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LEVIATHAN
-2016
art by Berni Wrightson

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Barren Copse
I was an undergrad at The University of Toronto, pursuing an Honours Bachelor of Arts as an Anthropology Specialist. Late one evening in October, some classmates and I were working on a group project at Coffee & All That Jazz, a cunning bistro about twenty-minutes from the St. George Campus. Intending to keep our weekend free, we finalized our proposal, sent it off for approval, and embarked home. My friend Sasha and I biked. Melody, my roommate, left earlier that evening for Fall Break, so I had the townhouse to myself. Sasha was going to stay for an hour, have a glass of Chardonnay, and then head home. As I locked up my bicycle, Sashaās phone rang. Her boyfriend had encountered some trouble at a local bar, and she needed to go and assuage the tension. I was okay with it. Melody was loud and boorish, so the thought of some alone time seduced me. In fact, I probably compelled Sasha to leaveā unknowingly, of course. When I entered the front door, the alarm should have gone off, but it didnāt. Iād forgotten to set it in the past, but I distinctly remembered setting it before coffee. Only in retrospect, though, sifting through the accumulation of suspicion, did I think anything of it. Much like the alarm, the pile of leaves by the landing struck me as oddā hadnāt I swept the foyer that afternoonā but I concluded that they were nothing more than an innocuous mystery. I set my purse on the table and ascended the stairs, turning left into my bedroom. The upstairs was fairly compact, with thinā almost suffocatingā hallways to the left and right of the staircase. Melody slept to the right, and a joint bathroom was nestled between the two of us. I drank wine, read a magazine or two, took a shower, and set the alarm. On the alarmās home-screen, there was a notice that the system had been disarmed half-an-hour before I returned home. Melody, I thought, must have come home to retrieve something sheād forgotten. I sent her an (admittedly caustic) text about forgetting to reset the system and went back upstairs to bed. I had oriented my bed by the window when I moved in so I could stare out of it as I fell asleep. There was a copse of trees in the backyard, near my window, and the leaves were the most miraculous shade of yellow every year when Mother Nature inaugurated the arrival of Fall. That night, though, the tree was barren. I hadnāt noticed that the trees shed their leaves. Clinging wistfully to memories of vibrant, flaxen leaves, I fell asleep. Iām not sure what roused me out of my sleep, perhaps a sinking feeling in my gut, but something had. The door to Melodyās room, I could hear it being opened, the muffled sound of heedful footsteps working their way down the hall. Melody? I checked my phone. She responded. She had been back earlier that evening, and she must not have set the alarm. She apologized. These footsteps were heavy, thoughā dreadful. Sheād have told me if she were here, right? Like tubes of morphine lanced into your veins, I could feel a surge of adrenaline fluttering through my body. Cautiously, I rose from the bed and approached the door. The footsteps were even nearer now. And breathing. I could hear someoneās muted breathing. I locked the door. It jiggled. Someone, five-feet away from me on the other side of that door, was trying to enter my room. I backed up towards the window, opened it, and using that barren copse as support, descended into the backyard. I vaulted over my neighborās fence, catching a glimpse of a shadow standing by my window as I landed. Later that night, when the police arrived next door to take my statement, they told me that Melodyās corpse had been found in her bedroom, beheaded. Her phone, still charged, was on the nightstand.

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Hybristophilia
Iām sitting hereā isolated and petrifiedā in my apartment. There was another news report, this time about a girl, my age, murdered in her on-campus dormitory. I think that brings the count up to three, if Iām not mistaken. āThree?ā you might opine. āThree, why, thatās hardly any at all. Henry Lee Lucas confessed to 28 murders.ā He may very well have, but as a sovereign, uninhibited college student, even the thought of just one is too many. Whatās even more frightening, however, is the arbitrary nature of the crimes. Thereās no pattern, nor is there any conclusive evidence to suggest who might be doing this, even after three murders. Three. My current GPA. Maybe my academic headway corresponds positively to the number of victims. I shouldnāt make light of this, though, given the truly grisly nature of these crimes. That last girl, number three, the College Park Ripper had been waiting inside one of the shower stalls. Investigators suggest that he may have been there for well over 48 hours. Well, number threeā it speaks immensely of our society that we all know the coined name for the killer, but not the names of the victims themselvesā she had been the one unlucky enough to shower at 4am on Friday morning. She had probably been out drinking, something I donāt do all that often, and sheād traipsed in, liquor hanging from her breath, and tried to take a shower. I think they said he wrapped a bag around her head, to stifle the screams, and then stabbed her 36 times in the chest with a pocketknife. He then ran the shower, and it wasnāt until earlier this morning that someone found her, saturated in bloody clothes. Blood doesnāt run off entirely in the shower, I remember them saying that.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā This is too morbid, though, too dour. Considering that I havenāt got a home to go back to, Iām trapped on this campus, waiting for our inept police force to solve this. I should call Margot; see if she wants to get some lunch.
Ā II
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Margot is meeting me at some new, posh pizza place. A posh pizza place. I never thought Iād live to see the day. It is the nineties, though. Oh, here she comes. And sheās wearing my denim jacket. Of course. I hope the College Park Rippers visits her tonightā I could get my clothes back. She asked me if I was scared by whatās been going on. Of course I am. Iām terror-stricken. I live alone. My buildingās security is adequate at best, and Iām probably the most feeble college student on campus. Even the cripples possess more brawn, more brute strength than I do. She suggests I stay with her. She lives with her boyfriendā Patrick. Heās nice enough I guess, but when the two of them are together, theyāre intolerable. God, she keeps rambling. I thought I wanted to see her, but now I just want to go home. I want to light a cigarette and follow the news, see if theyāve made any more developments. I wonder if theyāve been able to estimate his build. I wonder if heās the big, hulking type, you know? I bet heās whiteā thatās a given. Is it wrong to wonder if heās cute? Theyāre typically not, but I just watched Seven, and Kevin Spacey was kind of adorable. Heās got to be somewhat average looking, I presume. I mean, he slinks about these complexes, and he doesnāt arouse any suspicion. I wonder if heās been to my building. Seen my building. I wonder if heās ever contemplated going in there, to find his next victim. As far as I know, he could be there right now. Lying in wait, like a lion in the Serengeti. I want to go homeā this lunch is wearisome. I told Margot that I needed to go. āWhy?ā she asked me. āYou havenāt got class.ā I told her I had someone else to meet. She didnāt believe me. She knows that, ostensibly, she and Patrick are my only friends here, if you can even count them as that. She borrows my clothes, though. I think thatās why she goes to lunch with me. My parents have money, so I, in turn, have money. They wonāt let me come home, but my account is inundated with funds every morning. Margot likes that I pay for lunch, I think. Margot is a bitch.
Ā III
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Itās the evening now, and after that third girlās death, you can practically feel the fear percolating around in the air. Itās infectious. Even those miles off, like in Arlington, theyāre more prudent than they had been before. An extra degree of caution, the news is suggesting. Arlingtonā he is the College Park Ripper. He doesnāt want to go to Arlington. Iām sick of these killings being a spectacle. See, I ruminate intimately, by myself. But this has nothing to do with Arlington, or the broad in Missouri who laments that, āsheād almost considered going here.ā Odious individuals wailing about how, āit could have been me.ā It wasnāt. Youāre not that important. Iād like to silence them for good, but luckily, the news seems to have skimmed over them, turning first to the Chief of Police. This is what I want. This is what I want to hear. Any updates, any news, anything, really. And then, I get squat. He recited the same, tired platitudes about how theyāre going to catch him, and how theyāve assigned a massive task force to this case. Itās a bunch of pat. I almost want him to get away, nowā sort of a big middle finger to law enforcement. I need a cigarette.
Ā IV
Itās chilly, tonight. I actually need a coat to smoke. Thatās how you know fall is coming. Chilly weather, and dead coeds. Maybe he can keep this up until Halloween. Weāre only a few weeks off. I can already imagine, seemingly virile men, dressing up as the College Park Ripper. Itāll be a big costume faux pas, but theyāll do it. āItās edgy,ā theyāll think. I can picture it now, students traipsing around campus, the killer still at large. I read an article a few weeks back, I canāt remember where, but it dealt with the current state of forensics in crime. Itās disheartening, really, not at all up to par with what weāre exposed to on television. So, in all likelihood, the killer could still be at large come Halloween. He could be another Zodiac, or Jack The Ripper. Our fears manifested, exacting their violence, and then disappearing into obscurity. Itās better for his image, then, that he not be caught, I think. Your legacy is directly related to evasiveness. Society is hungrier for crimes they canāt understand, crimes that they cannot blame on anyone in particular. I already see HBO adapting it to film. I need to go in, though. Classes are canceled, but Iām still so tired. I havenāt had anything to do in days, and my lack of stimulus has rendered me enervated. Iām not locking my balcony door, though. He couldnāt get in that way.
Ā V
Iām lying here in bed thinking of victim #1. I really need something else to occupy my thoughts. I just remember hearing, in detail, the timeline of events from her death. Sheād come home from a late night studyingā it was a Monday nightā and immediately collapsed onto her bed. She was the first, so she had no reason to behave cautiously. They contend that she left her door unlocked, and at some point during the night, our killer snuck in. He didnāt kill her immediately, though. He perused her belongings, fondling her tchotchkes, rummaging through her cabinets. He probably woke her, and she sat there, motionless in bed, unsure of what was going on. Had she been the second victimā that poor bloke who lives downtownā for example, sheād have known instantly what was happening. She was about to get killed, unfortunate as it may be, and it was inevitable. But she didnāt know. Her mind probably rationalized it with some benign notion of robberyā not that robbery is benign, but compared to having your head sliced off, itās contextually genial. But it wasnāt robbery. And after some time, he managed his way into her room. She was awake, they maintain, when he straddled her, knocking her out cold with one punch to the jaw. They found her bodyā or what was left of itā stripped naked, so itās imagined that heād engaged in some unseemly behavior before he killed her. Her sliding glass door had been shatteredĀĀā probably his means of escapeā and he used a stray shard of glass to slowly, and methodically, sever her head. They found the glass, but not the head. Imagine being a parent and having to identify the body. Itās gruesome stuff, man. Ā And as these parcels of thoughts float effervescently through my mind, I keep returning to the same central question: who is this man and what does he want? Itās the universal question of nature vs. nurture thatās haunted man for centuries. Is the College Park Ripper inherently evil, or is there some other factor at play? Maybe it was a faulty upbringing, a bad relationship, or an issue with authority? I donāt know, and as much as Iād like to make an assertion, Iām going to withhold any judgment until we find out who this man is. You never know, he might not be a bad guy.
Ā VI
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Youāre going to think it sounds terrible, but I found myself disconcertingly upset this morning when I turned on the news. Youāre not going to believe what they said. Last night, there wasnāt another victim. Thatās right, our infamous ripper took the night off. Other than Tuesdayā which doesnāt count, since that falls in the window of the preliminary stagesā our killer hasnāt been absent a single night. Be it lurking, or, you know, actually killing, heād been pretty active, and now this? Did all of my nonsensical pontification signal his end? Was it my words, my thoughts that sent him back into obscurity? Oh, and youād be right to think that the media is over it. He was nothing more than a sound bite this morning, the remaining block of time allocated to some worthless, local hero. What a bunch of crap. He saved a cat from a tree, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, and yet, this manā our ripperā murders three students, and he gets nothing more than a thumbnail? Itās unfair, is what it is. In a couple of years, everyone will remember our ripper, and no one will remember any of our trifling local heroes. Iām hoping Iām wrong, though. Iām going to call Margot; maybe sheās heard something. The media is worthless. Gossip travels faster than our pitiful news station does. Sheās not answering. Itās only 8. She should be home. Itās odd.
Ā VII
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Youāre not going to believe what happened. Okay, you just might, but Patrick and Margot were attacked last night. Margot is okay, but Patrick didnāt make it. Apparently, and this is all hearsay from neighbors, our ripper brought with him a tool box, and used it to ply open the door to Patrickās apartment. Now, with my income, I could easily afford something nicerāthereās just nothing availableā but my place is a palace compared to Patrickās. Hell, he didnāt even need the tools, I bet. He could easily have bribed the doorman with some Krispy Kreme, and then wiggled with the locks a bit. I think, last time we talked, he mentioned that they hadnāt been updated since the sixties. I could have broken in there if I wanted to. Feeble old me, yeah. Nonetheless, he broke in. He didnāt lollygag this time; our ripper got straight to work. He bludgeoned Patrick with the claw of a hammer, and tossed Margot from the bed. Her head hit the end table, so she was somewhat dazed. Patrick, in a last-ditch effort to protect his woman, started to swing. The man has a gaping hole in his noggin, blood obfuscating his vision, and heās going to try to fight his attacker off. Okay. Invariably, he failed, and he was hit again in the face with the hammerās claw. This time, though, it lodged on his jawbone, and upon removal, it tore the entire thing clean off of his face. So, heās helplessly bleeding to death in the corner, and Margot is still there, on the ground, with no idea whatās happening. She gets up, and spots our ripper removing Patrickās clothes. I donāt know where it came from, or what possessed her, but Margot slammed a lamp over our ripperās head, careened around the bed, and bolted straight out of the door. And now, here we are. Of course, this was late last night, so it figures that the news wouldnāt have it come 8am. Again, theyāre worthless. What worries me, though, is the notion that some DNA may have been left behind. Theyāve insinuated that the glass from the lamp may have left some lacerations on his head, and that his blood may be present there, along with Patrickās. Itās worrisome indeed, because everything heās worked for, all of it, would be lost because of Margot. Iām not going to visit her at the hospital. I canāt. Iām just too upset right now.
VIII
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Wouldnāt you know, theyāve identified the fingerprints of a Mr. Joseph Michaels. I guess during all of the hoopla, our ripperā or Joseph as heās now knownā lapsed into fervor, and got a little sloppy. He had some previous convictions for sex abuse. Itās all Margotās fault. Why she felt the need to interfere is beyond me. Doesnāt she see that sheās ruining someoneās life? Even worse, should they apprehend him, theyāve got her pegged to testify. After all of this, the entire saga, Margot ends up the hero. Sheās the sole survivor, sheās the one who saved the day, sheās the one who testified and put our ripper behind bars. It isnāt fair. There has to be something I can do, but I canāt. All of my initial fear, my petrification, is gone now. Iām indignant at the injustice being carried out here. Joseph Michaels had a real chance at doing something great, and now itās all for naught. Iām dreading his inevitable capture. After all of this, he has to be of frightened of the police as I was of him. Heāll behave slovenly, and sooner or later, the police will intercept him. I need a cigarette.
Ā IX
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Itās like Iām clairvoyant. Just hours after Margotās testimony to police, theyāve found Joseph Michaels. He was squatting in a boiler room at some abandoned DC school. Four victims, thatās it. Thatās his legacy. No one will want to emulate him. Hell, I doubt heāll even be remembered come this time next year. Of course, Patrickās family will remember him, but theyāre so irrelevant now. I mean, just look at the type of girl he was dating. In all honesty, we really havenāt lost much. And now, for me, Iāve got nothing left to do. I can sit here and wait, watching the trial unfold. Iām sure it wonāt be sensational, since itās all pretty clear-cut. There is nothing left here to excite me, to stimulate me. Even worse, classes are set to begin again. Thanks for that, Margot. Iām not ready for this, reverting back to boring old me. I canāt stand the thought of it. The very notion makes me want to heave myself over an overpass into the freeway. Iāve been checking my bank account, though, every so often, and Iāve got $143,894. I hadnāt even noticed. Mom and dad have been depositing, paying no care to what I actually had available. Iāve got an idea, though. I donāt know how it will work, or if itās even legal, but maybeā just maybeā I could use that money to help Joseph. I could fund his defense, and they could use me as his character witness. What he did wasnāt bad; he was just misunderstood. It takes someone with an unchecked intellect like myself, someone who possesses depth, to truly comprehend who this man is. In the course of a few short days, heās become an inspiration. Iāve invested too much of myself in this to just let it end here. Have him go to trial, get lethal injectionā because of course theyāll kill what they canāt understand. No. It canāt happen. I wonāt stand for it. I wonāt.
Ā X
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Iāve taken, over the course of a few days, most of my money out in cash. Iām waiting for the metro. Iām going to take this to the station, and find out how I can fund his defense. I also baked him some oatmeal-raisin cookies. I called an old neighbor of his, and she remarked that he always loved her cookies as a kid. I think itāll go far in raising his spirits, in letting him know that all of this hasnāt been in vain. Iāve also written him a letter. I didnāt sign it, but I have it taped atop the Tupperware. Itāll be nice for him to have something to read, and itāll let him know that he isnāt going through all of this alone. I had to rewrite it a number of times though, to get the tone right. Itās tough to balance. You donāt want it to be too sentimental, but you also donāt want to spend a bulk of the time fawning over him. I think, at the end, I struck just the right chord. Iām sure heāll be happy with it. I also used it to outline my plan for his release. Should he get off, and Iāll see to it that he does, my parents have a summer home in Barcelona. We could move there, just the two of us in our own little placid reserve. The sun would be warm, the waves calm, and weād just sit there, hand-in-hand. I think itās fate that brought us together, I really do. My bus is here now, and Iām glad for it. The weatherās gotten progressively colder. I canāt wait to be out of here, just Joseph and me together under the Barcelona sky.
Craven
Plunge your knife into the bulbous orange mass. Make what you know a monster. Hum his tune, and the man, the man in your dream appears. Let down your guard and watch as your friend metamorphoses. He hides behind his mask, donāt we all? Obscure reality weāre all pipe-dreamers, stargazers.
The horrors of our world, eldritch devils from the deep. They do not wander in the hinterlands, beneath an insidiously grey sky, static in its route through the stars. Cloven hooves impressed below the phantom copse, they linger in our streets.
To exist in our mind is to exist in our world. To combat them is to know. If God exists, then so does He. To acknowledge is to fight.
Coming Out
October 30th, 2014
Good afternoon, followers. I will be trying something a little different here. In conjunction with my current crop of macabre images, Iāll be including some of my personal horror writingsā youāve probably seen some before. Iām posting this as a warning, a presage of whatās to come, so if you feel compelled to abandon ship (unfollow me) now is the time. There are a lot of you, so my hope is that some of you will take the time to read them, respond to them, report them, trash them, or whatever; so long as youāre interacting with them, Iāll be happy. Thereās a new link on the blog that will redirect you to the page appropriately titledĀ āWritings.ā Be prepared to be inundated with a backlog of old writing until I have ample time to churn out something new. Thereās a comment box, too, so if you hate this idea, tell me to go to Hell and Iāll oblige. Best.Ā

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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