling
28

this room from the next closed itself as if someone had pushed it shut with
brute force. A locking sound echoed off the walls. The room was silent once
more.
Riley turned her attention to the desk on the far-left side of the room where
sat what appeared at first glance to be a mannequin. Upon further inspection,
Riley noticed that it was, in fact, a human being, insofar as what passed for a
human being in whatever place she found herself in. The mannequin-looking
man played with his evenly cut flop of bangs as they jutted up and down his
forehead, as he rocked back and forth in his office chair with violent resolve.
Above where he was seated was a sign that read ‘Reception-visitors welcome.’
Well, that should solve some of my problems, Riley thought. At least she hoped
this man who seemed to be having convulsions of death had some kind of answers
for her.
Riley stood and made her way to the desk, carefully tip-toeing her way
around all kinds of legs—male, female, reptile, ghostly, plant. The plant legs
were the worst, as each time she made to step over a pair, a tentacle like excuse
for a hand reached up to greet her shoulder. Riley quickened her pace and
dodged where necessary, making sure to keep her feet close together. As she
sidled up to the desk, a devilish grin creeped its way across the mannequin
man’s face, becoming a solid fixture that gave one night terrors.
“Hello,” Riley said. “I was hoping you could tell me where exactly it is that
I am.”
Her voice betrayed her anxiety. Anxiety never was one to work with you and
help in times of need.
29

“Where you are?” the man said. “Why, darlin’, you’re in the afterlife’s one
and only waiting room! Well, I shouldn’t say one and only…more like, the
waiting room for those who died a rather, uh, embarrassing death.” The man
stopped his vicious shaking and stretched out a hand. “I’m Keith, secretary
extraordinaire. But most people here call me Plum. Take your pick.”
Riley shook Keith’s hand, preferring that over what sounded like the name
of a man who offered her an evening of woeful disappointment at a club she
couldn’t get into.
“What exactly do you mean by most people call you Plum? If I’m dead,
which I’m supposing is what you’re saying, wouldn’t this be it? I’d either go
to heaven or hell after this?”
Keith took a quick look through the notes he had laid out on his desk.
“Says here you’re an atheist. Whatcha talkin’ ‘bout heaven and hell for then?
Girl, lemme tell you somethin’. Those folk who believe in reincarnation?
They’ve got it right, sugar. See that door over there? In about…oh, five minutes
or so, you’re going to have a talk with the Reaper themselves. Don’t call them
that, by the by. They prefer Bob. Says it makes them ‘feel more human’ or
somethin’ like that. They’ll get you set on all up in your next life. Why don’t
you have a seat?”
Riley didn’t know what to say. She was, in fact, an atheist, but upon realization
that she had died, her mind couldn’t reconcile her beliefs with what her
senses were taking in. She absentmindedly slunk back to her seat, not even
bothering to swipe the plant tentacle hands away from her legs. The door to the
room unlocked with a clink and the sign changed. ‘THE REAPER WILL NOW
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SEE RILEY EVELYN’ flashed like a drugged-up rave dancer. She swallowed
mountains of fear, struggling to catch her breath. She made her way to the
doorway, took one look back at the waiting room, then passed on through. The
door shut. Locks latched themselves. A blue chair sat under a solemn spotlight.
“Sit, please, I insist,” a voice from the dark called out. She did as the voice
asked. “It’s my understanding that you’re here to discuss your next life.”
Riley squinted to see if she could find some semblance of a shape in the
dark. Suddenly a snip was heard, and a small but forceful light was cast down
upon a desk five feet in front of her. A skeletal figure wearing a business suit
with a crooked tie rolled over to the desk from the gathered shadows. An attempt
at a smile was sketched on the skull.
“Name’s Bob. Take my business card.” The skeleton slid a small index card
across the desk. Riley stretched to pick it up.
“Bob Reaperson, Next World Shepherd Connoisseur,” she read aloud. A little
scythe decorated with yellow smiley faces was hand drawn next to the
name. Below the name in place of a phone number was a simple phrase: ‘Dying
is the first step in living!’
“You like what you see? Cool. Let’s get you set up, my friend.” The skeleton
pulled out a thick folder from the top left drawer of his desk. He flipped to the
final page.
“Says here that you died from a dare gone horribly wrong. Now, what did
you—”
“I’m sorry, is your last name really…Reaperson?” Riley interjected.
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The skeleton glanced up. “Oh, no. It’s Reaper. You know, the whole shebang.
You reap some here, you lose some there, and suddenly you’ve got spaghetti
in the United States. Listen kid, spaghetti was never intended to leave
Italy. If anyone tells you differently, they’re selling you a bridge. That’s how
it goes, right? Selling a bridge? I don’t remember too much these days about
you humans and your ways of sales.”
“What about spaghetti?” This seemed a more interesting conversational
route in Riley’s mind, as opposed to the moment leading to her death. She
could remember bits and pieces, but the full grasp escaped her.
“Never mind about that, kid. Let’s talk business. So, you’re at a party. Big
house, three stories, outside staircases. Grand ol’ palace, you know, the whole
shebang. Piper is there. Ah, good ol’ Pipes. You know why they call her that,
right?”
The skeleton winked. The blood in Riley’s body decided at that moment that
her cheeks were a lovely new neighborhood to rent in. The skeleton began to
chuckle.
“I’m kidding, kid! Relax! It’s ‘cause her parents named her Piper. I wasn’t
going to say what you think but…you know. Or maybe you don’t! So, anyways,
you’ve got a big fatty fat crush on Miss Piper here.” Riley’s cheeks
flushed as the new neighbors closed on their rental deal.
“Your friends say, ‘Hey Riley, why don’t you go smooth talk Pipes? Give
her the ol’ finger guns, one, two, three, she wants to know what your bed feels
like, eh?’ You start to make your way towards her, gear up the finger guns, and
just as you go to give her the move…”
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Riley panicked. “Please don’t say it. Oh, god. I remember now. It hurts, but
I remember.”
“Sorry, kid. I gotta read it aloud. It’s part of the job, you know.” The skeleton
gave the paper a flick of his finger. “Not trying to embarrass ya, just trying to
get ya through the process.”
Her mind began to shut down. This was survival tactics at its most extreme.
“Hey, stay with me, kid. We’re almost done. SO. You give her the finger
guns, a little ‘Hey Piper, what time we meetin’ at my place?’ and then…you
slip on some spilled ice and plummet three stories to your death. And now
you’re here. With me. In this small office in a weird little waiting room in the
cracks of the universe. And now…business.”
The skeleton pulled out a poster board with three options listed on three separate
panels and held it aloft.
“Based on your circumstances and your last life, I’ve got three options arranged
for you, kid. You choose.”
She glanced at each option quickly.
“I just choose one of these and then that’s it? I’m in my next life? No review?
No ‘Hey, better luck next time!’ or ‘You really swung for the fences this time!’
Nothing like that? Or even a ‘Here’s what you did wrong and here’s how to fix
it?’”
“Oh no, nothing like that. We’re in the reincarnating business, not the review
business. You gotta go to Yelp for that stuff, but be careful.” The skeleton
dropped to a whisper, leaning across the desk towards Riley. “I hear that sometimes
the people writing the reviews didn’t even know you in your last life.
33

They see your name and they think, ‘Bah! Riley! What a dumb name! She
obviously ate crayons as a kid’ and then suddenly, your gravestone says you
were a crayon eater. I don’t make the rules. The universe works in mysterious
ways.”
The skeleton peered sheepishly around the room, darting its ragged black
eyes back and forth. “She listens, you know. The universe? Oh, buddy, she is
rough. She’ll knock you ten ways to Tuesday, know what I mean, eh?” The
skeleton undertook a quick scan of the room one more time. “She ain’t here.
You’d know if she was here. The room gets a buzzing sound. She likes to be a
bee. Don’t ask me.”
Riley was, oddly enough, unconcerned with the machinations of the universe
at this moment. Instead, she directed a different question at the skeleton.
“So…Bob. I choose one of these and then I’m there? Just like that?”
“Oh, you go through the birthing process. Yeah, when you humans get born,
the body wipes out your past life’s memories with some pretty intense chemicals.
I took a few of them one weekend and didn’t make it back to work until
the following year. I forgot this was my job. You should’ve heard the buzz the
universe gave me when I asked who created this whole thing!”
Riley took a closer look at the options and made lists in her mind of pros and
cons.
Option A consisted of being born as a girl once more, this time to a poor
German couple on the outskirts of Pennsylvania. Option B was a little more
enticing. It included being born as a boy, this time the son of a former prime
34

minister of Great Britain. But it was Option C that drew her gaze each time her
eyes drifted across it.
“I think I’ll go with C,” she said. “That sounds like a rather exciting life.”
The skeleton flipped the poster board so it could see it.
“Oh, really? You sure, kid?” She nodded. “Well, if you say so.” The skeleton
took out a pen and marked the initials BR next to it.
“Just need you to sign here. Right under my initials, please.”
The skeleton flipped the poster board back to her. She took the pen and
signed.
A blue button rose from the center of the desk.
“Cool. All right, on the count of three, it’s go time. One…Two…Three!”
The skeleton smashed the button down hard. A pop filled the air with static
and Riley was gone.
The year was 2032. The first space pirate in human history had just been
born. All would come to know and fear the legend of Lightning Legs McGee.
But it began as all life does. With a death.
35

Reap What You Sow
Bailey McInturff
I
THERE WAS NEVER a more perfect yard than Mr. Malcolm W. Gravely’s. Winner
of the Haven Heights Yard of the Month award for 240 months in a row
and counting, Malcom Gravely had gained renown that reached outside of the
subdivision nestled on the flattened peak of Haven Mountain. He saw it as his
personal mission to reclaim Haven Mountain, one of the first mountaintop removal
sites that had been refurbished for only the most pretentious customers,
for nature.
While sipping on mimosas in the morning—that inevitably turned into martinis
in the evening—Malcolm’s neighbors watched him baby his creation. Rumor
had it Malcolm was the heir to the very coal company that once ravaged
the ground beneath the housing development’s foundation, so he didn’t have
anything better to do with his days. Now he did everything in his power to
revert the damages done by his predecessors rather than pursuing better things,
things that might actually make a difference. The lawn treatments, the luxury
36

mowers, the comical sheers that looked ready for the next ribbon-cutting ceremony
that Malcolm used to clip every stray strand of grass. All of it dispensed
daily to ensure verdant perfection, all housed in a garden shed that rivaled the
house itself.
II
IGNACIO AND MARISOL unfurled the sedentary water hose that was coiled
around two ornate hooks mounted on an immaculate subway-tiled wall.
Wrought iron fleur-de-lis, adorned with flecks of onyx, supported the most
normal aspect of this house, the garden hose.
“What kind of a person needs something like that to hold their hose?” Marisol
demanded as she released another foot of the hose from its restraints. It
whacked against the brushed cement floor, echoing across the shining expanse
that looked more like a museum than a garage. “And this place? It’s crazy.
All…all of this is just crazy.” She swept her arms over her head, at a loss for a
way to describe the bizarre world they worked in.
Rolling his eyes at his sister, Ignacio unfolded the kinks in the rubber hose.
“Mari, you should know by now that these bougie gringos like to live large.
Like to show it, too. Even if it is just a waste.” He began to stretch the hose
out, moving towards the gleaming May sun just beginning to toast the grass
outside. The hose hissed at him as it slithered outside.
The door leading inside the mansion popped open. “Nacho, are you going to
water the flower beds or not? Mr. and Mrs. Haddish aren’t paying you to ogle
at their collection of chrome rims. Go on, get out there,” their mother insisted.
37

“I have too much to do inside the house to sit out here and babysit you two all
day. The sooner you’re done, the sooner you can leave.”
“We know, we know,” Ignacio tried to defend himself and his sister from
their mother’s growing frustration when Mrs. Haddish interrupted him, calling
for Vanessa to help sweep coffee grounds that she had spilled all over the
kitchen floor.
“It’s all over the place!” the elderly woman laughed. “I just make such a
mess sometimes!”
Vanessa gave her two children the look one more time before she returned
inside, and Ignacio knelt to gather more of the hose into his arms. “Check to
make sure it’s attached to the faucet one more time for me, Mari,” he said over
his shoulder. “Then come on. We can bike to the lake before the crowd gets
there if we get this done.”
The Haddish’s property was bordered by a couple rows of flowers that separated
their yard from Mr. Malcolm W. Gravely’s paradise. Later in the year,
white and purple hostas would tower haphazardly over the level expanse of
Malcolm’s yard, but for now, freesias drew the low border that Ignacio and
Marisol knew better than to cross. To Malcolm, any uninvited visitors to his
yard had malignant intent, especially if their skin was darker than his own.
After replenishing the rose bushes, watering the wisteria, and pampering the
pansies, Marisol and Ignacio crept toward the border between the properties.
“Do you want to do this part, Nacho?” Marisol suggested. “I’m scared I’ll
mess up here.”
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Ignacio shouldered the hose. “It won’t take but five minutes, and then we’re
done and we’ll have money to get lunch on the way to the lake.” He sponged
the sweat from his brow with a scrap of an old t-shirt before he wiped his hands
on his shorts for good measure. With an artist’s precision, Ignacio traced the
leaf line, never spraying above the flowers’ stems. “See, that wasn’t so bad,”
he said as he let his fingers go slack on the trigger of the hose. Ignacio grinned
to hide his sigh of relief, teasing his sister. “And you were too scared to do it!”
He whipped the hose to eye-level and aimed it at Marisol, who was already
running back towards the Haddish’s house. “Hey, get back here!”
Marisol’s giggles bubbled around the corner of the mansion. Just as she
ducked behind one of the BMWs parked in the driveway, Ignacio caught sight
of her dark hair exploding out of her scrunchy, giving away her hiding spot. “I
dare you to spray me with the top down on this car!” she jeered.
Dropping to the cement, Ignacio rolled onto his right shoulder to shoot his
sister with a jet of the cool water. “Oh yeah? How ‘bout that?”
She jumped to her feet and opened herself up to Ignacio’s relentless attacks.
“It’s not fair!” Marisol squealed as she sought shelter around the corner of the
house.
“You’ve got nowhere to hide!” Ignacio’s knuckles were drenched by the
incessant drip of the nozzle, his fingers pressed to the trigger, eyes searching
for his target.
The unseasoned hunter forgot his stealth and caution, blinding himself to the
danger lurking on the other side of a line of freesias. Marisol fled the gushing
stream arcing towards her, her steps a foot shy of the white flowers they had
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just watered. When at last Ignacio hit his mark, she slipped in the trail of water
Ignacio left behind earlier, but the gaze of the hose did not fall with her. Ignacio’s
hand didn’t falter, but still he missed. His grip on the trigger loosened,
sending the hose to thud against the ground. Marisol lay like road kill along
the property line, so Malcolm didn’t notice her at first—only the brownskinned
adolescent whose hand had pulled the trigger.
III
TODAY MUST BE a blessed day, Malcolm W. Gravely thought when he woke up
on the day after Memorial Day because, at last, his package should arrive. Its
delivery had been delayed by the holiday, but Malcolm made himself remain
patient. As long as he got it before June, everything should be fine. The Almanac
promised a scorcher of a summer, and all of the reviews on Amazon said
it had to be applied before the thermometer topped 80 degrees. Needless to say,
he was anxious—what, with the temperature reaching 70 before noon nowadays—but
Malcolm reassured himself with the tracking report that guaranteed
delivery before 6 P.M. Malcolm knew it would be earlier than that, though. He
had carefully watched the habits of the deliverymen in the weeks leading up to
his final decision to order it: his deliverymen dropped off packages early, and
they promptly left. No messing around with this package. That prospect worried
Malcolm more than his sister’s persistence that buying chemicals from
Ukraine wasn’t a good idea.
It was a miracle. The UPS truck pulled away from the curb a little after 9:30.
Malcolm slipped on the Crocs waiting beside the garage door. It was time.
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Christmas in May! A gift for myself that will keep on giving well into the summer.
At the end of his sidewalk, Malcolm squatted to the ground to pick up his
present, a smile glued to his face like that of a father watching his son hit a
home run for the first time. Malcolm had no sons, so he would never know that
joy, but he thought he got enough joy from his yard. The box that held the key
to his dreams was hefty, weighed down by the liquid gold that promised to
promote fuller flower growth. As he tore into the box right there on the edge
of his yard, Malcolm wasn’t put off by the warnings glaring at him in Cyrillic
letters that he didn’t even try to understand.
Malcolm’s train of thought was derailed by the trill of laughter invading his
property. Those kids next door, he cursed the children in his mind. Good for
nothing…Just get in the way…Take people’s jobs—well, not in my house. He
began to peel off the acetate safety wrap securing the lid to the opaque bottle
to distract himself from the disruption next door.
“Damned plastic just gets in the way,” Malcolm muttered to himself as he
flicked flakes of the pesky film off of his fingers. He rubbed his hands together
as though trying to warm them so he could force the rest of the material onto
the breeze and inevitably into some creek. As long as it wasn’t bothering him,
he didn’t care where it went. Malcolm was unscrewing the cap of the bottle
like a lush looking for his next drink when he heard the shriek. “Those kids
better not be in my yard. I work too hard to have them contaminating my paradise.”
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Trusting his hands to continue securing the nozzle into the top of the bottle,
Malcolm looked away from his task to see that Mexican boy spray water right
into his yard. He sprang to his feet, splashing some of his precious solution
down the back of his hand, where it dripped onto the sidewalk below. “Gah!”
he cried out as his hand sizzled under the plant enhancer. Malcolm shoved the
spout onto the bottle before he chased after his culprit.
“How dare you?” he charged.
The brown boy dropped the hose and his face flooded with fear. “I’m sorry,
Mr. Gravely. It was an honest—”
“Nothing about you is honest! You’re just a no-good…”
A girl scrambled up from behind the protection of the freesia. As she ran
past the boy, she tugged on the collar of his shirt, begging him to please come
on. The boy broke out of the trance that rendered him a statue just as Malcolm
raised the hand that had melted onto the bottle of chemicals. “Run, Ignacio!”
the girl screamed.
A brown woman that Malcolm thought looked just like the two kids burst
out of the patio door of the Haddish’s house as Malcolm crossed the line of
freesia. “Mr. Gravely, what happened? I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding!
Can we talk about it?” the woman insisted.
Malcolm laughed at that suggestion. “Just get out!” he bellowed. “All of
you, out! Of! Here! None of you belong here, and I want you out of my neighborhood!”
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IV
THEY RAN. STAMPEDING down the even roads of Haven Heights, Vanessa, Ignacio,
and Marisol fled the chemical stench trailing behind them. Malcolm assaulted
them with his words as he chased them. The words were even worse
than the stream of charcoal colored liquid issuing from the bottle. With each
drop that touched the ground, wisps of smoke joined the chase, rising from
scorched patches of earth that crumbled under Malcolm’s footsteps. He followed
them all the way to the edge of the neighborhood, to the sign of glowing
bronze announcing the limits of Malcolm’s reign.
Even as Malcolm’s threats faded behind them, Vanessa urged her children
to keep running, keep fleeing.
“But what about our bikes?” Marisol complained. “We left them in Mrs.
Haddish’s garage.”
“Forget about them! We’re never going back there now.” Vanessa shuddered
as the sound of sizzling earth buzzed in the back of her thoughts.
Everyone in Malcolm’s neighborhood could hear the sizzling now, too.
Blackened swaths of grass sent up smoke signals pleading for relief. The bottle
was empty now, spilled in a haphazard pattern across Haven Heights, and it
remained melded to Malcolm’s ashen hand. Spines were poking up through his
skin where the liquid made contact, but he paid no mind. He was more concerned
with the steel-colored trunks sprouting in his wake. When he tried to
pull them up or kick them over, Malcolm was met with gravitational resistance.
Its equal and opposite force burrowed the trunks deeper into the ground. And
there they stayed.
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No matter what books he read or what websites he scoured, Malcolm could
find nothing. No answers awaited him; there was no solution for the seclusion
he’d unwittingly forced upon his neighbors in Haven Heights.
Day by day, the forest of steel trees grew taller, thicker, and fuller—exactly
what the solution pledged it would do. Each tree grew beyond the scope of all
the other neighborhood plants, of all other neighborhood structures. Throughout
and around the neighborhood grew walls of impenetrable trees, woven together
by vines like industrial cables. Now nothing could get in or out of Haven
Heights, thanks to the unwanted crop that Malcolm’s anger had planted.
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A Moment
Emily Walters
SHE IS SITTING on the toilet in her empty office bathroom. Pants around ankles,
elbows on knees, head in hands, eyes closed. She finished peeing a few minutes
ago, but there’s something about sitting here and doing nothing, then sitting at
her desk doing nothing. She doesn’t feel like she’s being watched here. She
thinks about how that’s a stupid feeling: of course she doesn’t feel watched
here, she’s in a bathroom. Point being, she can breathe in here.
The light above her is ringing subtly. Quiet enough to make her question
whether or not it’s in her head, but knowing that it’s definitely there. Accompanying
the ringing is a loud, rhythmic whooshing that must be part of the
HVAC system. She could probably meditate to it.
Just outside of the bathroom is the communal office kitchen. She can hear
her coworkers clinking their plates and forks, making the polite, forced, cringy
chit-chat that numbs her to the bone.
She opens her eyes and stares at the gray tile floor. Her butt is getting numb
and she should probably let her neck hold her head up, or she’ll probably get
red marks on her forehead from the heels of her palms.
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She takes a deep breath. In through the nose, starting in the belly and filling
her torso up like a jar to the top of her lungs. She constricts her throat just a bit
as she exhales through her nose from the top of her torso down, relishing in the
ocean-like noise it makes. She’s proud of herself for practicing this ujjayi
breath. She briefly considers dropping everything and becoming a yogi recluse.
She is amused that she thinks she’s cool enough to do so—just knowing the
names of poses and methods doesn’t make her an expert. Sheesh.
She can’t feel her thighs now; they’ve become numb. She takes another
breath and watches the ends of a few strands of hair as they wave in the wind
her exhale makes. She inspects them without touching them, staring at the ends
and looking for split ends. She takes note that her hair looks pretty damn
healthy and that maybe LUSH really does know what they’re doing. She pictures
herself being a yogi recluse making her own beauty products now, too.
She knows she’s definitely not cool enough.
She decides on one more breath before leaving. She becomes very still as
she hears footsteps approaching, then feels her whole body relax as she hears
the men’s room door open instead, keeping her toilet stall sanctum sacred. She
takes that breath, then reaches to her right to grab some toilet paper and finishes
up. She lifts her right foot, balancing on her left, to flush the toilet as she buckles
her uncomfortable Loft slacks. She thinks about how professional clothes
are stupid and that maybe tech companies have it right with casual dress all of
the time.
She stands facing the stall door and closes her eyes. She takes another breath.
She unlatches the door and heads to the sink, just as someone opens the door.
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She forces a smile and a quick nod, then faces the sink. She stares down at the
tap, running it cold while washing her hands. A quick glimpse to the mirror
confirms two huge red patches on her forehead. She thinks about how it’d be
the perfect spot to grow some devil horns.
She can’t stand in there for too long after turning off the faucet, at the risk
of making it sound like she’s just listening to the other woman pee. She also
recognizes she may not be the only person who uses her stall as a recovery
room, and wants to give her comrade-in-arms some alone time.
She grabs a paper towel, lobs it into the trashcan, checks her hair quickly in
the mirror, yanks open the bathroom door, and heads back to her desk to sit
and do nothing.
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Submit to The Kraken’s Spire
The Kraken's Spire is dedicated to new and emerging artists of
all forms. The Kraken's Spire is founded on the principles of inclusivity
and diversity, and we seek to publish the marginalized,
the downtrodden, and the unpublished.
We accept poetry, prose, and visual art, and we’re particularly
interested in the themes of emergence, self-discovery, and selfreflection.
Send submissions to: thekrakensspire@gmail.com
Submissions for Volume 2 of
The Kraken’s Spire will close
on January 15 th .

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