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Please be advised some content may include graphic references to topics such as sexual abuse, self-harm, violence, eating disorders, etc.
The Massacre of Fairhaven
by DJ Cochran
She was tired of running wet, bruised, and afraid. Corina wore one shoe. Her other foot was bare, cut, and scraped. She remembered her shoe falling off, but she couldn’t stop to grab it. Covered in dirt and leaves, her normally groomed hair stuck to her blood-splattered cheeks.
Corina stopped and sucked in the damp air to catch her breath. Oh shit! Where is he? Highway – find a road and get help!
In the distance, tires squealed on asphalt and an engine hummed. Propelled into motion, Corina forced herself up a rough, muddy hill. She was close to the road…so close to help. Finally, at the top, there was nothing. Someone has to come, damn it! She glanced behind her. No noise was coming from the woods, but she knew that didn’t mean anything.
She was not sure she would ever speak again after screaming so much; her throat was raw. A flicker of light appeared down at the road’s curve. Someone’s finally coming! She waved her arms out wide and moved into the middle of the road. They can’t miss me here. The car came around the curve. She sighed, a slight smile curving her lips.
I made it.
A bloody arm wrapped around her waist and dragged her off the road. A knife protruded from the hand which pressed against her stomach.
“No, you don’t.” His voice was raspy. “You will come with me.” He let her waist go and snagged her wrist.
“Help!” She screamed, but barely a whisper escaped. “Please!”
He yanked her back down the hill. Corina kicked and twisted with all her might. They stumbled, rolled down the hill, and bounced off each other. Her head hit the ground. Tiny white dots exploded and blurred her vision. When it cleared, she found the knife next to her on the ground. She grabbed the handle, tossed the weapon into the dense trees, and started to make a run for it.
The killer grabbed her ankle and yanked. She fell face first onto the ground and he grabbed her ankle again. He pulled her along as the uneven ground bruised her further and rocks cut into her kicking legs. “You are the last one left – you will die slowly.” He laughed. He dragged her about half an hour until they arrived in town. Pulling her to her feet, one hand clasped her hair tight enough for her eyes to water. He forced her to walk.
Bodies lay strewn on the blood–soaked streets and sidewalks. He told the truth. I’m the lone survivor. And I will live!
She snatched a sharp stick and plunged it into his neck. Hot sticky blood splattered across her face. He gargled, sputtered, and fell–to his knees–silent.
The night had started like any other Halloween night at Fairhaven’s annual Halloween festival, but it had created legends for future generations.
***
“Grandma, is the massacre of Fairhaven a real story?” Joey asks from under the covers. His young face is barely visible.
“No silly, that’s why it’s called a scary story,” Kenny teases his younger brother.
The boys’ grandma smiles down at them. “Some stories are real.”
Kenny stops jumping on his bed and stares at his grandma. “Except for this story, right? Because there’s no way one person could wipe out a whole town and one single girl lives.”
“And why is that, young man? Are women not as strong as men?” Their grandma gives them a stern look. Kenny swallows hard. “It’s time to go to sleep.” She flicks the light off and both boys get under the covers and close their eyes.
Their grandma moves down the hallway until she reaches the kitchen. On the table is a letter that she has yet to open. Since the kids are in bed, it is a good time to go through her mail. She opens the letter to find a single piece of paper.
Dear Mrs. Daniels:
My name is Rodney Car. I heard that long ago that there was a massacre and only one survivor. After doing much research, I found your information. I heard that you know all about these events. I am currently doing a story for my journalism class. I want to be a reporter, and this story seems to be a very interesting topic. Please give me a call back. I would really appreciate a conversation with you.
Thank you for your time. Listed below is my contact information.
P.S.
There is a rumor that you are the same Corina from the Massacre.
Sincerely:
Rodney Car.
She folds up the letter and puts it in a safe place. “Some rumors are true.”
About DJ Cochran
I am a huge fan of writing. I mostly write YA fantasy, but this short story was a chance to broaden my horizons and do something different.
Area of Study: Associates of Arts
For 2,228
by Thomas Mattarocci
I pace nervously at the entrance to the local teahouse. Around me, the walls, tables, and cases – normally reserved for delicate china and antique silver – have become a singular tribute to Titanic and the 2,228 individuals who embarked on her fateful maiden voyage. Above me, the swallow-tailed burgee leads into a moderately-sized dining room, where small tables cluster around displays filled with White Star Line artifacts: a crewman’s cap, buttons removed from the coat of an unknown captain, Elkington silverware and ashtrays, and Blue Delft china from second class. They are preciously arranged with small cards vainly boiling their immense histories into a few short sentences. For the first time, I see the sheer size of the assortment: worn menus from numerous White Star steamers, crystal glasses with the company’s burgee etched into their glinting surfaces, and carpeting from James Cameron’s meticulously recreated sets. It’s a humbling sight, especially since I have an intimate knowledge of every piece. They are a ten-year culmination of correspondences with maritime collectors, inquisitions to auction houses, and innumerable hours of internet searches. They have been removed from the shelves and bookcases scattered throughout my home and concisely assembled with museum-like order inside the tiny teahouse in preparation for a memorial to the disaster.
The first item to greet me is the reproduction of the lifeboats’ nameplates. Sixteen inches long and almost two inches wide, the placard, meant to be affixed to the boats’ prows, rests peacefully among pictures of the rescued: twenty lifeboats scattered across a desolate sea, their passengers thrust into a dazed and incomprehensible silence. Taken by Mabel Fenwick aboard Carpathia, the images are a poignant testament to the tragedy, the horrors of its events marred on the forlorn faces of its survivors. They remind me why I am here four days before a commemorative tea. I have come to be alone with my thoughts and settle the nervousness which has followed me continuously for over a month. I need to put these events into words and explain them to the mass of visitors scheduled to attend the memorial. I must accomplish what dozens of lifeless artifacts often fail to do – express the unbridled humanity encompassing Titanic.
Staring at the nameplate, I contemplate how to explicate these complexities to a group of curious guests. Do I explain the dreamlike nature of the moment? Clusters of dazed and sleepy passengers, many recently awoken, crowded together on the bitterly cold Boat Deck in various stages of dress and undress: seventeen-year-old Jack Thayer in a green tweed suit and vest, the Philadelphia banker Robert Daniels in woolen pajamas, Mrs. John C. Hogeboom wrapped tightly in a fur coat, and Mrs. Ada Clark shivering in a flimsy nightgown. Do I discuss the seemingly solid foundation of Titanic, the tantalizing warmth of her public spaces chiming with music and chatter, and the lulling equanimity that came with a blind confidence in technology? I decide that might be best method and I elect to begin with lifeboat number seven, the first to be lowered.
At 12:25 AM, forty-five minutes after the collision, lifeboat seven gently touched the water. Its thirty-foot hull barely disturbed the tranquil sea. With a capacity of sixty-five, the boat held only twenty-eight anxious passengers who quietly surveyed their new surroundings in disbelief: to their left, Titanic’s indomitable hull towered fifty feet above, her brilliantly lit decks glittering; to their right, the frigid and dark ocean stretched onward into oblivion. For many, the decision to leave the ship and its comforting collection of familiar faces came with mixed emotions.
I study the nine letters raised atop the placard’s surface – S.S. Titanic – and reconsider my technique. I devise a plan to return the incident to its historical context and discuss the deep fears embedded in Edwardian consciousness. Until roughly 1900, sixteen percent of all ships which left port never reached their final destinations, many disappearing without a trace. Often, the lifeboat proved a deathtrap. With no means to communicate distress, individuals who had been cast away from the sinking ship found a fate worse than drowning: aimlessly drifting at sea until death by starvation and thirst set in. I consider mentioning the incident with White Star Line’s Naronic, which vanished on the North Atlantic in February of 1893. I strive to adequately describe how, after two months, her empty lifeboats were found drifting eerily two hundred miles from her assumed course. Would they understand that, despite the recent advents of wireless communication, incidents like Naronic still hung heavily in Edwardian mindsets? I contemplate how to present this trauma so that others will know the true weight of why many were unwilling to leave. Could they comprehend that, for many, the lifeboat was regarded as a means of suicide?
Naturally, my thoughts turn to the emotional drama which slowly unfolded on the decks. It is an image inseparable from the disaster and one which has been replayed with theatrical zeal over the course of one hundred years. There was first-class passenger Lillian Minahan, whose husband, William, had forcefully put her into lifeboat number fourteen despite her protests. With trembling eyes, she watched him step back with the other men, some with their backs turned to the boat, unable to watch loved ones disappear. William’s final words remained imbedded in her mind for fifty years: “Be brave; no matter what happens, be brave.” There was Mrs. Walter Douglas, who sat stunned in lifeboat number two as her husband kissed her goodbye. In spite of her best efforts, she could not understand why they had to be separated and begged him to stay with her. “No, I must be a gentleman,” he responded as he stepped into the crowd. Despite the resolute tone to his voice, she found no consolation in his answer. There was second-class passenger Michel Navratil who, in the process of a messy separation with this wife, had kidnapped his two young sons with the intent of starting a new life in America. Before placing them in collapsible D, he drew them close, felt the warmth from their small bodies one last time, and begged them to pass along a final message to his wife: “Tell your mother that I love her.”
I try to place myself into the role of those men with their backs facing the lifeboats. Were they afraid of the tears that erupted while watching their wives and children vanish forever? Did they regret that this was the last memory their families had of them? Suddenly, I realize that their emotions are entirely alien to me and their experience is something I hopefully will never endure. Slowly, I begin to question how, with my lack of understanding, I can adequately express the agony of the events. How will others feel? Will the guests read the biographic cards of Lillian and Michel with simple compassion or will they know the true breadth of that pain?
I move on to the third-class blanket, a massive white star woven boldly in its red fabric. In the small cabins onboard – their walls paneled in white-washed oak – they would have rested snuggly above the sheets on every berth. Although simple, they, along with the pillows and washbasins, were a benevolent gesture in an age when most shipping lines refused to provide immigrants with any amenities for fear of theft. Normally, the blanket is neatly folded and sealed in its plastic bag, where it rests quietly on a shelf in my house’s linen closet. In the display, it is lovingly draped over the corner of a case, its white star proudly announcing itself.
Fifteen minutes after the collision, third-class passenger Minnie Coutts opened her cabin door to reveal a startling throng of men, women, and children – many carrying all of their belongings – steadily proceeding toward the stern. By the time lifeboat number seven rowed slowly away from Titanic’s looming hull, the procession of movement in the third-class passageways became a clustered mess. As I make my way toward the section dedicated to the 712 third-class passengers onboard, I attempt to thrust myself into that bewilderment. Confused souls meandered aimlessly down unfamiliar hallways, their wide eyes struggling to decipher signs printed in a language many did not understand. Adults barked angrily at each other as their sobbing children clung terrified to their sides. Hopeless individuals collapsed to the floor in exhaustion and gave up. Innumerable suitcases, trunks, and bundled possessions, carted from cabins and eventually discarded, littered the corridors and made portions impassible. I strain to grasp the notion of deserting everything I own in a desolate hallway to save my own life.
After nearly an hour, Minnie Coutts, her two small boys in tow, entered the madness. The order to don life jackets had presented her with a dire problem: her cabin contained only two. With her children tightly laced into the white monstrosities, she searched the labyrinthine corridors for assistance. Standing before the display, berthing cards and a copy of Titanic’s “Report of Survey of an Immigrant Ship” sealed behind spotless glass, I ponder her frightened journey and hope it will provide some form of insight. Did she attempt to squelch the rising panic as she turned corner after corner in dazed fright? Did the horrendous isolation of the abandoned passageways overpower her? Did she choke back the words as she made her sons promise they would care for each other if she didn’t survive? I don’t know. All I do know is that, eventually, she stumbled on a crewman who gave her directions to the Boat Deck, surrendered his own life jacket to the rattled woman, and made one simple request: “If the boat goes down, you’ll remember me.”
The more I think about Minnie Coutts and her hastily dressed children, the more I think about others. There was David Vartanian, fleeing conscription in the Turkish Army, who, along with a handful of his fellow refugees, tore down a gate to gain access to the boats. There was Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Goodwin and their six children, including nineteen-month-old Sidney, who were grouped together at the base of the third-class staircase on E Deck. The entire family refused to be separated. There was Alfred Rush, on his way to Detroit to live with his older brother, who was celebrating a monumental event onboard: his sixteenth birthday. By Edwardian standards, he had become a man, exchanging his knee-breeches for his first pair of long trousers. At the locked gates, despite the small stature and boyish looks which would have easily garnered him a place in a lifeboat, he chose to remain behind and proudly asserted, “I am staying here with the men.”
Below the blanket, third-class dishes and mugs, the distinctive burgee emblazoned on their white surfaces, glimmer in the light. They have been removed from their shelves at home and delicately arranged just as stewards would have done as they set the long tables in the two third-class dining rooms. I admire the gentle lines of their basic shape. I have seen them hundreds of times before; however, here, for the first time, I realize that passengers ate from similar pieces on the morning of April 14.
By 2:05 AM that night, water pouring down the stairs from E Deck transformed the saloons into rolling lakes. As the green waves crawled up the white-enameled walls and swallowed the colorful posters advertising the company’s fleet, those ceramic bowls and cups, patiently awaiting breakfast, slowly floated from the linen tablecloths and formed congested flotillas in the currents. Around the same time, several third-class passengers, finding their paths to the Boat Deck blocked, solemnly returned to their cabins. Was Alfred among them? Did he wrap himself in the warm folds of his berth’s blanket and listen to the steady dissonance of Titanic’s strained steel? Did he hear hushed cries and prayers from nearby cabins trickle down the corridors, their lights dimming? Did he know he faced his fate with a courage greater than most men?
As hope waned among third-class passengers, conditions on the Boat Deck deteriorated. On the port side of the ship, Second Officer Charles Lightoller, who misconstrued Captain Smith’s orders of “women and children first” to mean “women and children only,” began forcefully separating families. At lifeboat number eleven – overloaded with seventy people – parents were suddenly faced with a problematic decision: save their children and orphan them at the same time or remain together and pray for rescue. Decks below number eleven, the occupants of lifeboat number thirteen, which was caught in the condenser discharge, screamed in panic as lifeboat number fifteen was lowered on top of them. Forward on the starboard side, an unknown officer shot two passengers before turning the revolver on himself. And, amidst the chaos, a pack of dogs – released from their kennels – sprinted along the deck.
I work my way toward the two-foot reproduction of Titanic’s Poop Deck. It sits quiet and empty, excruciatingly oblivious to the horrors which occurred one hundred years ago. I wonder if the visitors will stand before it and painfully piece together the final ten minutes of the sinking. Will they envision that deck bulging with hundreds of individuals who clung desperately to benches, bollards, capstans, and cowl vents? Will they situate Father Thomas Byles among the masses, his voice carrying over the dozens huddled near him in prayer? Will they picture the weeping, the fierce efforts to survive, and the blank stares marred with dread?
My envisagement of those minutes comes in quick blurs. The bulkhead between boiler rooms four and five collapsed, disrupting the buoyancy, and thrust Titanic into a sudden forward plunge. An icy wave engulfed the Boat Deck and swept people overboard. Assistant Cook John Collins watched a mother and her two small children washed away with the current. Water-logged collapsible A followed the wave out to sea, providing a final sanctuary for some and an isolated deathbed for others. The decks exploded with the disarray of 1,500 people scrambling toward the stern. Individuals along the Boat Deck and A Deck Promenade were sucked back inside through doors, ventilator shafts, and windows as water poured into the ship and Titanic sank faster than the onrush could fill her. The forward expansion joint tore open and demolished the mounts for the first funnel, which crashed atop swimmers in a spew of sparks and coal soot. In the gaping hole left by the funnel, the sea cascaded down into the belly of the ship and drew dozens of unfortunate souls into the vortex. An estimated 90,000 gallons of water hammered through the wrought iron and glass dome over the forward grand staircase and ripped four of its seven flights from their steel foundations. At the stern, which continued to climb higher into the air, people began to jump.
Mounting the railing, Assistant Purser Frank Prentice and his friend, Cyril Ricks, plummeted together. I want to liken their fall to an amusement park ride, since that is the only experience I have that vaguely resembles it. However, I realize it is a useless comparison. It fails to express the heart-stopping drop of 120 feet and its abrupt end with the violent punch of freezing water against fragile skin. It does not take into account the fact that several broke their necks with the force of the impact and others, like Cyril Ricks, were wounded after colliding with floating debris.
My eyes gradually graze about the room and I notice the first-class china. Its wisteria pattern, a beautiful scrollwork of turquoise and gold, flashes seductively in the light. That evening, the same pattern graced the tables in the Jacobean-styled dining saloon, where it mutely watched the brilliance of the night: the hum of voices, the gay lint of a German waltz, and the brilliant glimmer of jewelry against Parisian gowns. Eight hours later, as Titanic’s stern reached a forty-five-degree angle, it tumbled from the galley’s cupboards and littered the floor in a thundering crash. My eyes continue a steady motion about the room as I discover that everything in the displays, from the heavy water carafes to the White Star matchboxes, would have joined the earsplitting dissonance. I imagine it all pitching forward in a sudden, maddening rush along with everything else onboard: 800 cases of shelled walnuts, 40,000 fresh eggs, five grand pianos, 6,000 teaspoons, dozens of tables and chairs in the first-class smoking room, potted palms in the Café Parisian, countless beds and armoires, and the human-sized plate warmer White Star Line spared no expense on. It was, as second-class passenger Lawrence Beesley described it, “a noise no one had heard before and no one wishes to hear again.”
In lifeboat number one, Lady Duff Gordon grimaced at the sounds drifting along the waves. Before her, Titanic, her propellers 150 feet in the air, pointed upward toward the heavens as passengers clung to her decks like swarms of bees. In lifeboat number fourteen, second-class passenger Esther Hart protected her seven-year-old daughter, Eva, from witnessing the gruesome spectacle as the lights flickered and finally died.
On the darkened deck, David Vartanian leapt into the icy sea. From his position in the water, his life jacket keeping him afloat, he watched the final violence of Titanic’s death throes. Beginning deep in her bowels, a series of rolling groans reverberated along her decks as the hull, incapable of supporting its own monstrous hulk, began to tear apart at the aft expansion joint. In the engine room, Chief Engineer Joseph Bell and his crew – many off duty – groped blindly in the nightmarish blackness as pieces of Titanic’s thirty-foot-tall reciprocating engines toppled down on top of them. They died with their machinery. Steel plates buckled, rivets popped, floors collapsed, and doomed individuals tumbled into the yawning chasm of jagged metal as two hundred feet of the stern, over 10,000 tons, broke free and thundered down on the hundreds swimming in the water. For a brief moment, the stern settled back to an almost-even keel before rising higher and higher into the air, its blackened figure pulled nearly perpendicular to the water. In fascinated horror, David, oblivious to the cold, witnessed those still aboard hang to benches, railings, ventilators, and anything else that would support them. Occasionally, some fell and their screams ricocheted across the waves. For roughly thirty seconds, the stern remained motionless until, its buoyancy gone, it began to plunge, picking up speed as it descended. The heated air trapped inside fought to escape and blasted open portholes, hatch covers, and the skylights over the steering engine room, jettisoning individuals away from the ship with scalding torrents.
At 2:20 AM, with a rapid movement, Titanic vanished indefinitely beneath the sea.
In the darkness, Lady Duff Gordon turned to her secretary, Laura Francatelli, and bitterly remarked, “There is your beautiful nightdress, gone.” I cringe at her words. There was much more than that. The Goodwins were gone. Michel Navratil was gone. Dr. William Minahan was gone. The pride and confidence of an era bedazzled by progress was gone.
My thoughts guide me unknowingly to the furthest corner of the room, where the cork-filled life jacket stands alone, its white form a faithful reproduction of the original. I examine its panels and the laces tied neatly at its side. There is a quiet dejection to its presence I have never noticed before.
Motionless before the jacket, I grapple with how to describe the hideousness which continued once Titanic slipped beneath the placid sea. How do I explain the abrupt silence that crept across the ocean and the cacophony of screams which quickly eructed from it? How does someone who never experienced such a horror express the rolling chaos of over one thousand people thrust within water chilled to 28˚F? After one hundred years, can I, or anyone else, wholly comprehend the manic thrashing, the stunned gasps for breath, the deafening cries, and the black, impenetrable night hammering down on it all? Gradually, Eva Hart’s words surface and I suddenly seize their truth: “The sound of people drowning is something I cannot describe to you. And neither can anyone else. It is the most dreadful sound. And there is a dreadful silence that follows it.”
As I gently untie the laces of the life jacket, I realize that I will never entirely understand the intense human emotion which infected the sea that night. I cannot grasp the surreal shock of R. Norris Williams as banker Robert Daniel’s French bulldog paddled calmly past him in the bedlam of bodies and debris. I will never know the pain of Frank Prentice as his attempts to keep Cyril Ricks alive proved useless. I will never experience the same disheartening sight as Bath Attendant Harold Phillimore who, over the course of half an hour, watched the man he shared a floating piece of paneling with drift into a frigid tranquility before rolling off the wreckage and slipping below the inky ocean. I cannot fathom the sorrow of Mrs. Douglas who, at the tiller of lifeboat number two, attempted to maintain her composure as she fought to block the ceaseless wails from the water. Did she realize her husband was among them? Is that what prompted her to hysterically scream “The Titanic has gone down with everyone onboard” before Fourth Officer Joseph Boxhall barked at her to be quiet? Moreover, I cannot begin to comprehend the labors of an unknown, nightgown-clad woman who struggled to keep the baby she clutched above water. Five days later, the crew and passengers of Bremen watched in mute stupefaction as her lifeless form – still grasping the infant – laggardly moved past the vessel. She was among the dozens of victims that ships along the North Atlantic encountered for almost two months after the sinking.
Removing the jacket from its stand, I cradle the cork panels in my hands. I try to place myself in the mindset of the 705 survivors scattered in twenty lifeboats across the glassy sea. I attempt to understand the mixture of dread and distress which locked them motionless in the boats. I strive to unravel the animalistic logic which prompted many to fend off swimmers with oars.
In the waters surrounding lifeboat number thirteen, David Vartanian fought a desperate battle to climb aboard. In an effort to reach the boat, he swam through a cluster of frozen bodies, their still forms bobbing eerily in the lifeless sea. Some floated hunched over, their eyes peacefully closed. Others gawked upward at the star-splattered Milky Way with flat, immovable stares. It was a sight which plagued his nightmares for fifty-four years.
As his shaking hands clawed at the wooden hull, he felt the vicious smack of an oar collide against his knuckles. Dazed, he swam back, hearing the belligerent cries of sixty-four people: “Stay back! You’ll swamp us!” After swimming away a few yards, he returned and was greeted with the same brutal clap of wet wood against trembling human skin. Gradually, they allowed him to cling to the side of the boat and passengers took turns holding his battered hands to prevent him from slipping away. By the time they allowed him into the boat, the damage had been done: for the remainder of his life, David walked with a limp, his legs a perpetual bluish hue.
Further away, at upturned collapsible B, the scene was hauntingly similar. Using a broken board, the thirty men crowded atop the craft’s keel attempted to paddle away from the dozens of swimmers struggling to climb aboard. Not wanting to refuse anyone access, the military historian Colonel Archibald Gracie turned his back on the swarm and listened as his fellow survivors barked denials to the hapless souls: “Hold on to what you have, old boy. One more of you aboard would sink us all.”
I attempt to visualize the strained motions of their rowing. I want to make sense of their actions and understand the thoughts that coursed through their brains as, from the darkened water, a voice replied to their warnings, “All right, boys. Good luck and God bless you.” Did they know that, with a simple gesture, they sealed the fate of another human being? Did the consciousness of that fact distressingly sink in as the thirty men wordlessly watched the voice’s owner swim away for a short distance before his motions became slowed, staggered, and, eventually, still?
In lifeboat number one, which was two thirds empty, were the Duff Gordons and the ten other people in the boat also aware that their own inactions solidified the doom of others? Owning fashion houses in Chicago, London, New York, and Paris, Lucile Duff Gordon was the most sought-after dress designer of her time, collecting numerous firsts in the fashion world: the first to use mannequins in displays, the first to abandon the corset in clothing, the first to introduce slits in skirts, and the coiner of the word chic. That night, her uniqueness vanished and melded into the complacency of others. Sitting in the frigid blackness, she cringed as the perpetual screams two hundred yards away rumbled onward into the impenetrable horizon. Finally, Leading Fireman Charles Hendrickson spoke, “It’s up to us to go back and pick up anyone in the water.”
In terror, Lucile mumbled concerns about swamping and her husband agreed. Days later, as he attempted to defend himself to the world, Sir Cosmo asserted: “I have said that I did not consider the possibility – or rather I should say, the possibility of being able to help anybody never occurred to me at all.”
I lift the life jacket over my head and allow it to settle on my body, the cork panels catching slightly on the folds of my shirt. Since I acquired the item over five years ago, it is the first time I have worn it and, somehow, I know it will be the last. I feel its weight pressing against my chest. It’s suffocating. It chokes my throat with an unbearable pain. I think of Minnie and the crewman who selflessly offered her his life jacket. Was this how she felt as she pulled it on?
By 2:50 AM, the discordant symphony of cries became a surreal whisper of isolated moans. Ten minutes later, an unnatural silence enveloped the ocean. Turning to face the room, I notice the same silence swelling uncontrollably in the walled confines of the teahouse. It settles above the lifeboat placard, the third-class blanket, and the wisteria china. It tightens that dull pain in my throat and makes it hard to swallow. I had hoped wearing the creation would bring answers and help me find the words to explain this to others; however, it doesn’t. It only presses further on my chest as my ears fill with the dim ringing of an unendurable stillness. There are no answers. No clarifications. No descriptions. There is only a feeling–a deep, indescribable feeling. I don’t know what to say to that group of inquisitive visitors. All I do know is how I should begin: “For 2,228….”
About Thomas Mattarocci, English Professor at Pueblo Community College
"For 2,228" is a reflection of my two-decade interest in the Titanic tragedy. Over this time period, I have devoured any available information about the ship and collected numerous artifacts related to her. This text interweaves details of the disaster with my experience of creating a memorial to the event at a local teahouse.
Family
by Canon Rorex
A family brings with it an aspect of life that can’t be replicated. There is a joy that it brings, a way to heal parts of us that become broken. A family is oftentimes hard; we must be always inclined to shed our selfish tendencies and give recognition to the burdens of others. Though you have given yourself, in it a wholeness is found; no longer alone, the individual ceases the solitude brought by an isolated existence.
Life is a series of intermittent uncertainties; tenderness and adulation are met with apprehension and ferocity. A constant labor whose consequence brings about contentment and felicity that can be garnered through no other means. The intimacy brought from the camaraderie of spirits uniting through familial bonds makes up the crux of our existence.
One may become dismayed, as if thrown from the journey of empathy, forgetting, momentarily, the composure needed to feed proclivity; through the wandering, a true self is gained as well as the capacity to apportion the essence of that self onto the individuals who constitute one's existence.
About Caynon Rorex
I have always been passionate about writing and had a penchant for words. Writing has always been an outlet for me to not only express myself, but to connect to others as well.
Area of Study:
AA of English
Descending
by Steven Trujillo
(inspired by an ancient Sumerian poem)
In the heavens and among the clouds floats the celestial palace, home of the Queen of Heaven. In the lustrous throne room, there sits a dark-haired beauty. Around the throne are strategically placed mirrors, so the beauty may catch a glimpse of herself at any moment. To her right, there is the celestial choir assembled on risers and wearing matching robes. In front of them stands their conductor. Opposite the throne, there is an arched entryway with two armored guards. The guards, previously at rest, snap to attention as the Chief Advisor, dressed in fine robes befitting his status, enters and approaches the throne.
After a low bow, the Chief Advisor addresses the beauty on the throne. “My Queen of Heaven, Goddess of Love and Beauty, worshipped by the civilized peoples of the great cities between the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, known for her success in war and politics, may I approach?”
The queen, while glancing at a mirror, waves him over. “Tell me, what news have you of the battle between the Bull of Heaven and Gilgamesh, King of Uruk?”
The Chief Advisor’s response is quick and precise. “King Gilgamesh’s best friend Enkidu joined the battle and slew your sister Eriskigal’s husband, the Bull of Heaven. Enkidu received a mortal wound and is in the throes of death as we speak.”
“And what of Gilgamesh?” Inanna is not happy with this report. “What harm was done to him, the man who spurned my advances and brought about this ordeal? His refusal forced me to go to my father, the great god Enki for satisfaction against Gilgamesh. He sent the Bull of Heaven to avenge me, and now you tell me the Bull of Heaven is dead and Gilgamesh lives?!”
“Though he lives, King Gilgamesh is suffering great sorrow for the imminent demise of his closest friend Enkidu.” Again, the Chief Advisor’s response is quick and precise.
“Good! At least his heart breaks! Perhaps they were more than good friends and that is why silly Gilly refused my advances, hmmm. This has been amusing; nevertheless, my interest wanes. Now I am bored.” Inanna pouts and glances in a mirror to observe her pouty face. The Chief Advisor, upon hearing the word bored, signals the choir conductor with the slightest gesture of his hand. The conductor immediately leads the choir in songs of praise for Queen Inanna, singing of her attributes and achievements.
After a sixtieth of an hour, the Chief Advisor notices a smile on his Queen and signals the choir to stop. He addresses Inanna. “There will be a funeral and wake in honor of the Bull of Heaven. You could attend the services and console your sister.”
“I am not close to my older sister. She was the first born, yet father gave me Heaven to rule and her Hell. We didn’t play together as children. My beauty exceeds hers.” Inanna glances in a mirror and smiles.
The Chief Advisor steps back, bows low, and addresses the queen. “My Queen of Heaven and ‘Hell,’ Goddess of Love and Beauty, known for her success in war and politics….” Seeing the smirk on Inanna’s face, the Chief Advisor stands and grins broadly.
“I like the sound of that! My powers would know no rival if I were to claim both the throne of Heaven and the throne of the Underworld. None could match my combined powers.” Inanna squeals with delight. “How can we make it happen?”
“Under the guise of attending the services of the Bull of Heaven, you could gain entry to the Underworld and acquire access to your sister and usurp her. You can do anything you set your mind to my Queen.” The Chief Advisor signals the choir conductor, who immediately sets the choir to singing praises of Inanna’s accomplishments.
Inanna smiles broadly as she listens, then signals the choir to cease. “I will retire to my private chambers to prepare for the journey. Send my loyal servant and trusted friend Ninshubur to my chamber to assist me. Also, send Kara, my beautician.” The Chief Advisor bows low, turns, and as he is leaving, signals for the choir to sing once again.
It is midday as Inanna, dressed in all her royal refinement, and her servant approach a large arched wooden gate set in the side of a hill. It is solid, except for a small shutter opening to peep through. They pause in front of the gate to Hell. In what seems a whisper, Inanna speaks to her servant. “Ninshubur, my most loyal servant, leave me now and do not forget my instruction.” Ninshubur nods, bows low, turns, and then leaves Inanna alone in front of the gate. Inanna finds the gate barred. She pounds on the door.
“Neti, Gatekeeper of the Darkness, open the door!”
“Who are you?” Neti’s calm voice is heard from the other side of the door. “Who pounds on my door?”
“I am the Queen of Heaven and demand passage!”
“If you are Inanna, tell me why the Queen of Heaven would want to pass through the lands from which none return?”
Inanna, with growing impatience, shouts through the gate. “I have come to see my sister Eriskigal, Queen of the Dead! The Great Bull of Heaven, her husband Gulgalanna, has been slain! I am here for the funeral!” Calming herself, Inanna now speaks sweetly: “Let us pour wine into cups and have done with this.”
“I will take your message to my queen. You wait here,” Neti answers in his unhurried tone.
In the sunless throne room of the Underworld, Neti finds his queen. Eriskigal sits on her throne. She is heavy with child. Neti approaches and bows before her. “My Queen, your sister Inanna, Queen of Heaven in all her fine raiment, is at the gate.”
Eriskigal bitterly responds. “My husband, the Great Bull of Heaven, is dead because of Inanna’s temper tantrum after being spurned by the mighty King Gilgamesh.” Eriskigal slaps her leg and bites her lip in frustration. She takes a moment to think about what to do and comes to a decision. “Go tell Inanna that she may cross into my domain. Before she enters, bar each of the seven gates and open each one only slightly and do not allow entry until she has shed some of her royal finery. Let my sister enter my presence humbled and bowed low.”
Inanna is found pacing in front of the gate. She hears Neti’s voice as the gate opens slightly. “Come and enter, Queen Inanna.” As Inanna goes through the first gate, Neti removes her crown.
“What is this? Why are you taking my crown?!”
Neti, unflappable as ever, replies. “Be quiet Inanna; these are the ways of the Underworld. They are above question. You have entered the first of seven gates to the Underworld. Each gate is identical to the first except the lighting dims with the opening of each. We must move along quickly from gate to gate.” Neti opens the next gate slightly. As Inanna steps through, Neti removes her necklace made of heavenly stones.
“How dare you take my things; this is outrageous!”
Neti shrugs and answers as before. “Be quiet Inanna, these are the ways of the Underworld. They are above question.” So it goes through each gate. At the third gate, Inanna loses her bracelets of gold. At the fourth, she loses her breastplate. At the fifth gate, she loses her signet ring. The sixth gate costs Inanna her royal ruling staff. At the seventh gate, Inanna is forced to give up her royal robes. Finally, they enter Eriskigal’s drab throne room.
Eriskigal is seated on her throne with four Ennuma (judges of the Underworld) seated beside her. There are two to the right and two to the left. Naked and humble, Inanna goes in front of her sister and bows. Eriskigal rises from her throne and looks down on her sister. Inanna goes to her sister as to give a sisterly embrace. She is stopped by the Ennuma, who surround her. In unison, the Ennuma address Inanna. “As judges of the Underworld, we pass judgement.” Inanna attempts to reach out to her sister only to be met with Eriskigal’s fixed gaze of death, proclaiming Inanna’s doom. With no sign of anguish, only that of wrath, Eriskigal strikes Inanna down dead, driven by revenge. “Hang her body from a hook on the wall. Let her corpse turn to rotting meat for all to see. Announce to all the lands: the Queen of Heaven is no more!”
Three gods, Enlil, Nanna, and Enki, are dining in a resplendent banquet hall, sitting at the head table. Before them, on her knees, and dressed in sack cloth is Inanna’s servant Ninshubur. She addresses the gods. “My Lords, my Mistress Inanna gave me instruction to come to you should she not return from the Underworld. Please do not let her be kept in the Underworld. Do not forget Inanna! I beg you, bring her back to us!” Ninshubur throws herself prostrate before them.
Enlil looks down on Ninshubur and shakes his head. “My Inanna is power hungry. She wants the power of the Heavens and the power of the Darkness. She knew what would happen if she went to the Underworld. Everyone knows if you go there you do not return.” With that condemnation, Enlil walks away from the table, turning his back to the prostrate servant.
Nanna is no more sympathetic than Enlil. “Inanna is greedy. She has the powers of the Heavens, yet she wants more. The powers of the Underworld should not be sought. She knew the rules and that no one ever returns from there. Her punishment is just.” Nanna, unyielding, walks from the table, turning his back on Ninshubur.
Enki who has sat with his head down listening to the other gods, now raises his head. Enki’s face softens with concern. “Oh Inanna, my beautiful daughter, what have you done? I am worried about you. What a steep price to pay for a lesson learned. How can she demonstrate that she has learned the errors of her ways, unless she is released to do so? Rise, faithful servant. Your words have been heard. I will take action to return your mistress. Go now and await her return at the gate to the Underworld.”
Following Lord Enki’s instructions, Ninshubur now paces in front of the same gate where she previously left her mistress. The gate opens, and Inanna emerges dressed in a single garment like a beggar. She is not alone. There are four demons with her. Ninshubur and Inanna hug. Ninshubur looks ominously at the demons surrounding them.
Inanna takes a breath and exclaims, “Wonderful Lord Enki sent two creatures, a kurgarra and a galatur to free me. The creatures won favor with Eriskigal by helping her through a difficult birth. It’s a boy. In gratitude, Eriskigal granted them anything they desired. They requested my rotting corpse, even though Eriskigal said they would be better off with wheat fields.”
Ninshubur shares a giggle with her mistress and then encourages her to continue. “Please go on, my Lady.”
Inanna stops her giggling. “She reluctantly turned my carcass over to them, for she cannot refuse a promised favor. Once in their possession, they sprinkled the water of life, which Lord Enki had given them, on my lifeless body and brought me back to life. I tried to leave, but Eriskigal stopped me and said, ‘You may have been brought back to life my sister, but you cannot leave here. No one who enters here may leave.’ That’s when the wise and powerful judges the Ennuma stepped in. They ruled that I could return to the land of the living but had to give them someone to take my place. The demons will travel with me until I give them someone to replace me.”
The demons speak in unison. “We will take this person, your servant, in exchange for you and avoid travel in the land of the living.” The demons make to grab Ninshubur.
Inanna stops them. “This is my most trusted servant and loyal friend. She heeded my words and followed my instructions. She spoke to the great gods Enlil, Nanna, and Enki for me. I owe my life to her. You cannot have her. Come with me to my city of Umar, where I am worshiped, and there we will find someone.”
Inanna, Ninshubur, and the demons arrive at the city gate of Umar. There they find Kara, Inanna’s hairdresser. He is dressed in a sack cloth, and his face is soiled. He obviously has been in mourning for his queen. When he sees her, he throws himself at his mistress’ feet.
The demons speak in unison. “This one will be a great substitution for you in the Underworld.”
“You cannot have Kara. I cannot live without him. He cuts my nails, shampoos and smooths my hair. Let us go into the city.”
In the city they find Shara, Inanna’s youngest son. Shara is sitting in dirt and wearing only a sack cloth, mourning his mother’s fate. The demons reach out to take him as their hostage. Inanna blocks them. “Shara has been a faithful son and mourned his mother properly. He sings soothing hymns to me. I bid you, let us walk on.”
The little party approaches an orchard and come across Dumuzi, Inanna’s husband. He is dressed in his royal robes and finery and is seated on a magnificent throne. He is drinking wine and playing his flute. Upon seeing Inanna and the others, Dumuzi’s face drains of all color. The demons, quite restless and wanting to return to the Underworld, surround and fall upon Dumuzi. Inanna makes no move to stop them. The demons empty Dumuzi’s wine flask and take the flute which he had been playing. The demons quickly hush him when he tries to beg for his life. Inanna looks at her husband coldly. In her eyes, he sees his death. Dumuzi makes a futile attempt to escape. The demons take possession of Dumuzi.
“What is taking so long?! Take him to the Underworld and see that my debt is paid!”
About Steven Trujillo
You are never too old to pursue your dreams.
Area of Study:
Studio Arts
