Fiction by Lydia A. Cyrus: Lycanthropy in Appalachia

August 2, 2017

I am a werewolf of sorts: awakened at night by a hunger and a desire to roam. I have spent most every night in the rain, snow, or just plain quiet walking alone in the dark. In Appalachia, we don’t talk about lycanthropy: we don’t talk about the crossing of identities where wolf meets woman. And yet, the people here will talk about me—will talk about the way I walk through the night and my darkness—and they will call it by any other name, any other affliction.

Fiction by Lydia A. Cyrus: Coyotes

July 26, 2017

All coyotes are memories. With their skinny bodies and hungry mouths, they exist as a precautionary tale. They eat calves on my grandfather’s farm, or they used to anyway. I’ve never seen one outside of photos before, but I know that they are tricksters: they provide the world with chaos and fury. The men in my family have shot coyotes for nothing less than being seen. Like foxes, the coyote is a symbol of invasion or peril and they must be purged from sight. Coyotes steal bullets and memories. Coyotes eat youth and hide in dark, discrete areas sometimes never revealing themselves to the light of day.

Depression: Fear and Loathing in My Prefrontal Cortex

July 24, 2017

Six months later, I clawed myself again. This time I drew blood – real blood. I fought depression, and I lost. Again and again and again.

Darrrryl

July 21, 2017

The way that Darrrryl appears to you is special. Each of these drawings embodies one person grappling with a powerful entity. Each of them is sacred. It is a gallery with one subject.

This Is Why the Holidays Are Awkward

January 4, 2017

I distinctly saw one candle burning in a vacuum of blank, claustrophobic matte blackness. I watched it flicker in some unseen wind. I felt tears, real, definite and unasked for, well up in my eyes knowing it could go out at any time, that existence was not something promised, not something to be taken lightly, passed over and wasted. That it was something importune but given nonetheless. I watched the flame dance the fire’s sad, triumphant waltz, alone but shining, a slow-dance in motion only and couldn’t breathe.

My Struggle with Depression & Suicidal Thoughts

December 20, 2016

In life there always seem to be a line that shouldn’t be crossed. Conversations that shouldn’t happen. Jokes that shouldn’t be made. Thoughts that shouldn’t be thought. Actions that spawn from those thoughts that should never be taken. Sometimes one can cross the line and make your way back to the safe side. Sometimes one can never uncross the line. I flirted with the line and in my mind, I crossed the line.

What It's Like Living With Polio & Breathing in an Iron Lung

August 24, 2016

There are switches by my hands, little switches that can turn off this, turn on that. A remote control for the television, though I seldom watch it. I prefer the music of Mozart and Bach rather than canned laughter all hours of the day. I prefer nothing canned. Because, that is what I live in. A can. A big, silver bullet of a machine that has kept me alive now for over 60 years.

Her Mother's Diagnosis

August 24, 2016

"It’ll make it hard for her to remember a lot of things," he’d said, and so much more. Papa had heard it all, had listened as the doctor used words like aggressive progression and quality of life. Lily had forgotten to listen, had turned instead to the frosted glass plane that separated them from the hall outside, the place where other people were bringing their mamas in too, maybe their papas instead. A brother, a sister, a lover--it didn’t matter here. Walking that long hall toward the doctor’s office was the end of a long journey, a deafening finality.

Suicidal Ideation — And What It Means to be Unpresent

August 23, 2016

I killed myself at 11:54 PM on Tuesday, April 28, 2015. My body was not discovered until Monday, May 11--a full thirteen days after I had died. Method of suicide was a combination of several tricks: overdose of sleeping pills, alcohol consumption, with cause of death officially listed as asphyxiation. That was because I stuck a small lid (hair gel, maybe?) on my nose and mouth and then wrapped my head in Saran wrap. I passed out before my body realized that there was not enough air to keep breathing for long. I didn’t die from lack of oxygen, which is what most people think when they hear "asphyxiation," but rather, died from carbon dioxide poisoning. There was too much carbon dioxide in the small pocket I left for air.

Writing with Dirty Hands

August 23, 2016

"Well when I was in parochial school we used to stuff comic books in our Bibles to read during religion class. We liked to draw dicks on the characters. This one time I drew this huge dick on a villain who had a human body with a moose head. It was so perfect I started laughing. You should have seen that nun’s face when she saw me laughing hysterically in Religion class. When she scurried over and found that comic between the Bible pages her face turned so red I thought it was about to explode. The entire time while she beat me with her ruler I couldn’t stop laughing."

What It's Like to Gradually Go Blind

August 23, 2016

I tried to imagine how it would be like to see the world once the disease had won: first in fragments, then in shadows until my eyes gave out like a pair of faulty light bulbs, and I would see only blackness. No light. All that I have known about the world would change. All color, drained. The ground would feel like quicksand and I would grope around like a newborn.

That Time I Was in a Psychiatric Hospital by Lori Stone

August 22, 2016

Then she said, almost in passing, "They said I poured bleach into my eyes, can you imagine such a thing?"

L'Appel Du Vide (The Call Of The Void), Non-Fiction by Lillian Brown

August 3, 2016

The TV always needs to be on. Sleep rarely comes, but having a dark, silent room certainly aids to the insomnia. My particular comfort in crime shows can be a bit disconcerting, but it’s just background. The television is even sometimes left on during sex, much to the beloved’s chagrin, but serves as a quiet pastime for myself after he inevitably dozes off.

From Where She Watches, Fiction By Alexandra Cohl

August 1, 2016

After that first night, I decided her daughter would always return right around 8:30 p.m. And her mother would sit there, with her hidden bun and slicked back hair, with her bald head and her roaming eyes. And I could watch, only feeling a slight twinge of pain from the nails on my wrist. They’re not quite as sharp as a razor, but still effective; just enough, as Mother would say. Like the time I was baking with her and she said to put "just enough" salt in the cookie batter. Too much would ruin the taste. But my hands would shake and it was hard to get "just enough" perfect. After dropping a fourth of the bottle in the mix, we had to throw the batter away. It’s damaged, Mother would say. Damaged just enough.

A Trip To The Deli, Fiction by Anne Foster

July 28, 2016

Kate neared the back corner of the house now. She was reaching for that sturdy feel of her hand wrapped around molded wood, when the gutter shook and her heart slipped and she lunged for that crisp edge where her hand could grip and she got it and she held on tight. But dear god how her heart pounded. One misstep and she would certainly die. She would fall into the black cavern where at the bottom her body would run through a sharp rock. What would they tell her parents? The girl who went to get a sandwich; never came back. Body never found. Or body found, unsuitable for visual identification.