1623 c/o Joe Kapitan

Nova

A companion ascends; this I watch from afar. Why can I feel no joy? Why must I see all things cast in shadow of their trajectories? I am sorry, Maffeo. I blame my instruments. They have ruined some part of me that was better in the not knowing.

In my telescope I had been watching a star brighten, week after week, surpassing its neighbors. Just when I believed it might consume those near it, it vanished altogether from the night sky. It is gone, Maffeo. I have verified this. From the numbers, I knew of its distance, and from its distance, how long its light had travelled. My friend, I tell you this truth – when it appeared to me at its most wondrous, it held a terrible secret.

It was already dead.

In halls of marble they will whisper to you. They will surround you in golden robes and golden tongues and speak of the kingdoms and peoples that are now bound to you, and you will resist what they say until you have grown accustomed to the gravity of your thoughts, the pull of your words.

You will awaken one morning in the warm fingers of dawn and believe that you commanded as much from the sun.

It will feel no different to you, that first day of your undoing.

To distant lenses, you will still look magnificent.

1622 c/o Kirsty Logan

Anchor of the Suburbs

It was halfway through the spring of '84 when Sandra decided that she was going to become an anchoress.

'I am going to live,' she announced one evening during the advert break of our nightly TV soaps, 'in the crawlspace beside the laundry room.' She warned us that being an anchoress included refusing all contact except food in the morning, removal of her bucket in the evening, and the weekly updates on the TV soaps.

Our mother was displeased: 'I did not buy a house at this address, complete with jacuzzi and wide driveway, to spend my time emptying slop buckets. Oh no, little miss anchoress; it's a long time since I stopped cleaning up your do-do, and you won't catch me starting now.' The row was postponed when Sandra realised that she was missing EastEnders, the most vital of the soaps.

The next morning, Sandra lined up her anchoress supplies in a row outside the laundry room: a bucket, a selection of Danielle Steele novels, a blanket, and a refillable water bottle.

'You won’t make it to the end of spring,' I shouted through the crack of my bedroom door.

'I hope you catch the swine flu and die!' Sandra shouted back through the wall of the crawlspace. She seemed to remember the live-and-let-live philosophy that had sent her to the anchorage in the first place, and added, ‘I take it back!’ Her outburst was understandable: we had all lived together at the same address for thirteen years, and old habits are hard to forget. I watched Sandra potter about with the rest of her supplies, but I refused to help; if she wanted to be fragile and holy, she could do it herself.

That evening Sandra put out her bucket of refuse, complete with its neat cling film lid, for our mother to empty. I arranged my desk chair so I could see it through the gap in the door; I knew there was going to be a row and I didn’t want to miss it. My mother had a variety of ways to address issues with her children, and none of them was pleasant. I settled into my chair, ready to spring up and join the fight if it looked exciting enough.

'If this is the way we must live,' said our mother cheerfully as she picked up the bucket and went to empty it, 'then so be it.' I waited for an hour, still sure that I was going to catch Sandra breaking her anchoress rules of quiet reflection, but the crawlspace stayed silent all night.

Every day I tried to catch Sandra cheating on her anchoress duties, sure that she was too weak to stick to them. I even glanced in her refuse bucket to make sure she hadn’t been sneaking in contraband: Twix bars, gossip magazines, or notes from friends. She didn’t even come out in May, when the TV soap awards were live on Channel 3. Mum and I had a row over whether we should put the TV nearer the door so that Sandra could hear it, but then Sandra just sang hymns loudly until we turned the volume back down.

Spring soon turned to summer and Sandra was still living in the crawlspace, still leaving out her refuse bucket, and still missing the TV soaps every night. In August, a man from the newspaper telephoned to ask if this was the address of the Anchor of the Suburbs.

'Anchoress,' said my mother, and confirmed the address. The newspaper man said he wanted to write a flattering piece about Sandra, but mum was sure there would be a catch: with newspaper men, she said, there always was.

'Will he spring for all these new dietary requests she’s having, that’s what I want to know,' said mum as she boiled a dozen eggs, which was all Sandra was eating that day. When the newspaper man showed up, I knew mum wouldn’t refuse to give him whatever he wanted. He had teeth like a movie star, hair as curly as worms, and gold rings in a row along his knuckles; just like the man who runs the local pub in EastEnders.

'Is this going out live?' asked mum, which was a silly question because he only had a tape recorder, not a camera.

'I, and my readers, are just dying to see how you are all living,' said the newspaper man from between his icy teeth, 'with The Anchoress.' He said it just like that, the words all starting with capital letters, as if this was the Queen’s address and not just 19 Greenwood Drive. The next week the article was published in the middle pages of the local newspaper, and I knew that mum wished she’d put up more of a row. The article said Sandra was quiet, fragile, and utterly dependent: the perfect catch for today’s modern man.

'What rubbish!' shouted mum, 'Refuse and rot! My Sandra doesn’t care about any silly boys; she's got far more important things to think about than cooking dinner and sweeping the floor.' Sandra agreed: she stayed being an anchoress all the way to the next spring, whispering her meagre requests through the laundry-room door.

There was no row, or shouting match, or final straw that finally made me break down the door to Sandra’s anchorage: I just couldn’t live with her silence any more.

1621 c/o Jefferson Byrd

1621, Connecticut

"Mohimbe. Alamohimbe!" said Grandfather. This was Indian talk for come over here, pronto!

Grandfather was pointing to a couple of tiny owl pellets on the forest floor. "Alamohimbe. Mohimbala." I wasn't sure what that meant, but it sounded like more Indian talk. Grandfather knelt down and picked up one of the black, speckled pellets. He squished it between his thumb and his index finger and gave it a sniff.

"Ahh. Mohimbe!" said Grandfather, a frown creeping across his old man face. He stuck his blackened, greasy finger out for me to smell. Reluctantly, I bent down and gave Grandfather's finger a good long whiff. It didn't smell like much of anything. Grandfather pulled his hand back and greedily took another whiff himself.

"Alamohimbe," he said solemnly. The owl these pellets had come from, Grandfather explained in Indian talk, had just died. Grandfather wiped his greasy finger onto his pants and stood up, gazing off up into the trees. Somewhere out there, he told me in Indian talk, the spirit of the owl is struggling to escape the mortal world. Liberated from its body, the soul flies off, but it cannot be truly free until it breaks away from all this... Grandfather gestured to the trees, the ground... all this is the mortal world, Grandfather said.

"Mohimbe. Alamohimbe. Mohimbala," he said, explaining the process by which souls depart the body and fight against the elements before passing on to the realm of spirits. He made it sound like a sad thing, this struggle that the soul must undertake before going to the spirit realm. I didn't want to imagine the ordeal my soul would have to go through trying to get out of this crummy mortal world. But Grandfather reassured me that it was not sad nor was it happy. It is all just some stuff that happens.

Just then, a distant rumbling. Grandfather sprung forward, his brow creased. He looked over to the lake where our people fish and make camp every harvest. The rumbling grew louder and louder until we finally saw it.

"Mohimbe..." said Grandfather. The white man.

Dressed in strange clothing, the white men stood around talking to each other in a curious language I could not understand. There were six of them. One of them cracked open a cooler and began passing out beers to the others. Some of them already had opened beers, which they chucked into the lake so they could each enjoy a fresh one. I leaned closer to get a better view when I saw the great beast that had made such a mighty rumbling. It was an off-road vehicle with four-wheel drive, V-6 engine and a luxury interior. I had never seen anything like it before. The white men were unhitching a jet-ski from the back of their sports utility vehicle. Grandfather motioned for me to hurry back to our camp by the green fields.

"Mohimbe?" I asked. White men?

"Mohimbe.” Grandfather replied. Assholes.

1620 c/o Emma J Lannie

Making Oxygen

I’d have it a different way.

I’d have it just the two of us.

And I know it doesn’t work without the oarsmen, and it’s cool that he’s made them wear blindfolds and all, but if it were up to me there would be just me and him. I like the idea of that. I don’t need for this to be moving to be impressed by it.

He has eyes so dark and in this light they look almost black. He holds the pan above the flame and I feel a clearness in my lungs, like the air around him is different, better. I let him kiss me but only for a while. His lips taste of juniper berries. His mouth is wet. And all I can think of are the twelve other men down here, rowing blindly, their ears attuned to every single breath. I can’t let my breathing get heavy, or quick, or slow, deep. My breathing has to be just breathing. Not the breathing of the kissed or the kissing.

On land, we are barely ever together. It’s hard to be in the same space when that space is the whole world. Here, under the water, in this tiny enclosed thing, he can look me in the eye and make it mean that I am his and that he is mine. Even with the heads of the twelve other men bobbing to the left and right of us, working those oars, even then, he can make me feel like it would be okay to do things with him. And I don’ t do things with him. But a part of me wants to, a part of me has been made to not care what the other people might think.

He tips the pan and its contents swirl and he tips it again, the other way, and I watch. I watch his hands. The way his fingers grip the handle, like he could let go at any minute. As though the holding on is no effort. There have been nights when he’s held me that same way, with an unknowable ease, and I’ve felt safe, felt that there would be no letting go.

I was afraid of the water. Of it getting in. Of being trapped and no one knowing we were down here, no one knowing the water was inside as well as outside. That the river would leak in, and still be the river, but be the river inside our lungs. And it would displace all our oxygen. But still I let him bring me down here. It was something to face.

He slips his hand to my neck, his thumb slowly tracing a line down and back up again, lifting my face to his. I open my mouth. He kisses me again. The men row. They can’ t see anything. I am quiet. I am barely breathing.

In the world, this doesn’t happen.

In the world, he has his life and I have mine.

1619 c/o Derek Piotr

the defeat of the Jaffna Kingdom

listen king: you'll hand my girl to me soon (with withered hands) and suddenly die. your kingdom was beautifully weak, you were holding a damselfly in the rain. this ends now. my goddess won't understand you in years time, she'll wake one day to rain on the palace walls and look at the empty air and leave. your guards have mostly died, we killed them because you have her. who will keep her from leaving when she wants? she belongs to me.

my soul falls through the sun without her. a searing journey. your pearling season at Putalam distracted her from your imposed beauty. now she holds the one pearl she managed to save, close. observing a clouted reflection of herself. a beautiful vision. herself in milk. let me bring that milk. you are too old and soon shall expire. you look at maps and you don't exist. when i look at maps these months, i find the areas which link up, jacob's ladder block and ribbon leading to matrimony. let me know my goddess, king. bring her here.

1618 c/o Andrew Worthington

defenestration is quite bohemian

A: "I want you to take me by the scalp and slam me as hard as you can into that window over there."

B: "No."

A: "You're such a sadist."

B: "The glass might break and you could fall. Of course, the fall wouldn't kill you."

A: "That's what I hope."

B: "I don't get it."

A: "I want to suffer for my art."

B: "Oh. That's quite bohemian,."

A: "Yes, I know."

B: "Could you get me some tea?"

A: "Certainly."

1617 c/o Madison Langston

We Are Partially A Wellspring

June, or conception

Flora dumps her boyfriend and prays about it. Flora has not slept in two weeks. Flora thinks, no one is perfect and it's disgusting. Flora writes, I am so uninteresting! and falls onto her bed miserably. Flora imagines the branches of a tree smashing her kneecaps and feels motivated. Flora has sex with three men and orgasms once while imagining herself having an orgasm.

Flora's professor writes her love letters about the time they made love. Flora writes back, Last month was so hot I could die.

Flora grabs her hair and pulls it. She thinks, no one would notice if I pulled all my hair out. She thinks, I want to fucking kiss myself. Flora spends weekends with the professor who frequently talks about his headaches and does not frequently make Flora orgasm. Flora imagines taking naps inside her sister's throat while the professor makes his headaches orgasm. Flora says, Your bed is fucking comfortable. Flora says, Look at me now.

Flora watches her sister have sex and falls in love. Flora thinks, everyone is my soulmate and we are all so fortunate. Flora says, You are my sister, my soulmate. Flora's sister says, Flora eats lunch every other day but she has never seen a kitchen.

Flora touches her navel and feels a small sickness growing inside of her. Flora writes, I am a bellyful of bones. Flora coughs up a closet and puts her clothes there. Flora says, Everything is empty until we put ourselves inside. Flora says, This closet isn't big enough. Flora feels like a sidewalk but beautiful.

October, or the roof of the mouths are formed

Flora has a nosebleed and feels something which she calls a quickening. Flora writes love letters to the quickening. Flora says, There are so many people inside me.

Flora taps on her stomach while the professor talks to her. She thinks, I'd rather fuck my sister than listen to you. She says, I think I'm sleepy can we take a nap? She says, Are you in love with me or not? Flora feels anxious and goes to sleep. Flora dreams about an opening. In the dream the professor says, You are a little mountain. He says, Let me in your insides.

Flora thinks, someone is smashing my kneecaps and I am feeling motivated. Flora says, I hate you. Flora thinks, I hate you. Flora says, I hate watching you eat in public. Flora thinks, I want to occupy the faces of people I know and not feel redundant. Flora paces her bedroom and falls into the hallway to feel a change. Flora says, We are all accidental.

March, or delivering

Flora wakes up and thinks, something is happening. Flora finds the professor and looks at him as if something might be happening. The professor says, Oh! You are really delivering. The professor says, I can't wait to see what we made. Flora spreads her legs and lets her insides fall out. Flora says, Let me see it. Flora looks closely and says, I really don't understand the arrangement.

Flora thinks, This really isn't funny. Flora laughs and says, Goddamnit. Flora walks into the bathroom and sits on the floor. Flora says, It was like they were unfinished. She says, One of them looked incomplete.

Flora carves the words 'lusus naturae' into her thighs and then on the surface of her stomach. Flora lifts her arms and prays about it. She thinks, no one is perfect unless they are giving me an orgasm. Flora's blood leaves the body in straight lines that later become a circle. Flora's sister says, Our last image of her was formed so beautifully. Flora's sister says, we named the mass of it Lazarus.

1616 c/o Chantel Louise Tattoli

Rebecca née Pocahontas

Backstory:
At twelve she saved Captain John Smith’s skin. First the Western title princess grafted onto those high cheek bones. Later a baptism and a new name given her, white like powder brushed on bronze. Rebecca. She married John Rolfe, this is certain, but we don’t know if she wanted to. A son came out the color of honey mixed with milk, like he got the best of both worlds. (He would do well for himself.)

1616 now:
Pocahontas is 21. She—with some others like her, a holy man among them—is voyaging to London to the royal court. This is a PR stunt. Look, look. They finger her whited cheeks. The New World is being colonized. Come. Invest! It’s safe, civil. “Civil” they say handing blankets to the natives. The smallpox virus nuzzles in the fuzz. Thank you for the corn and the squash. Here, have a blanket.

Pocahontas doesn’t know John Smith is alive and in England. They don’t meet, but he writes to Queen Anne: For God’s sake, Annie, treat her like a princess. So when Rebecca is presented at court, by all accounts they love her. And if you’re a proprietor the thing to do is rename your tavern La Belle Sauvage, as backhanded of a compliment as they come. She meets James; him so understated she has to be told afterward that he is King.

Pocahontas sits for an engraving. The portrait doesn’t get the exotic femme across. She looks butch. Her hair pulled up high off her forehead, crowned with a kind of velvet top hat; in the embroidered jacket and wide point lace collar of that time. Someone in the future will adapt an oil from this engraving. They will soften her, but worst of all, they’ll plumpen her high cheeks to look like a British lady.

It’s 1616, and next year she will die.

1615 c/o Barry Grass

Bier mag weer gezien worden
(Beer may be seen again)

A city under a green tree shield.
Groenlo. The Netherlands. Nearly
Germany. Green tree under siege.
Green grass under Spanish foot. A city
In need of a Green Knight.

Green glass shimmering. Light strike.
Reinheitsgebot. Dip the yeast stick, let
Pils malt bottom-ferment. Lager anger.
Lager nationalism. Cold-store it all.

Grolsch; of Grolle. From the green, of
The green, is the green, is rejuvenation.
Swing-top bottles. Bottle up everything.
Porcelain crown. Pressurized seal.
Defend. Defend.

Abeyance. Wait for the moment. Spain
Will one day weaken. Then: pop the cap.
Emboss in green