“Your name has power.” Daniel is a soft-spoken young man, and he spoke those words with enough conviction to convert the most stubborn non-believers. My skin still crawls with a profound fear and faith I’ve rarely experienced while I listened to his story.

Daniel is a professional hiking guide and trail leader throughout the United States’ wilderness. I was charmed by his awkwardness, insecurity, and humility. I was unnerved by his stories. I can feel the thin and tender flesh behind my left earlobe prickling as I think back to our conversation.

“Every experienced hiker used a pseudonym on the trails instead of their real names.” Daniel shifts his weight towards me and touches the rim of his glasses with his thumb and index finger to emphasize the importance of trail names. “One of my best friends on the trails is called Mercury. I don’t know her real name and she’s doesn’t know mine. She only knows me by Zero.”

“Why don’t you tell anyone your real name?” I leaned forward to match Daniel’s body language. The blank page of my new spiral notebook was dying for blank ink and mysteries.

Daniel’s eyes narrowed and he paused before he whispered. I could tell he was nervous to tell the secrets he held. My eager eyes pleaded for him to continue.

“You don’t want anyone to know your real name because your name has power.” My pen wrote furiously. Your name has power. “Have you ever heard your name being whispered and you weren’t sure if it was your imagination or not?”

“Yeah, I think I hear my name all the time. Whispered on the wind or shouted in a crowded room.” I was taking notes without breaking eye contact with Daniel. I was doing my best to keep him talking, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to comprehend everything he was sharing with me.

“Don’t ever follow the sound of your name when you’re alone on the trail. Don’t ever leave your hiking companion or group if you hear your real name calling you into the distance. That’s why we have trail names.”

“Have you ever heard your name being whispered on the trails?” I knew the answer to my question, but I didn’t know Daniel’s story yet. He folded his arms on the black patio table and put his head down on top of them. His prolonged silence was fractured by the sound of the pulse in my throat.

“It’s called the wendigo. I shouldn’t even say its name out loud.” Daniel lifted his head but he didn’t raise his voice. He visibly shuddered as his arms left the table. He rubbed the back of his neck and clenched his jaw.

“I had been hiking with Mercury for over 600 miles before we parted ways. It was my second day alone on the trail in weeks, and I was enjoying the solitude while I set up camp for the night. It had been a great day, but I was tired by the time I finished dinner so I fell asleep faster than usual. I was in a deep sleep, zipped up in my tent and sleeping bag, further from any other human than I’d ever been before.” I wasn’t taking notes anymore. I was engrossed with Daniel’s story, yearning to hear more.

“Like a slingshot, I sat up. I was wide-eyed and wide awake out of no where in the head of night, and I was scared. I was looking around in a panicked daze, but nothing was out of the ordinary so I figured I’d had a weird nightmare. I laid back down and closed my eyes. Then I heard it…my name. It was Mercury’s voice calling me from outside my tent. She whispered to me. ‘Come out Daniel. I want to talk.’ But it wasn’t Mercury. She only knows me by Zero. I haven’t seen her in days. Then I heard her voice more clearly. She was inches from my tent and calling to me again. ‘Please come out Daniel. I need you.’ I knew it wasn’t Mercury. It was the wendigo. I always thought it was trail lore and campfire stories until it was my name being uttered into the darkness.”

I’ve never been more scared in my life as Daniel spoke and I just as scared as I type his words right now. I’ll never forget the piercing chills I had because I relive them every time I think about his story.

“What did you do?” I mumbled the obvious question while Daniel considered his next words.

“I waited for a long time. It seemed like an entirety. I knew it wasn’t Mercury and I couldn’t follow the sound of the voice, but I had to do something. After there was silence for a long time, I turned on my smallest flashlight and unzipped my tent with meticulously slow deliberation. I’ve never been more terrified as I shined the light into the black void outside my tenuous safety. As I peeked from the smallest opening, my tiny beam of light stopped itself on two red dots looming low on the ground in the distance. They were eyes and they were staring straight at me. I couldn’t look away as they raised from the forest floor getting taller and taller. My flashlight started flickering as the red eyes came closer. Right before the light went out, I saw a millisecond of an image that’s branded into my brain forever. It was the wendigo. Twelve feet tall, shapeless black face, no body, shadowy antlers entangled with dark tree branches, and evil red eyes. I zipped up that tent door so fast! I hid under my sleeping bag and prayed more than any atheist has ever prayed before. I heard the wendigo calling me all night pretending to be Mercury. ‘Come out Daniel. I want to talk. I need you.’ I thought it would never end. I cried when dawn finally broke. That’s why you don’t tell anyone on the trail your real name. Your name has power, and if you hear your real name being whispered in the dead of night…it’s the wendigo. Never follow it.”

Unicorn. That which eludes many, as defined by modern man. The object of many maidens dreams, yet never a reality. The perpetual search for this thing that answers all your woes, but can not be found. A beauty in its natural state, but marred by the writers sword and kept hidden by the imagination. Elusive, and undefined, the Unicorn.

I am

the consequences—

the collection

of rotting fleshes

laying mangled

and neglected

by the wayside,

desecrated

withered

and aged

from your hate,

then needle-poked

and sewn

by your string of insults

laced with prejudice.

Born

from your selfish labours,

and malevolence,

I am

the leftovers,

the discarded scraps,

scar tissue,

stapled, bolted,

and hacked

hardly held together enough

to contain

an ordinary man

much less

an eight-foot-monstrosity—

You sought perfection

based on nothing

but insecurities

driving yourself mad enough

to inject the blood

of a thousand toxic souls

into a single empty cavity—

An unhinged obsession

ending in bioelectric rage

creating a paraspinal pulse

and legitimizing

an impossible science.

A necromancy

disproving everyone

including yourself

because

the moment you exclaimed

that I was in fact “alive”

beneath that melancholy sky

you were convinced

I was neither dead

or alive,

or worthy of either

so, you rejected me,

left me alone

and confused

on that frigid trestle bed

without a name

my heart palpitating

and eyes filled

with the fresh glaze

of newborn sweat.

Congratulations

Mrs. Societal Shelly,

You

created life from death

only to kill it again

with abandonment

then buried it

under a pile

of despair

that is my body

and sealed it

within my hollowed core

just before

tossing me into a heartless world

to fend off mankind

alone.

I rose

unbeknown to my fate

eager to find love

while wearing ignorance as a smile

and holding hope in an open palm

wishing it to be filled by another.

But an adolescent mind,

only needs the clock hands

to revolve the sun

a few times

to grasp how cruel,

“Out there” will treat you.

I’ve been spit on

shot at

and chewed out,

then chased off,

beat up,

and knocked down

too many times to count.

I’ve been ripped at the seams,

bruised beyond repair,

and my patience is stretched

as thin as my skin,

and I blame you

for making me see the world

for what it is,

and never being there to warn me how ugly

they thought I’d be.

Never once,

had I considered beauty

an attribute to measure character

nor had I stood by a mirror

weeping relentlessly,

but here I stand.

After constant beratement

and never meeting

a single soul with good intentions,

I’ve started to believe.

For the first time

in the mirror

I see what they’re afraid of.

I’m a walking graveyard

contorted by cruelty and pain

suffering from

social arthritis

deforming my limbs

and swelling my joints into mountains.

I’m a hideous mistake,

a horrible life

of your creation

worthy

to the flames of condemnation

but only after

your misery is complete.

Ashamed of who I am

I turn out the lights

I dry my sunken eyes

until I realize

I’ve acquired night vision.

I must have adapted to the dark

After all these years

becoming accustomed to

the absence of light

thanks to the ones

with pitchforks and spears,

the ones with guns

and knives,

and the ones holding fire

with hateful tongues,

but mostly

thanks to you,

Mrs. Shelly,

Thanks to you,

I see clearly in the dark.

I see what I am now.

and I see what I must do!

My eyes sink deeper,

and grimmer

becoming soulless ebony circles

fully dilated

with one clear purpose.

“I was benevolent and good;

misery made me a fiend

and if I cannot inspire love,

I will cause fear.”

I am your Adam,

but also, the fallen angel

warning you

that I’m unafraid

because

I am what

nightmare’s fear

and I’ll be the whispers

that follow you

through the streets

while bystander’s gossip

as to what keeps them awake

and there won’t be

one mention of the name they dread

because when you left me deserted

on that grim November night,

I was born nameless

and that’s

how you’ll know it's me.

-Your Monster

Where is she?

Where are her thoughts?

Her feelings? Her heart?

I

Cannot

Feel

Her

I took shape for her

I loved her

I protected her

Where am I?

My form is shifting

Turning back to monstrous

Turning away from me, from her

Oh, why can’t I feel her?

I’m lost

Everything is emptiness

Pulling me everywhere and nowhere

Consuming and constraining

Where do I put it all?

I changed myself for her

Whatever she wanted

Whatever she needed

However I could help

Molded clay for her use

But

I

Cannot

Feel

Her

I miss her

I am her

She is gone

I disappear too

I find myself drawn to the graceful and elusive qualities of the unicorn. This mythical creature; a symbol of purity and enchantment, compels me with its simple elegance and mystique. The single, spiralling horn adoring its head is a testament to its uniqueness and individuality, standing proud against conformity.

The unicorn embodies a sense of wonder, reminding us of the beauty that exists and lives beyond the mundane and ordinary. It represents an untamed spirit that refuses to be confined, an embodiment of individual freedom (in a world that is often bound by limitations).

Social expectations of what we should or should not be, often stifles this

individuality, but the unicorn serves as a constant reminder to embrace one's true self. This mythical being encourages us to seek the extraordinary in our own lives — to believe in the possibility of “magic” even in the most fleeting moments.

My favorite mythological creature has to be the Phoenix. There's something undeniably captivating about this magnificent bird that rises from its own ashes, symbolizing renewal and transformation. As a human, I'm drawn to the Phoenix because its attributes resonate deeply with the human experience.

The idea of the Phoenix's immortality through rebirth is incredibly inspiring. It represents the eternal cycle of life, death, and resurrection, reminding us that even in our darkest moments, there is the potential for a fresh start. In a world where we face challenges and setbacks, the Phoenix serves as a beacon of hope, encouraging us to embrace change and grow from adversity.

Furthermore, the Phoenix's fiery nature is symbolic of passion and intensity. It's a reminder that in order to truly rise above our challenges, we must face them with a burning determination and a fierce spirit. The image of the Phoenix bursting into flames before its rebirth is a powerful symbol of the transformative power of adversity and the strength that can emerge from the ashes of our struggles.

The Phoenix's majestic plumage and radiant beauty also symbolize the idea that from destruction can come something even more magnificent. It teaches us to find beauty in impermanence and to appreciate the fleeting moments in life. Just as the Phoenix's feathers ignite in a brilliant blaze, we should strive to make our lives shine brightly with purpose and meaning.

So, the Phoenix appeals to me as a symbol of resilience, renewal, and the indomitable spirit of the human soul. Its attributes remind us that no matter how many times we fall, we have the potential to rise stronger, wiser, and more beautiful than ever before.

The fartblossom (Flatulus malodorus) is an aquatic or ground plant whose leaves float atop the water or protrude from the ground and whose stem and roots extend vertically below the surface. It uses a hybrid type of photosynthesis that converts CO2 to hydrogen sulfide, although other byproducts are released, presenting as a bouquet of flatus variations as perceived by Cranial Nerve I (Olfactory Nerve). Many descriptions have been proffered to describe its perfume, e.g., "dead rat," "pus ball," "burned mucus retention clots" (i.e., burned boogers), and Lazarus just before being raised from the dead (John 11:38-40).

Its bloom, which is typically VERY SUDDEN, is accompanied by the plant tilting to one side or the other and a sound much like a thunderburst. Some botanists have claimed to have observed a "silent but deadly" variation of its bloom, with either no sound at all or accompanied by a sound much like the scratching sound of a Geiger counter. But they died. Further research into this phenomenon is currently underway with prisoner volunteers, usually sex offenders.

The slightest contact with it will provoke the paroxysmal bloom and its exudate is difficult to remove when it is aerosolized into the air and lands on hair, skin, clothing, etc. Seeds are very prolific in the spontaneous generation of buds soon thereafter and are often thrown onto others' properties during neighborhood disagreements. Others plant them as a strategy to keep dogs from moving their bowels on their property, relying on the wind to mitigate this questionable trade-off.

The fartblossom is the national flower of Hell. It is also the real reason Vincent van Gogh took his life, while doing his unfinished still life, "Plant Indisposed." (He should have cut off his nose, instead, like Tycho Brahe, who fell into a nest Flatuli malodori in a tragic misstep.)

It may be odd to think of Scylla as a favorite mythological creature but I can’t help how much I relate to her. One day she was flirting with Oceanos the next cast off to be a monster. The people she thought were her friends were laughing, gossiping, and joking about who she turned into. Sometimes I feel like no matter what I do I’ll always seem like Scylla to others, no matter how I carry myself or how beautiful I may be, if I mess up or make one wrong move I might be laughed at for eternity.

The wee folk, the fairies, the little people. Many names are given to these most wondrous of wisps, these pixie-dust imps and wood-dwelling nymphs, riding high atop dragonfly’s backs, dipping in a stream causing ripples; their favourite tipple a sip from a honeydew cup. Iridescent wings flutter-so-lightly, brightly tipped, leaving trails incandescent with love. Foxglove is like Buddleia to a butterfly; they’ll flutter by a buttercup and land on your forget-me-nots. Hobgoblins, trolls, dwarves and gnomes; brownies and banshees and dryads of trees. Beware the fairy ring, for stepping in, the toadstool will fool you, and steal you away to the kingdom of fae. These elves and sprites could escape your sight, but know that our tales of fairies are not myth, they exist, nature spirits by day and dancing by night.

“When will the Phoenix fly again?” I ask.

When will it burn the fire in my veins

and overcome these years of doubt and pain

and start removing death’s ominous mask?

“When will the Phoenix fly again?” I ask.

When will it bring me  flames and blood and sex,

remove this vile demon’s vexing hex

and raise me from this bed of dust and ash?

“When will the Phoenix fly again?” I ask.

When will it spread my wings to flap again?

How long will this dark, dreary winter last?

“When will the Phoenix fly again?” I ask.

When will it blaze, ignite my life and pen?

“When will the Phoenix fly again?” I ask.