Group-think, However Sanctimonious...

Excerpt from Iceman Xavier Rickles

Today, I found, at the moonshiners’ old place, something glowing in the muddy ashes where the still once sat. It had been harshly secured as my first sight of That Brochure. I let Gwen know where I was and took the ladder down to the moonshine shrine, a couple of cots, and a workstation. Amongst it was a cash stash of $234,650, 3 crates of shine, a change of clothes per cot, wallet of the deceased. Plus 500 more dollars. Behind the cot, which was the first thing to your left, I found a dart. Maybe the board was once near the large metal cylinder inside a steel tub, shedding rust into the dark dirt. The tip of the dart had been caked in clay, or like I said, that rusted equipment, but also matched that of the D.C.S. Atrium. I searched the wall for the former target spread, spotting a darkness in there that made my flashlight fail like a whimpering torch, feeding off the fresh batteries to an aggravation level almost making my legs wobble. Could have been the unseeable depth and the absence of reference of where the light was truly halting. Stopped five or so feet ahead, but there's more to go...again? The dark makes this hovel feel physically unknowable. I caught a glimpse, however, above the workbench. I moved it for a closer look to find what I thought was bothering me so much, and kept looking even after the motivation in me left. It was trail.

Two knee imprints in front of each plinth, on them, nothing. I was—was well lit, fresh torches on the wall with the writing around eye level if I was an inch or three shorter. Three lines of writing wrapped the walls, fourteen feet in diameter, four like a line that wasn’t finished. The cursive was Victorian feeling—I don’t know, I never cared for the squiggly stuff. It wasn’t why I struggled to understand it. I could make out the Russian, French, Dutch, but none of the accompanying symbols, punctuation maybe, clashing poorly with spaces that, by English standards, make no sense. Could’ve been because of the surface imperfections, except it didn’t explain the periods in the middle of sentences. Parts looked upside down or drawn in such a way the entire phase-adjacent collaboration could have multiple meanings based on first impressions. I got a camera from the Growing-woman with five pictures left on the roll. I did the best I could to try to get everything without missing the parts Coldman Jason would salivate over. Although I still itch to go back. She doesn’t want to tell Wolfman Patrick. I think I missed something. As soon as the rain stops….

*last page.

Excerpt from Jerith the Harvestman McCurdy

….She’s out of line. The nerve of that girl is why she's out here with these lunatics—fuck the facts. Fuck my facts of why I deal with her exclusively. Those artist freaks weren’t a threat until he went for a walk into our portion of the swamp. Now, I have to keep an eye on that Snow-woman. Can’t put Max on issues like that—he’s too torn between wanting to be dangerous and needing something to believe in. That wild combination that makes an upset stomach into a gastric bypass fuck-up when you add his jump before seeing attitude. Should've known when he took a liking to it the night Lazaro was removed. Speaking of wild hires, Snow’s new guy.

That Iceman is a hard read. The way he said ‘I trust you.’ That wasn’t toying with feelings unless you mean the god we’re all spitting in the face of. He sent a message — he sent a message to all of us. No proof to call him on which one of the several harsh ones we deserved, regardless. If no one else is going to say it. The second one would’ve fixed this fuck up; he was going to pull it again, I know it. I don’t know if I buy that he still just knows Bluemoon June…

*continues on to unrelated.

Excerpt from Cornman Cecilia Chevez

….I come back to that day a lot. The day I discovered The Island of Secret Hangings. I came across it by complete accident, a bad omen to my fraught escape from my family of all people. I remember thinking, wow, if that doesn't scream obvious cover, I'm deaf. I hope they'll stop looking soon. The dampness is killing my clothes and our supplies. I hate that I know the mold that grows if you don’t alcohol wipe everything ingested or shot up. It's block fuzz with turquoise strands—I can’t find it in any of Harvest-woman April’s books. She's a sick stickler for any updates on treatments and medicines, and demands that I be too. It’s about the most mothering I can take, so she’d better calm it down. My nursing degree is nothing to whatever she has, and she won’t clean certain jars without double-gloving. Even though I agree, I can’t stop thinking about touching it all. I bet it feels gooey.

I can’t fucking believe that psycho is staying. What could Wolfman Patrick agree with Bluemoon June on? I saw that 'trust me' nod; they're out of their minds. We’re not supposed to be assisting suicides or killing people. I know my right to complain about my staged afterlife shielding me from death and other negative repercussions of my real name, so what can he know that would be worth the risk? Harvest-woman April, speaking in his favor, wasn’t at all the stunner for the records. I guess I can’t complain about that since all journals are meant to be how we connect ourselves to the turmoil of this place. Are they saying Iceman Neilson killed Ron, as they also admit they wanted the traitor disposed of? Exactly, no matter how you spin it, it's a cover. And now she is a sudden believer? We’re sure quick to accept an imprisonment now that murder is a docket item well checked off……

*continues, personal.

Day 20

I spent the morning shadowing Wolfman Patrick with Cornman Dennis, pulling stenographer duties. It was a testament to the importance of off-the-cuff, emotionally charged responses. At some point after the vote, I believe he contributed to the awakening of the swamp, gracefully neglecting to mention the death from its yawn and stretch—a tasteful talking around, if you will. Those and constant wide births on narrow passages; he did pretty great. I can’t stand writing and walking at the same time. The 'push' to write can get stressful. Like a background task that explains why the end of the day feels like seeing someone you worked with all shift for the first time in a week. When it was brought up by Cornman Dennis, I softly blurted, “Wasn’t there for the Turquoise Classroom. How about it was a cosmic fluke?” It halted the conversation. We were standing in Coldman Jason’s office and looks shot from every position. The Growing-woman looked at the Wolfman, who checked with the Cornman while he turned to the Coldman, and by now, I could barely fight the smile in the tension. The silence bled into what I think Wolfman Patrick thought was a well-timed, conversational wrap-around to the potentially appropriate question. Instead, Cornman Dennis could read a room faster.

“Can anyone run us through what that is?” Cornman Dennis asked.

“I 'heard' it was 3 bedroom, 2 bath, full of corpses downstairs, basement, but a great big Japanese classroom—” I said.

“Our work reaches further than we can see from our limited angles,” Coldman Jason started. “Certain experiments have shown that we have conversed with nature on the most fundamental elements that form our reality—”

“—We think in our attempts to create an open channel to this entity led us all here, they responded with a house that didn’t belong here, given the position on the earth at this time, where it was from. Maybe Pangaea went differently… What Harvestman Jerith saw merely lines up with our amplifier's attempt date and may have been our doing.” Wolfman Patrick finished.

“No ‘may’ about my situation, huh?” I asked.

“We don’t want to discourage your abilities—”

“Your verbal proclivities,” Coldman Jason interjected.

“Right. But this language takes truth in all forms. Feelings behind all actions and with the results so quickly pouring from your lexicon—your diction is an embraceable prophecy in your hands; accidentally or not.”

“So little control, yet you want an amateur like me—” I said.

“I gather you hate the dramatics, but you’ve been chosen. You’re not the aloof goof you portray yourself, and your publishers always assumed. You see, we’re all trying for something here. It comes down to the syntax in this case. Snow-woman's painting, Turquoise Aquifer, in his case. We plan to fulfill the destiny of the entity as it comes.”

“Not everyone likes their destiny—their fate. Think we do? Our mathematical probability,” Coldman Jason said. I guess he was banking that it would be funny, given the existential discussion we had recently.

He slid a copy of my book across the conference table upside down when I saw it. They probably thought I took the gesture highly personally. Nah—The Growing-woman gasps a lot, and I didn't want her to see me laugh at her. I never put a second thought into the titling of the book, some say, that forced me into exile. It’s not. That would’ve saved loads on this therapy craze I don’t get. I chose the title rather oddly, and given the nature of—I’m stalling. It’s meant to be an expansion of my thesis regarding the study of the effects of death—knowing of their death, knowing the conscious state while in the brain and not, the sensation unforgettable of a near-death experience, kind of a paradox. I questioned people who had recently dealt with a person’s death and talked with them about the before and after of their view on mortality. Difficult to get volunteers regardless of the rather isolating winters. My survey sample was mostly students paying for classes the hard way, getting pizza orders out, or cleaning the campus like some indentured servitude agreement. Their poverty-stricken perspective is what led to the title.

If you’ve read it, and the grotesque descriptions I laid bare for accuracy’s sake—quotes regarding dorm life, home sickness in rat-infested section 8 housing, you might have picked up on a through line. If you haven’t, can’t explain it, won't try, but I remember getting plenty of pushback at the time. I hated everyone who called it a book ender. Can’t be mad just because I still don’t know why I fought for it, so be it. I have yet to agree with them. But on the cover of DEAD MOUSE

Ditches & the

Cesspool quorum, I staked my claim over the conversation we all should have left alone. People who know me were the hardest to convince. Harder to convince them it wasn’t nightmare-related. Anyway, Upside down, the discolored MOUS in the black-and-red striped pattern and POOl q spelled pretty vividly Blood & Snow. In my pause to think of why the fucking hell I was locked on those words in the first place, flashing like a billion cameras before my eyes to capture my bewilderment, in my eyes—My head started to hurt. Wolfman Patrick strolled around the table to my side. Everything goes white—a single red dot splash, a deafening tine—

“Blood and Snow….humph. Doesn’t make sense to me. Bluemoon June’s expression of your leaping capabilities lives up,” I said.

“How does that feel?” Growing-woman Gwen asked.

It surprised everyone, although whether it was my denial or the coincidence, I’m not sure, but no one more than Iceman Xavier. He blasted in with some discovery, one that seemed to rub the Growing-woman the wrong way as the freshly developed photos hit the table and she immediately tried to sift through the unrelated scenery pictures. The disappointment hit her when he handed four or five straight to Wolfman Patrick, who cupped his mouth amid the first one. He graciously brought him in for a hug that could’ve lasted a lifetime. Growing-woman Gwen looked disgusted just to cheer up, jolted to explain happily that she didn’t want to spoil what might have been a false positive. Harvest-woman April approved the trip under watch-the-sky kind of caution. An impulsively formed six-person group was cluttered together around me, trap built in.

Wolfman Patrick

Coldman Jason

Hay-woman Donna

Blue Moon June

And me, with Iceman Xavier as driver

Better than a camera, Blue Moon June joked as I wondered why Dennis shouldn’t go instead. The Iceman seemed worried that I wouldn’t see it during my argument, but stayed quiet. Halfway there, she shouted over the bounding wakes, make sure you’re awake. Iceman Xavier led us up the rocky shore in the best path carved out of mossy stones. It wasn’t further than a 100-meter hike. That may have been why the Iceman sped ahead to tidy the place. By the look on his face, he needed to prove it was real to himself. As soon as he opened the hatch, he was three rungs down, waving me—no one else to follow. I invited Bluemoon June to climb into the creepy, dark, moist hole; I don’t think I’m letting her do anything. Camcorder in hand, she shoved me out of the way. I don’t know who shut the door above, pitch-blackening the view to levels only a grave could match. In a strike of a match, I could at least look down to see the next rung. Seemed like a poor strategy, but if they don’t care, that makes three of us. At the bottom, I felt a team had brewed a team I was not on or allowed to be on. I scanned what I could make out of the hovel that wasn’t the worst I had seen, given its underground, has dirt walls and floors, and a decently high ceiling, if you agree 5’10” is average height.

“I’m shocked you’ll aren’t clambering,” I said.

“It’s important to change the order of entry of new Atriums for notes—each position when facing an artifact, shrine, beyond us forestation, I must be shown a certain,” Bluemoon June said, standing at the entry tunnel the Iceman cleared. When I continued looking over the reminisces of the former dwellers, confused as to where they could’ve gone for privacy and left their empty wallets, Blue Moon June said, “You can ransack the place when we’re done.”

“I’m not that important, am I?” With her other hand, she made sure her flashlight, which was much brighter and what we should've been using all along, was aimed at her face. Blinding herself just to head-nod me toward the dark opening with the Iceman holding his lantern for me to take with me into the hole. “What, alphabetical order doesn’t suit entities beyond us?” In the radiation of their deaf ears, I stooped down and entered.

They didn’t believe me, and I extended my lighter-less, match-less pockets with the lent to prove it. I didn’t light those candles. Not fresh, but were feet long in their heyday. They were lighting the gibberish on the walls, one extra line than in Iceman Xavier’s photos. I started at the beginning—what felt like the beginning, not that I can discern a message. I found myself slowly following along the perimeter, and they must have thought I was reading. I wasn’t and…I was… The longer I glued myself, the harder it was to unstick my eyes from each word, even backtracking to adjust my understanding. "What understanding?" I whispered. Three Hs in a row are not a reason to pause for clarity. "What kind of Latin was that?" I asked? Faintly, I heard someone call for paint. I was thinking that they were not satisfied with the discovery without their personal Cult Ded Moon quirks. They seemed fairly honest to the Cornmen and women, I remember thinking. My hot breath backed into my nostrils before I realized how close I was to the wall. I had grown content doing laps, except for not knowing why, realizing I’m losing count, and pushing them out of the way... am I? I reach the end, and it hurts, like I had been doing a hundred miles an hour and was stopped instantly with all my vital organs unable to brace for the Gs, all crammed trying to burst through the form of me. This obsessive need to hold this place was pissing me off more than scaring me, and I can recall screaming I can’t move three times. My hand shot at the wall, planting two fingers on the wall next to the ending dash. I began scratching at the place and looking back at Bluemoon June, still asking me what’s wrong. I’m trying to say I can’t move my feet, but she might have been put off by my gesture, that could be mistaken for an attack, since I'm sure I was moving, not the wall. Back and forth near the place on the wall, next to her hostage negotiator's expressions, I could barely hear the muffles from outside--on the other side of the words... While I was vigorously rubbing the blackened wall with—I think, wax from a candle. I don’t think progress was enough; she went yelling for white paint. Then, as I noticed these blinks are entire minutes long, I lost consciousness to a Hay-woman Donna’s, “Oh my god! Stop him--.”