Peter Teal
In Conversation With Anselm Kiefer
Julieta Caldas
Angel Noise
If Not
Jane Dabate
Seasonal Dresses
Ulyses Razo
Spring
Personal Life
Zans Brady Kohn
We Ran Away
T.C. Hell
Houses have creaked a long time
Duane, Kiki, The Oaf and me tread the pissy sphagnum. Our sumping feet shuck the ground like oysters. Slurpy black syrup beneath a moss crust, overstrewn with luminous primrose. Everything’s bog this far from the burg. But we are the trudgers and we don’t care. We’re going on a nonce hunt. We’re going to catch a big one.
Duane pops a squat. Hair oil dripping down his back, trailing all the way to his peachy-clean crack. Dips his pinky in the muck, lifts it, sniffs it, licks it, sniffs it again, sucks it dry. He looks up from the crouch, tongue flickering on his lips. I think I catch him peeking up Kiki’s skirt.
Chocolate. We’re close.
Duane’s the brains. He does the talking. Obviously none of us have seen a nonce. No one’s seen a nonce for decades, let alone caught one. All we’ve got are stories. Hearsay. Fantasies. Various lies. Duane says he’s read books and he’ll know it when he sees it. I didn’t think they did books anymore but don’t bother arguing. He’s the bossman.
Kiki’s the bait. She’s 4'8" in heels, with cataract glasses and a cleft tongue. Anorexic, probably hypocalcaemic, probably could be jointed by a stiff cough, but Duane told me she knows vibrating palm technique. Knows all the pressure points. Always keeps glass on her person too. Same night he also told me she’s got implants in her chest shaped like pentagrams. Says she wants them out because they're infected or dissolving or both, he can’t remember. I’ve never heard her speak, and I’ve never loved anyone more in my life.
I’m the eyes. There’s cameras on my shoulders, my wrists, peephole cam rigged to my septum, navel strapped with an IMAX lens. Contraption on my back carrying three car batteries and a radio receiver. Fibre-optics cinched into febrile pigtails connect the setup to an antennae crown. Device on and in my mouth lets me change the feed. Duane says he found it in a dredged pond. The metal tastes like sour milk. It’s too big so I’m dribbling, leaving little sputum flotillas in a trail that winds all the way home. We just started broadcasting to over 1 million viewers.
Oaf’s the muscle, supposedly. He’s stomping around, as is his wont, kicking in the heads of perfect bogmen. Fresh from the steaming peat, their sweet sleeping faces explode like puffballs. Thing with The Oaf is he fancies my guts. Can’t blame him. Under all this gear I’ve got the biggest tits in the burg and a monster cock to match. Problem is said cock won’t budge for anyone but Kiki. Also The Oaf’s got a face like a donkey’s nethers and meds made his bones shrink. Beneath that butcher’s apron he’s excess bits bunched round the skeleton of a polio bird. He turns and grins at me. Black bogman leather freckles his chin, makes his mouth look like a jenny’s split twat. I switch feed.
Kiki’s stopped again, started shivering. Looks like she’s going to fall over. Sways like a puppet on a string, raises her head with an open mouth, gulping invisible rain. Fibres of fake green hair hang airily around her baby head. Then she’s off, tramping into Duane’s footprints.
Back in the burg Kiki’s an aerial silk dancer, the gang’s main breadwinner. Occupational hazard is she’s not so hot on old terra firma. Our home is Micro-Unit Infill, the penthouse suite in a vertical silo of polyamorous co-ops. We got a sweet deal. Basically the old hikikomori high-rises – windowless, walls like orange pith – got soft-demolished into modular desire corridors for the upwardly mobile. And who’s more upwardly mobile than an aerial silk dancer? Building’s rent-controlled by the sex work guild but monitored by moral zoning reforms. Microfetish enclaves secreted inside macro-district sterilisation, the perfect work-life balance. But we know all good things come to an end. Lovely towering greyfields, replaced by otaku enclaves grandfathered in by outdated regulations, soon to be retrofitted into luxury kink hotels. Circle of life. Streets below are a fairground of dogs on stilts, graphene scorpions, sinkholes, and the brain damaged. We don’t want to end up down there.
So Duane applied for a grant. Zoning the bog. Part of an initiative to revitalise post-slump interstitial spaces. Our proposal hinged on establishing a pop-up smart district of greenspaces in the marginal land belt. Duane says, strictly off record, the council’s lost its tiny nut. The marsh? Doesn’t meet the most basic prerequisites for adaptive reuse. Not even for a token permaculture yadda yadda. I nod along. Duane says anyway we’re here for something else, something bigger, something real. Catching the nonce. That’s the money shot.
A bilious gas pocket lifts Duane’s skirt. His frilly undies glinting in the sun. A flush of new viewers join the stream. Did I mention we’re all dressed as schoolgirls? That’s my idea. Part of the trap. Meddling schoolgirls, out to catch a rotter. The Oaf insisted on his butcher’s apron, said he needed it in case things got messy. And now he’s a patriot with dreams of high office, apparently. Never mentioned that before.
We stop for sandwiches at a wind-quivering signpost, driven into the sponge. "San Salvador, 7km."
Portable hamlet, intones The Oaf, Heard it’s up near Ljubljana now. Whatever that means.
Where there’s more holograms than people. And more dogs than holograms.
He loves that sci-fi crap.
Can it gaylord, Duane whispers hard. Ear cocked, his eyes widening. Hear that Kiki?
Kiki sways. Her mouth drops open, jaw floating gently from side to side, then closes with a snap. I notice her teeth have been shaved into points. Wonder when she had that done.
Duane springs over to me and leans into the septum cam. Think I hear something gang. Can you hear it? Listen. We listen.
The Oaf’s looking around intently like he knows what’s going on. He keeps glancing at me to check if I’m looking at him looking. I’m rolling my eyes but he probably can’t see under the veil of synthetic bangs that keeps sliding over my forehead.
Comments are flooding in. Speaker around my neck repeats them in real-time in a constant low drone.
Bout time sum1 did wot needs doin. Council wont do nuffin. Gotta sort thou sickos. Finally real justise the old way. Make sure he can never does it again. Let every1 see wot happens next. Lets see kiki tits. Sick of these creeps getting away with it. Vid dont work. Wen system fails we step in. No mercy. Lets see duanes cock. Lets see kikis tits. Just want my kids back.
Sockpuppet bots mostly, maybe some mid-career architects getting their rocks off with a bit of Wat Tyler cosplay. Everyone knows the real bondsmen and villeins died out years ago, injected with morgellons and gaslit to death, or rounded up and sterilised in council chambers, or exiled into the burning brownfields and thoroughly scorched. Depends who you ask. Went out like the nonces, dodo-style.
There’s that sound again. It’s nearby.
Duane starts running and now everything’s moving. Even Kiki’s running, or at least limping quicker.
You hear that? That. No. Pauses, hand in the air, conducting the wind. That. We’re close.
Duane’s speed-creeping, low to the ground and agile, vaguely simian. There’s a hillock ahead. It looks man-made. One of those barrows for burying medical refuse and diapers. We all stalk around the mound. The Oaf’s right behind me, breathing hot in my ear.
How you doing, he whispers.
I feel him nibble the lobe. I jerk my head back, swinging the antennae crown. Crack, his nose splits. A whine emits from that donkey-twat mouth.
Cut it. Another hard whisper from Duane.
I can tell he’s steeling himself to traverse the barrow and confront whatever lies beyond. Can’t go over it. Can’t go under it. Have to go through it. Then he remembers the trap. He’s cunning, our Duane. He gently takes Kiki by her gristly wrist and navigates her, tottering, to the front. He’s got his hands on her shoulders now, says something in her ear. I can’t hear because The Oaf’s burbling in mine. Her eyes have rolled back in her head again. Seems dead to the world. But something must click into gear because she suddenly starts, doll-like, and slopes round to the other side of the mound.
Tiem 2 pay the price.
Shut that up, hisses Duane. I unplug the speaker. Duane’s listening. There’s squelching from the other side. Then it stops. That sound again, the one we heard before. Doesn’t sound human. We all listen. Wait, and listen.
I can’t take it anymore.
Shut it.
She could be dead out there.
The Oaf gives me this brave little nod, must look good in his head, roars throatily and charges around the hillock, twiglet bones rattling in his skinsuit. We follow a pace behind, Duane grimacing.
On the other side there’s Kiki, standing, swaying, limp-armed. There’s The Oaf, blood bubbling down his gross mug, hunched with his eyes goggling. Standing between them, a little unsteady, umbilical cord trailing from its soiled white belly, is a lamb.
It's fresh, still covered in gunk. Occasionally its head rolls around on its neck, looking about. Looks lost.
Didn’t think there were any lambs left.
Of course he breaks the silence.
Thought the sheepdogs tore them apart. And the shepherds watched on helpless. That’s what the news said. Lambs to the slaughter led.
Shut the FUCK up, says Duane, speaking on everyone’s behalf. None of that mawkish grot. We’ve got a job to do.
Where’s mum? The Oaf is talking to the lamb now, doing a thick-tongued baby voice.
Duane checks his watch. Nonce won’t catch itself.
Didn’t see sheep on the way.
Nonce don’t sleep, don’t eat, don’t stop for nobody. She’s shivering bossman.
She’s a goner. Nonce will get her if the wind doesn’t first. We have to do something.
You pick her up and she’s done. Even if she finds her mum she’ll smell all wrong. She’s already dead.
The Oaf’s looking at me. Swelling is radiating across his nose and cheeks but within that I can see he’s got that look in his eyes again. There’s a long silence.
Oaf wants to fuck the lamb.
That’s Kiki. Slurring. An oracle. I’m raptured. Wish I could say something good, to agree, something like yes Kiki you’re right, you’re so right, you’re always right, now please let me stroke your head and suck your tits, something, something, something. All that comes out is a thread of dribble.
No I don’t!
Duane chimes in, You do! You want to fuck it in the arse.
Oaf’s properly flustered, I don’t! I don’t! I swear! I want to save her.
Oh yeah, right, "save her." "Save her’"right up the arse. Go on, "save her" then.
Duane’s doing bunny ears with his fingers so hard his elbows are cracking. Nothing from Kiki. I love her so much.
But make haste about it. We’ve got a nonce to catch.
The Oaf sniffs. Slowly, gently as he can, he takes a couple squishy steps towards the creature. She bleats. Her big black eyes, ringed with red crust, seem unseeing. Another step. He’s looming over her doing a little kissy noise. All very cringe. The Oaf bends down and, with his bulbous forefinger, pats her on the back.
Duane’s got his arms crossed, faced away from whatever this is. Squinting into the landscape.
The Oaf slicks some greyish afterbirth off her pelt, squidges it between thumb and finger. Smells it with his busted nose, then wipes it on his apron. He lingers for a moment. Then he reaches down again and gets his hand under the lamb’s belly. She bleats gruffly. Stroking her with his other hand, he lifts her from the mud, teasing her hooves out the mire. Cradling the lamb, he stands. The creature’s silent. It nuzzles his palm. We’re probably losing viewers by the thousands. Tenderly, holding the lamb with both hands now, The Oaf starts to climb the hillock.
Where you taking her? Duane won’t turn around. Won’t indulge the spectacle. Good for him.
Need a better view.
Hurry up, it’s darkening.
The Oaf continues climbing the hillock at the same deliberate pace. Doesn’t even pretend to speed up, selfish prick. He gets to the top, turns and surveys the flatlands, the empty sky, the texture of aspirant curbs that marks the faraway burg. All of a sudden he squints, juts his head forward. Points with an outstretched arm.
There! There! Moving. The Oaf looks down at the lamb, looks down the mound and smiles at me, fattest smile I’ve seen, fat as a river.
Let’s go! We’ve gotta go! He takes off with a spring.
But he’s too eager. He slips. Clown mode kicks in. Arms and legs start windmilling, his eyes flail and bulge, his grin rips into a grimace, then the ground disappears and he’s airborne.
Then he’s not. The lamb ain’t either.
Body-bombed into an instant cadaver, it becomes a ripe bag of soft things and explodes over The Oaf’s arms, chest, hands, face.
He lies there for ages. Kiki’s swaying as per, vaguely chewing, eyes searching for gold nuggets in her brow. Duane’s still turned around, all stoic and staring at the distance. Eventually The Oaf slowly, incrementally gets to his feet. Giblets like berries drip off his chin, running crimson streaks down his apron.
You done? That’s Duane. Been a while since he said anything. A sniff. The Oaf can’t seem to look at me now.
Yeah. Whatever.
Nonces won’t catch themselves.
The Oaf looks up from under his bangs. Somehow his wig stayed on in all the commotion. A little half-smile creeps up his face. A sheepish grin.
Yeah. Whatever.
The Oaf shrugs as if to say hey, what can I say, I effed up, and rubs his shoulder sheepishly. He sheepishly boots a fresh bogman.
The head erupts in a sheepish bloom. Duane smiles too, despite everything. Chuckles to himself in a quiet, manly way. He puts an arm round Kiki’s quivering shoulder. Drool rolls down my chin. I guess I’m smiling too.
Let’s go gang, says the bossman, then winks at my septum cam, I’ve got a hankering for nonce-blood pie.
In unison we chant: All you nonces better beware, / We’re the trudgers and we’re not scared.
Our song booms across the bog. It’s the happiest sound in the whole world.Colton Karpman (Founding Editor)
Editor’s Note
Dilara Koz (Art Director)
Em Bauer (Illustrator)
Harry Lowther (Prose Editor)
Isaac Zamet (Poetry Editor)
William McGuire (Prose Editor)