By Ambria Richardson

“I know that I am probably overthinking it,” my partner says in the dark. “But when I get into my head, I doubt your feelings for me.”

When I hear that, my blood feels as though it simply stops pumping through my veins. I lay there, dead between the black sheets. There is a soft slurping sound coming from the other side of the room as their cat takes a drink. I don’t say anything because dead people don’t speak, don’t feel. I look over at them from the corner of my eyes, which I have since hidden behind a raised arm resting on my forehead. For the first time in our almost 4-month relationship, they face away from me. Their posture resembles that of the wilted marigold on their windowsill, except a little watering won’t fix this. As I continue to remain silent, they start to sniffle. Every thought in my mind is yelling at me to just swoop them into my arms and hold them as they break. But I can’t. I just continue to watch as the world crumbles a little more as I picture each tear falling from their eyes.

 “Say something,” they beg. I know what they want me to say, as matter of fact, I know what I want to say: that they are wrong, and that I do love them, so much so that my heart hurts, like I’m having a heart attack due to all of my love for them building up in my veins like plaque.

Instead, I disappoint them by replying, “What is there to say?”

I can feel the shock radiating off of them, followed by a palpable sadness. Finally, they turn to semi-face me, shoulders shaking from what I assume to be the overwhelming pangs of anguish brought about by my hand. They say, “Please leave, Chicken.”

My mind goes blank for a moment, then I start to slowly rise from the bed and gather my belongings. I still say nothing before I leave, my mind filled with nothing but the worst. My only solace is the fact that they called me by their silly nickname for me: Chicken.

When I make it back to my dorm, I find my roommate in our shared bedroom. I approach her, leaning my head on her shoulder. All of the tension leaves my body as I simply start to sob, not because I’m sad, but because I have never felt this hopeless, this empty, before.

A few hours later, I text them and ask if we could talk, the reason being that I want to try and say something that would keep them from breaking up with me. Because I am so scared of losing them, my brain goes blank. Standing in front of them, my throat tightens, my nose starts to itch, and my eyes starts to water. I blink slowly to try and dispel the urge to cry because I know that blinking too quickly will cause the tears to fall. In my mind if I cry, I’ll appear weak, which will cause them to look down on me and make the situation worse. At least, that is what my subconscious thinks, and I am inclined to believe it because all of my experience has supported and conditioned these responses.

As we talk, my ability to maintain some semblance of composure crumbles: tears start to fall down my cheeks and my whole body starts to tremble. I can see from their facial expression that they are unfazed by my tears, and they continue to speak to me about how if I just tried to be more open, things wouldn’t have gotten to this place. In my mind I know this, but in the heat of the moment, I just can’t. This is the last thing they want to hear, so their brows furrow slightly, and they sit up straighter.

Breaking my mold that I have pushed onto them, they respond by saying, “That’s ok, we’ll work on it together.” No one has ever said anything like that to me. This causes me to completely crack open, and all of my jumbled-up thoughts come spilling out.

Afterwards, we stand in awkward silence, until my partner makes a face of disgust. In confusion, I look around, hoping that it isn’t something I said. Then, I see my cat standing behind me, and I understand why my partner is making that face: my cat had just farted, and it stinks terribly.

By Sara Micholas

 

The Rise:

Tumble around your house when you’re a toddler; throw your body into cartwheels, attempt backhand springs, and watch TV upside down. Anything to get your two-year-old energy out. Your parents will put you in dance for six years, but the studio will eventually shut down. The next option will be to put you in gymnastics classes. Agree, because you like the idea. It makes sense in your eight-year-old brain. Go to classes casually but understand they’ll ask you to join competitive gymnastics when they see you have potential. Join the competitive team but understand you won’t know anyone on it; your friends from the casual classes weren’t asked to join, nor did they want to. This is your journey and your journey alone.

Go to your first team practice; your coach is someone you know, Mike. He will call you twinkle-toes. His assistant coach, though, is named Lisa. You won’t know her, but she’ll be the one and only person who you’ll allow to call you shortie. You will meet the other girls on the team; most of them will be older than you. You won’t get close to them as they’ll quit before you come out of your shell. Become friends with the two girls close in age to you; they’ll become your best friends.  Later, a new girl will join after one friend quits due to injury and another for a reason that will remain unknown to you. This new girl will become one of your best friends; you will call each other buddy and help each other throughout the rest of your gymnast careers.

Come more out of your shell; your team is a lot more accepting than you think. Have fun, these are your friends. Hang out outside of practice. There is no “I” in team. Master new skills that you never thought you would ever be able to do; you will feel unstoppable. Learn to preemptively put your hair in a gymnast bun; they call it the gymnast bun for a reason. It’ll make you feel solidarity among your team. Befriend some of the other teams’ coaches outside; one of them will end up being the gym co-owner, and he’ll call you cape because you once wore a Cape Cod sweatshirt around him. He’ll play “Sweet Caroline” so much that the gym will collectively groan when they hear it, probably will for the rest of their lives, but let him. It’s funny, and you’ll feel closer to everyone in the gym, even to those outside of your team.

This sport will cement itself as a key part of your life, which seems like a good thing at the time. This is the rise, the peak. Things will not go up from here, so enjoy it while it lasts. It will not last as long as you believe.

The Fall:

Go to that meet and have fun, but always bring a friend if you have to go to the bathroom; the photographer here likes little girls. Wear shorts over your leo, but not when you’re competing; you’ll get points docked. Wear a bra to support yourself, but don’t let the straps show, that’s a deduction. Hairspray your hair completely flat because if it’s not, deduction. Use the same hairspray from your hair to keep your leotard from riding up your butt, because that’s a deduction, too. Deduction, deduction, deduction. Get used to them, deductions, that is. They will be a constant in your life from now on, though you might never know why they’re there. Try your best but get ready to be disappointed because three adults sitting at a table watching you prance around in your leotard have decided that your best wasn’t good enough. Cry in the locker room, cry in bathrooms at meets, cry during the car ride back to your house after practice, cry about all of your so-called shortcomings, but don’t let anyone see your tears. Put chalk on your hands, on your grips, but no amount of chalk will be enough to save your hands from ripping. It’s not a rip till it bleeds anyway. Rip, blood, chalk; chalk, blood, rip; continue, continue, continue. Use the water from the spray bottle hanging from the chalk bucket on your grips, too, but don’t use too much. The effectiveness of the chalk will get ruined that way. Spend all your free time in the gym; say no to plans because a four-hour Saturday practice is more important. College gymnastics is the dream; the Olympics an unreachable reality. Master new skills but be ready to be stopped by your mind; mental blocks are the hardest part. Be just as strong or even stronger than all the boys in your grade but be prepared for them to still tell you your sport isn’t a real sport. The guy gymnasts won’t be any better, either. They’ll be just as harsh; they think their version is better than yours. They think they’re stronger. Don’t let them be stronger.

Dedicate your life to this sport but know your body will be ruined in return. Get injured but get back up; no injury is too serious unless your life is completely altered. Pour your blood, sweat, and tears into this just to quit eight years later. You’ll never be able to stand for too long without aches and pains, but you’ll always have a party trick up your sleeve when asked to entertain.

By Maddie Cincala

 

Background:

I’ve noticed these past few years that my body feels heavier. My muscles are tighter and plagued with throbbing aches, which I attribute to poor posture and even poorer sleeping positions, spine twisted, hips to mattress, chest twisted onto its side. It’s the only way I can seem to fall asleep, comfortable when I fall and impossibly uncomfortable when I wake. Cracking joints have become a part of my morning routine as I get up and stretch, forcing my body into working order. My days are filled with classwork and fueled by coffee and food of questionable quality. Can I really call this living? It certainly doesn’t feel like it as I find myself straining to get through what are supposed to be pleasant social exchanges and relaxing hang outs with friends. The noise starts to become too much and all I can think about now is finding an excuse to leave. Words blur into distortion, and I stop processing. A pre-programmed smile and nod just don’t cut it anymore. Though the more I disengage, the more I know I’m missing out on. Every day seems like this. I’m always the first to leave the fun, and the last to finish the work. How did this happen? I’m going through days like breaths of air, and I feel like I haven’t been able to stop and enjoy any part of it.  Ever since my freshman year of college, I’ve found solace in the shower, dim enough to take the strain off my eyes, and warm enough to let me feel something without overstimulation. I don’t listen to music when I shower, just listening. Closing my eyes, the water sounds like rainfall, but also a spitting fire pit if I think about it hard enough. I imagine the water washing off the layer of outside filth and cutting through the membrane that has clouded my mind, even if it’s only temporary. Yet even after showering, I know I need more. I need not just an external wash, but a full body cleanse.

During today’s session, a dissection of my body will be performed followed by a full body cleanse and concluded with a reassembling.

Objectives:

The objectives of this session are to 1) cleanly dissect a full body, taking notes on the state of its parts pre cleanse, 2) properly prep and cleanse the harvested organs for the cleanse and identify how each step is specialized to each organ, and 3) reassembling the body, taking note of the condition of it after the solitary period and comparing the results to the pre-cleanse notes.

Note that this session will cover multiple days. Be prepared to check back in outside of session hours for full credit.

Materials and Methods:

All materials should be provided for this session.

• 1 large Tupperware container- the bigger the better
• 4 medium-sized bowls
• A meat tenderizer
• A juicer
• 1 towel
• A scalpel
• Cooking twine
• Lotion
• Massage Oil
• 4 bags of lavender and chamomile tea
• 1 large cucumber
• Salt
• 3 whole lemons
• White vinegar
• Baking soda
• Ice
• Synovial fluid
• Bone saw
• My Body

Before the dissection begins, prep the following:

1. Boil a large kettle of water. While that boils, proceed with the next steps.
2. Make a lemon salt scrub by mixing 3 cups of salt and the juice from all 3 lemons.
3. Make an exfoliant marinade by mixing a 1:4-part ratio of lotion and massage oils.
4. Cut the cucumber into thin slices and add to a bowl of ice water. Set it aside.
5. Once the water is boiled, steep the lavender and chamomile tea as per the instructions for the brand that is being used. Once steeped, remove from heat, and let it cool.
6. Make a slice in the throat, severing the main artery. Let the blood drain into the sink, like a fish being prepped for flaying. Note the complacency as life drains from the eyes.

Procedure:

1. Using the scalpel, make an incision that runs down along the back of the body. Use the spine as a guideline, starting from the base of the scalp, down to the tailbone. Make a cross section across the shoulder blades, continuing down each of the arms and ending at the wrists. From the tail bone, split off, cutting down each of the back of the legs to the heel. Gently cut away the subcutaneous membrane to peel away the skin. Do not rush as to keep the skin in one piece. Note how the skin is dry from the neglect and tight from the long hours spent in scalding hot showers.
   • When the body is removed from the skinsuit, rinse it with distilled water and scrub it down with the salt scrub. Rinse again and slather it in the marinade to rehydrate, applying extra to the hands, elbows, and knees where the skin is most dry. Store in the fridge for at least twenty-four hours.
2. Using the same scalpel, remove the muscles, cutting at the connective tissue and ligaments. Make a note of what muscles go where for future reference. Lay them all out flat and take note of the back and shoulder muscles. Observe how they are much tighter than the other ones, knotted and strained from poor posture and stress.
   • Once all muscles are removed and lined up, use the meat tenderizer to alleviate the knots, rolling, crushing, and breaking down the grain. Do not let the fleshy texture fool you. The knots are resilient, allowing for intensive beating.
3. Carefully remove the eyes. The removal of muscle around the skull should provide enough space to insert a finger. Trace the finger down along the edge of the occipital cavity and curl it up to pop the eyes out. Do not sever the optic nerve, rather, gently pull the root from the base. Study the eyes. Notice how they are a little worse for wear, worsening as the years go by, threatening the ever-fading crispness of the depth of field. They burn from late night screen time, perpetuating the genocide of rods and cones within the occipital chambers.
   • Take the eyes and soak them in the cucumber water, allowing them to rehydrate and quenching the burn. May the cool crispness of the water restore some of that declining quality of vision. Let them soak overnight next to the skin.
4. Using the bone saw, cut around the top of the skull, being sure not to cut too deep. The brain tissue is very fragile. Once the skull is open, drain the cerebrospinal fluid and gently work the brain out. Though there are no external abnormalities, know that there is a storm inside: a crackling, lightning network of neurons, firing on all cylinders, creating a torrent of thoughts, and contributing to the energy crisis this body endures.
   • Gently lower the brain into the lavender and chamomile tea, taking care not to jostle the container. The brain is soft like tofu but will absorb what it needs to in its own time. Let the tea soak into all of the folds, slowing the racing thoughts and letting go of the stress that has accumulated over the years.
5. Pull out my lungs one at a time, cutting at each of the main bronchi and working them out from the bottom of the rib cage. This may seem like more of a hassle, but the hard work will pay off in the end. Examine each of the lungs and note how they are healthy, but small. It is evidence of anxious breath holding and applied pressure from slouched posture. They have not yet reached their full potential.
   • String the lungs up on a cool night using the cooking twine and let them air out overnight. The crisp air will allow them to breathe unhindered at last. Take caution during this step, keeping them in a place out of reach of any night creatures looking for an easy midnight snack.
6. Take out the stomach, liver, kidneys, and intestines. Turn the stomach inside-out and empty it. Gently squeeze out the contents inside the intestines. Observe the half-digested slosh and realize it mostly consists of processed junk food, as do the intestines. Discard this mush and proceed to clean each organ thoroughly with distilled water.
   • Take the liver and the kidneys, and soak them in distilled water, covered. Allow them to soak in as much as they can, renewing their natural filters.
7. Take the heart, severing it at the superior and anterior vena cava, the aorta, and the pulmonary veins and arteries. Take note of how cold and heavy it feels for something the size of a small fist. Chalk its weight up to it being made of pure muscle, but deep down you will empathize with it.
   • Wrap it in a warm towel to rest, as it has become so cold and hardened over the years- it needs to thaw. Do not rush this process. Hearts take time to warm up. If rushed, you risk breaking it.
8. Disassemble the remaining skeleton piece by piece, along with the teeth. Record each point at which the joints run dry. This will be evident by signs of dryness and scraping where the joints connect. Count the teeth and commend this body for having no cavities.
   • Fine tune and reapply the synovial fluid that keep the joints going. Apply extra to the knees in attempts to mitigate further swell ups post-assemblage. Take the time to scrub each of the teeth with vinegar and treat with a baking soda solution to naturally whiten and disinfect. Don’t be disheartened if they remain stained yellow. Genetics and coffee are to blame for that.
9. Let everything sit overnight, or even longer; however long you feel it takes. Be sure everything is properly stored away and covered up. These things take time. Spend this time reflecting on the state of the body and considering how the state of the world may have affected it.
10. When you’re ready, begin to reassemble, starting with the skeleton, building it back up. Rinse out the brain, kidneys, and liver and put them back in along with the lungs and stomach and other innards. Reapply the muscles and eyes, rinsing the eyes beforehand. Make sure everything is in order before bringing out the skin. Rinse thoroughly before sliding it back on over everything, making sure to smooth it out so there are no abnormal bumps. Take your time with this, trying not to rip the new skin.
11. Store my body in a warm, dark place and leave it alone. Over time, the bones will realign where the reassembly may have been shaky. The muscles and organs will shift and slide back in place, rejoining the bones and better shaping the skin. The heart will start to beat once more, and the lungs will breathe unlabored. The two will work in tandem and renew the body with clean blood. 
12. Once the body is fully cleansed, it will come out on its own time. Observe it and compare its quality to that of your post-cleanse notes.

By K. Bell

August 10, 2021

Spoilers for Split, Gerald’s Game, and Haunting of Hill House

At the doorway of my jujitsu instructor’s living room I proclaim, “Nerd!”

This is the first time I’ve dared to accept Jack’s invitation to come to his home for a cuppa. Despite having Jack as a jujitsu instructor for almost a year, my friendship with the war vet is new. Visually, Jack and I seem an unlikely pair: me with my green pixie cut and oxford shoes, waving a feminist flag, overeducated, and “queer as fuck,” and Jack, his body a catalogue of injuries from a lifetime of fighting, a marine in lifestyle and appearance with his military fade and combat boots. But together, we have enough meds to line several bookshelves, have had longer and more emotionally rewarding relationships with our therapists than with most other humans, and have all the paranoia of the deeply doped. (We share a few issues: PTSD, anxiety, depression, sexual trauma, persistent nightmares, self-harm behavior.)

“Such a nerd,” I tell him. “J.K., I am too.”

Frames from Marvel and DC comics, a watercolor of The Fellowship of the Ring, and a sketch of Batman’s hand around the Joker’s neck decorate the walls. Jack’s shelves are lined with graphic novels, comic books, science fiction, and horror.

He doesn’t offer me a seat on the couch because I recently told him I found his physicality intimidating. At the time, he was astonished. “What? I’m a teddy bear.”

He’s a 200-pound bulldog—broad shoulders, triangle waist, arms covered in tattoos, the eyes of Caligula, and the disinterested resting face of an Easter Island head.

I’ve only recently managed to make eye contact.

He has also told me stories of his bar brawls, biting noses, popping joints, and pulling ears, which I love hearing but make me think twice about sitting within arm’s reach.

But during martial arts practice, I noticed he too needed to leave class for a few minutes to reclaim a brain and body hijacked by anxiety. He would signal one of his blackbelt students, leave his belt and jacket on a bench, then quietly step off the mat and pace outside on the sidewalk in his bare feet, shoulders up to his ears, smoking like his life depended on it. Recognizing that flashbacks aren’t a reflection of age, gender, or physical strength was a revelation for me. I started to ask Jack questions about his healing process and coping mechanisms, first over text, then at a bar, both of us finding relief in our tiny support group.

Out of respect for my fear of humans, he has a chair set up for me in the corner of the living room, my back to the wall, several feet away from him so I can see him approaching and I won’t be surprised by anyone coming through the door. As a retired Army combat medic and Marine infantryman, Jack is intimately familiar with PTSD symptoms and wants me to feel safe.

While Jack brews coffee, I peruse his collection of King, Jackson, Rice, Barker, and Lovecraft.

“Are you a horror fan?” Jack asks, handing me coffee in a Game of Thrones mug.

“Survivor stories are cathartic.”

“I might have some books for you.”

Before I leave, he loads me up with Alice in Wonderland comics, retold through a horror H.P Lovecraft lens.

# # #

I was, until a few years ago, a horror neophyte, mostly because I’m a coward. (I was also a snob about stories, as if one genre of telling was a higher art than another—until I picked up Misery and couldn’t understand why was my heart pounding.)

Researchers postulate why some of us enjoy being scared, whether it’s out of mild sadomasochism, an outlet for what Stephen King calls our “anticivilization tendencies,” or simply for a rush of adrenaline. Horror also connects with viewers by showing us universal, cultural, or personal fears like being eaten alive or consumed by a pandemic. Hollywood has used the genre to reflect current events, comment on the real horrors of Vietnam (Night of the Living Dead, 1968), and reflect shifting attitudes toward sexuality during the AIDS crisis. I watch, as King would say, to dare my own nightmares. I embrace pretend horrors to “cope with the real ones.”

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