Underland Arcana 11: Underland Arcana, #11

By Phillip E. Dixon, J. Anthony Hartley, J. V. Gachs and 7 more

We have seen the towering thunderheads, the churning updrafts that come before the fire, and the dismal quiet that can suffocate us with stillness. Throughout—in spite of it all, perhaps—there are still stories to be heard: stories about seekers, stories about those who are adrift, and stories about how we find our way in unfamiliar landscapes.

Here are stories from Phillip E. Dixon, J. Anthony Hartley, J. V. Gachs, Gerri Leen, Mark Mills, John Klima, Reggie Kwok, Jon Lasser, Daniel Dagris, and Christopher Hawkins. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Underland Press
• Release date: Sep 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798231095124

Book preview

UNDERLAND

ARCANA

~ 11 ~

Fall 2023

Underland Press

This issue is the cool downdraft that precedes fall. We have seen the towering thunderheads, the churning updrafts that come before the fire, and the dismal quiet that can suffocate us with stillness. Throughout—in spite of it all, perhaps—there are still stories to be heard: stories about seekers, stories about those who are adrift, and stories about how we find our way in unfamiliar landscapes.

This issue is the third instance of the third year, and even though the numbering says otherwise, we know the significance . . .

Contents

Editorial: The Threshold of Possibility

The Racounteur

~ Phillip E. Dixon

Woodpecker

~ J. Anthony Hartley

San Juan's Sowing

~ J. V. Gachs

So That Happened

~ Gerri Leen

The Mundane Flute

~ Mark Mills

Box #143

~ John Klima

From a Serpent, Jade Bentasillus

~ Reggie Kwok

Starfish Sister

~ Jon Lasser

Wolven

~ Daniel Dagris

The Clockwork People

~ Christopher Hawkins

Contributor Bios

The Threshold of Possibility

Recently, I found myself with a half hour of time before the next thing happened, and I took advantage of those thirty minutes to get a haircut. I went to a place that wasn’t my usual spot, and I sat in the chair of a stylist I didn’t know. Which meant we had that small talk dance. How’s your month been? she asked.

I thought: Two weeks ago, I went to Fresno, CA, to pack up the final belongings of my recently deceased uncle. And I decided that was a little personal for first-time sharing. Then, I thought: Last week, I drove through a street shoot-out and my passenger got hit in the eye with a stray bullet. And no one is really ready for that to be dropped into casual conversation. And so I said: It’s been an interesting month.

And we moved on to talking about sports and movies and what-not. The Universe remained undisturbed.

It’s been a month since the shooting as I write this. It’ll be two months when this issue comes out. My friend has been through a transformative event—it’s terrible, yes, and tragic—but she has found peace and understanding and wisdom already. Not for the part where our world allows a long and complicated series of circumstances and choices and what-not that create an event that has such an impact on an innocent. That’s definitely broken, and yes, there is a lot of rage and frustration there. But for herself, and who she is now—and who she is becoming—that part. Yes, that part has been embraced.

I stand amazed. I stand inspired. I marvel at our ability to use story to find a way through adversity, pain, and setbacks. I like stories that contain a little hope—some ember that can yet be blown into a full flame. And the Arcana is filled with stories that aren’t as bleak as they may initially appear, and it will continue to be a conflagration waiting to be born.

And so, as we finish this third year of tickling the edge of uncertainty—as we stand poised to leap again into the unknown—I want to take a moment to remind us that we are stronger than we know. That we are surrounded and supported by those who believe in us. That life is capricious and random, and that love and compassion are infinite. That—no matter what—we get to write our stories in any way we choose.

Mark Teppo

August 15, 2023

The Raconteur

~ Phillip E. Dixon

The crowd’s thrilled buzzing filled the stuffy, dimly lit tent. An elongated bulb hovered over a canvas-covered mass on the slat-board stage. The dull, orange filament reminded Jacques of a campfire. He elbowed his skinny thirteen-year-old frame to the front, eager to see the Raconteur. The traveling carnival was incredible, with diving horses, a fight club tent, the punch-a-bag game, and the chicken-eating geeks at the freakshow. He’d seen a real automobile too—a Ford. Best of all, Jacques’s lone nickel stayed in his pocket—the carnival was free. And those sweet summer strawberries were too if no one was looking.

Gather ‘round! Gather ‘round!

The Raconteur’s voice—the squeaky sound of a ten-year-old boy—carried effortlessly from the stage. Spindly arms gesticulated, setting purple sleeves asway. Eight feet tall, the Raconteur’s rainbow-colored cloak enveloped a barrel-shaped body. Who would like to hear a story—

The audience hollered.

Who wants jaded heroes and mysterious villains? Absurd comedy and epic tragedy? Blood and redemption? Love and suspense?

Jacques’s fingers found his ears. The crowd grew more intense with each question—as loud as the Magician’s tent when he cut the upside-down woman from the audience vertically in half. It was messy—pig slop, surely—but the blue glow throughout was a fascinating trick.

The Raconteur continued from the stage in his child’s pitch. Who would like to sail the Seas of Devilry and shipwreck on the Shore of Dreams? Who will fight the one-eyed beasts in the Forest of Pillars? Who will seek Eternity’s Clock and unchain Mother Time?

I will! Jacques shouted, his voice lost in the audience’s roar.

The Raconteur still heard him. You look like a storyteller, my young friend, the Raconteur said, gliding downstage, wooden face drawing close, boyish voice a near-whisper. A hint of pale gray iris pocked two black eyes, one slightly larger than the other. A tiny mouth dashed across a wood-grained face complete with knotted nose, a sharply hooked corner melting into a pocket of black chin-rot. Atop the scalp perched a smear of sienna-colored hair—a dead, fallen maple leaf.

Jacques shivered, wondering why the man had made such a strange mask.

The Raconteur placed a frigid, twiggy finger under Jacques’s chin. It’s in your veins, isn’t it? he asked as if sharing a secret. A boy far from home, hopping trains, eating bull toads, telling tall tales to whomever will listen. Daydreams of jungles and gunfights—a quicksilver escape from the family dust farm.

Yes.

A boy in need of an audience.

Yes!

The crowd grew restless.

Get on with it!

Tell us a story!

The Raconteur’s head snapped up. But a story needs inspiration! he called. And where shall we find it?

Where? a man shouted, laughing.

The Raconteur floated back to the stage beside the hidden object. Why, here among you! You, the people, shall become— The tarpaulin fell. The Great Orator!

Audience members gasped. A metal pig’s face of rusted wrought iron overlooked the audience. A blotchy canvas ear drooped on either side, worn leather straps dangling from a missing mouth, eyes empty. It was as tall as the Raconteur. Jacques thought the snout made it look like the gas mask his father had brought home from the war in Somme. Acrid metallic tang filled the air.

The audience began to laugh—some with mirth or drink, some with nerves.

The Raconteur ran his hand over the pig’s flat nose, looping around the nostrils. Every story needs turmoil and passion, wisdom and loss. And, most importantly, we need characters! Who shall play the prankster?

A hand shot up from the crowd.

The prankster has been found! And who shall be the gargoyle?

My wife! a man shouted to laughter.

The Raconteur pulled people as they volunteered, sliding through the crowd who instinctively gave him wide berth, his long shadow an eclipse.

We need a bastard! Are there any bastards among you?

Cheers erupted, jeers and jostling accompanying a slew of raised arms including Jacques’s. Mama had called him one enough times. But the Raconteur passed him without a glance, choosing a barefoot man instead. Jacques let his arm flop, disappointed.

And the widow?

Me! a little girl in a patched wool skirt shouted. The crowd laughed again. The girl’s mother, in a similarly worn skirt, shushed her.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. A mother should encourage her little Alice to tell stories. The Raconteur stroked the girl’s hair. Indeed, a mother should lead by example."

The woman tried to step back, but the people behind stood firm. The Raconteur gripped her arm and dragged her to the stage where she stood, eyes wide and anxious. We have our widow!

The little girl started to cry. Jacques sidled over and put his arm around her like one of his little sisters. Your mama will be fine, he said. She’s gonna tell us a story.

The Raconteur pointed to the volunteers who looked jaundiced beneath the lightbulb. Four characters shape tonight’s tale. They make our treatise. The Raconteur positioned them around and inside the pig’s head. He slipped the leather straps around the elderly woman playing the prankster, hoisting her inside the pig, her head becoming its right eye, her grey braid trailing down the pig’s cheek like a tear. "Every character has a deep desire—a need." The widow took the other eye. The Raconteur helped lay the burly bastard and balding gargoyle down back-to-back, strapping the men’s feet to the semi-narrow corners of the pig’s upper