{"id":60989,"date":"2021-12-05T17:54:15","date_gmt":"2021-12-05T23:54:15","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/?p=60989"},"modified":"2021-12-08T13:31:51","modified_gmt":"2021-12-08T19:31:51","slug":"rg-hallecks-mendosomo-lyssomanes","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/rg-hallecks-mendosomo-lyssomanes\/","title":{"rendered":"RG Halleck’s “Mendosomo Lyssomanes”"},"content":{"rendered":"
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\"\"READ LOCAL First is the world\u2019s most extensive library of Utah-related poets and writers. For this final iteration of the series in 2021, we introduce Steven Johnson, who writes as RG Halleck.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
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Halleck lives in Utah with three others, two of whom share his DNA. Although he’s worked in three different sandwich shops, his fingers still type \u201csandwhich\u201d every time.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
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Says Halleck: “I’ll cancel my plans if a magic show becomes available. I have a complicated relationship with the comma. I’m delighted and confused by the world.”<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
Halleck won First Place in the Children’s Book category of the 2021 Utah Original Writing Competition. When we informed Halleck that 15Bytes doesn’t publish youth lit, he was quick to submit Mendosoma Lyssomanes. <\/em>His talented daughter created the artwork that accompanies this piece.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/h2>\n

<\/h2>\n

<\/h2>\n

<\/h2>\n

<\/h2>\n

Mendosoma Lyssomanes<\/strong><\/h2>\n

Sprint to that fence. Duck under the overgrown hedge. Inch to the corner and catch my breath.<\/h4>\n

Now hold still. Don\u2019t breathe. Listen to the street . . . Nothing . . . Concealed completely in here. Pinch off the blood flow. The phone? Still in my pocket.<\/h4>\n

Big M Auto Body is a block away. Ransacked but not burned. The road between here and there is fully exposed. The mission now is field surgery<\/em>, Zach would probably call it. Then get this phone back to base, back to Zach.<\/h4>\n

Can\u2019t get any more fresh blood on me. Gotta look like another day in paradise. Cut off my T-shirt sleeves for bandages. Second time today this buck knife has come in handy. Now I\u2019m just another scrawny macho doofus. Gonna be a cold walk back.<\/h4>\n

Goddamn. Hardly enough finger left to wrap. That doc at Bountiful\u2014hope she can stretch the skin together over the bone\u2014pull the stitches into a closed seam.<\/h4>\n

Okay, give it a ten-count. Heh. Better make it nine. Nine\u2019s a luxury. Enjoy it for a few more moments.<\/h4>\n

Now wad up your nub, hands in pockets, saunter toward Big M. Take time to glance in every dumpster. Every car. I\u2019m just a scavenger. No threat. Too small to bother with.<\/h4>\n

Same as the day they came to my studio. Thank Hades I saw them in there, leafing through my portfolio, before I went for my door. If not for the ground-floor apartment\u2014if I hadn\u2019t splurged for those big windows and patio\u2014I would\u2019ve walked in and been killed, eaten, raped, enslaved. All of the above in a different order?<\/h4>\n

Saw them and just kept walking. Blended in. Didn\u2019t know what else to do. Fog of war<\/em>. Zach\u2019s favorite bromide. His ignorant, vacuous summary of this new world. I\u2019ve taken up with\u2014been taken in by\u2014the paramilitary embodiment of Dunning-Kruger. Walked straight on\u2014marched\u2014to Camp Bountiful that day. Nine miles. Fourteen kilometers.<\/h4>\n

That soldier with his Clark Kent glasses, kicked back on my patio (their patio by then)\u2014engrossed in my laptop. I wonder if I could\u2019ve\u2014<\/h4>\n

Don\u2019t dwell on alternate timelines. It\u2019s laughable. Never even held a gun. Still haven\u2019t in this BYOG affair.<\/h4>\n

But what would\u2019ve happened if I snatched his rifle? It was right there, lying on the ground, barrel poking under the fence. I\u2019m quick and quiet\u2014could\u2019ve yanked it out. He was immersed. And I can admit to myself now\u2014with that life two and a half years gone\u2014I hope he was reading my graphic novel. Had to be. Twenty-two rejections before the world ended, but at least this guy liked it. One fan.<\/h4>\n

Gross. Shameful.<\/h4>\n

If only the big brains running Camp Bountiful could weaponize my raging, desperate vanity. I should\u2019ve stopped . . . offered him an autograph.<\/h4>\n

He didn\u2019t even see me. None of them did. Just trash blowing down the sidewalk. They didn\u2019t know Zipper was barking at me, calling me home. And she didn\u2019t know I was abandoning her.<\/h4>\n

That\u2019s enough. Stop being so maudlin. By now starving and sleeping on the ground is no big thing. I\u2019m freed of the agonizing pursuit of artistic approval. Over it.<\/h4>\n

That soldier\u2019s eyes were on my work but his hands were on my laptop. Ingrid used to say she\u2019d never survive an ultimatum against my beloved laptop, and I never disagreed. Building up our walls. Engulf and ignite the world if you must, but tapping another man\u2019s touchscreen . . . unforgivable. My sleek, pulsing, enabler. My vault and portal, I miss you the most. You and Zipper.<\/h4>\n

Goddamn it, Zipper. Sorry girl. I failed you. Sixteen pounds of sweetness. Love to everyone immediately. Zipped up to anything on two feet, bouncing and whimpering, begging to give away her affection.<\/h4>\n

They\u2019ve eaten her by now. For sure. It would\u2019ve been the practical action, soon as they figured out she was no guard dog. Barked at everything. A hundred percent false positives<\/em>, Ingrid used to say. That troop would\u2019ve certainly sacrificed her perpetual electric glee for eight pounds of dog meat. Eight pounds according to that guide to field-dressing game. I illustrated that back in . . . Jesus . . . 2006?<\/h4>\n

Fifty percent yield of the animal\u2019s total weight in boneless meat.<\/em> Do I remember that right?<\/h4>\n

Stop this wistful, worthless schmaltz. She was just a dog. It\u2019s just a finger. Precious little life plans change. Overcome by events<\/em>. Another of Zach\u2019s threadbare excuses. But this one comes with built-in advice to get on with it.<\/h4>\n

It wasn\u2019t just my<\/em> life, my<\/em> studio, my<\/em> dog. The whole city fell. Dozens of cities. Everyone\u2019s getting on with it. Everyone except Zipper and that kid back at the bunker, I guess.<\/h4>\n

Maybe someday I\u2019ll get on back to Calgary. Fourteen hundred miles due north. Fourteen kilometers per day. Until then, I have Zach. And nine fingers. And the photos Zach wants on this phone.<\/h4>\n

This is life now. A plucky nobody smuggling plans away from the enemy. An emaciated R2-D2. That\u2019s me.<\/h4>\n

And stop referencing Zach and his videogame paramilitary pap. Practical action<\/em>. Eat a dick, Zach.<\/h4>\n

This door to Big M\u2014not the slightest squeak. Of course. It\u2019s a body shop. Keep your moving metal oiled, boys<\/em>. Never paid doors so much attention. Never been a sneak until now.<\/h4>\n

Seems empty. I smell old oil. Good. Roof collapsed. Or shelled.<\/h4>\n

There\u2019s what I need. God bless Mr. McKeown and his shop class at Lord Crossharbour High School. A sheet metal cutter, plenty big, fourteen gauge. It\u2019s mechanical. Good. Hydraulic would\u2019ve needed electricity. Foot pedal? Still here. A beast made for this job. What luck.<\/h4>\n

Sweet Jesus. This is going to suck more than anything has sucked before.<\/h4>\n

Still quoting Beavis. No. Butthead.<\/h4>\n

Stop! Deal with this bleeding.<\/h4>\n

There\u2019s gotta be a waste oil drum. There. Dump some into that hubcap. Add rags. Lighter from my pocket. Prometheus.<\/h4>\n

Of course the tools were already taken. Wrenches would be perfect, but these scattered welding rods will have to do. Set them near the flames. Not too close. No use if they melt. Keep them out of the soot trails.<\/h4>\n

Damn. That short one, that little fighter, got red fast. Now. Grit teeth, but don\u2019t scream\u2014low-rent cautery isn\u2019t close to the worst of the day.<\/h4>\n

One.<\/h4>\n

Two.<\/h4>\n

Suck it up, buttercup.<\/h4>\n

Oh goddamn. The sizzle I expected. The snaps and pops? A provocative bonus. Not wonderful. Got a bleeder on the back side.<\/h4>\n

Ouch.<\/h4>\n

Done.<\/h4>\n

Even with pulsing pain\u2014even while staring at it, smelling it, hearing it\u2014I\u2019m reminded of the emergency medicine wiki photos I used to scan.<\/h4>\n

More schmaltz. I think I\u2019ve earned it. Earned a nine-count of reminiscing on the good times. Ten-finger times.<\/h4>\n

Earned a visit to my sketchpad and my medical textbook illustrations. Distal and intermediate phalanges of the little finger\u2014the outer two bones\u2014gone. Head of the proximal bone is intact. A phalanx alone, twitching, reaching out for cast off brethren . . .<\/h4>\n

Maybe I\u2019m not R2-D2. Maybe I\u2019m a poet. There once was an artist from Calgary<\/em>. Nothing rhymes with Calgary.<\/h4>\n

No, I\u2019m a sprouting philosopher and this burnt nub is my metaphor\u2014emblematic of a world returning to its natural order, tearing me down, dwindling away, digit by digit. Ashes to ashes. My existent bliss, my blip, my before-life, even my addiction to Ingrid\u2019s contempt . . . all of it was a temporary perversion, now being replaced by the organic.<\/h4>\n

How long since I stopped wondering about her? Was it a year ago when I decided she was a little fighter too? She made it out. She had to\u2019ve.<\/h4>\n

Back then the air was clean. The ground was solid. Sketch those sketches. Send those proofs. Build that portfolio. Once the doyen of freelancers in art, now a stumped free agent in war.<\/h4>\n

Enough. Focus up. I\u2019m no drain. Not a scavenger to be shoved outside the walls. I\u2019m a scrapper. I\u2019m mission oriented<\/em>.<\/h4>\n

No one saw me leave the bunker and I got out of there with the photos. Not a total loss. Maybe . . . probably too risky to use now. Compromised<\/em>, Zach\u2019ll say.<\/h4>\n

With one dead soldier and two thirds of my little finger laying outside their bunker door, not just unlocked, but swinging open, they\u2019ll assume we know. They\u2019ll harden their security protocols<\/em>. Regardless, I gotta get these to Bountiful. Maybe they\u2019ll hold some tactical relevance for Zach\u2019s bosses. The brass<\/em>.<\/h4>\n

Zach\u2019s a simmering psycho\u2014talks way too much about meaningful ways to die\u2014but at least he\u2019s not pining for commandeered laptops and dead dogs. At least he\u2019s forward-looking<\/em>. As commander of Dunning-Kruger Company, we could do worse.<\/h4>\n

He\u2019ll want to know how a middle-aged lightweight took out a soldier. Never lie to Zach, but prepare the truth. I was shutting the rusted door very slowly, keeping it from groaning. That soldier, a kid\u2014twenty-one maybe\u2014younger than my nephew would be now. He was certainly someone\u2019s nephew. Dead nephews litter the landscape. Nieces too.<\/h4>\n

Keep it straight. No sentimentality. A little brutal. Zach\u2019ll like that.<\/h4>\n

This kid threw his weight against the door. He thought he was keeping me out but I\u2019d already been in. Already had the photos. There was a steel plate welded around the door, for security, so it couldn\u2019t be kicked in. It caught my finger\u2014grinding it behind the plate. He had me by the neck\u2014both hands. With my free hand, I fished out my buck knife. Got in one good thrust. Aimed low, under his ribs. He fell. I fell. But I held on to the knife. Reaching for the hole I put in him, he craned his neck, exposed his throat, and that was it\u2014his last mistake.<\/h4>\n

He was too big to move and blood was hosing out of him, so I set off running. That\u2019s when I noticed my missing finger.<\/h4>\n

It must\u2019ve twisted off when I fell. Ligaments and skin\u2014the shit holding me together\u2014disarticulates, just like that. It\u2019s a finger, not a goddamn lizard\u2019s tail.<\/h4>\n

Don\u2019t use that word. Disarticulate<\/em> is not a normal word. No one likes a show off. No one cares about my ancient arcana. We all have our own. No one needs to know about those thousands of biology and medical illustrations. Or that I still draw the bones of the hand in my dreams.<\/h4>\n

Makes sense my mind would zero in on that old orthopedic surgery textbook. Only needed a few pages reworked, including, \u201cDisarticulation of the Shoulder: Separation of the bones at the joint rather than sawing through.\u201d<\/h4>\n

Enough. I\u2019m not an illustrator. That was then. Accept the now. Accept this meandering, ravenous war.<\/h4>\n

Maybe these photos will decide our next raids\u2014our campaign<\/em>\u2014to restock our provisions. We need to restock. Costco is closed. Those tales from last year, from the northern companies, of enemy stew. That\u2019d be me. And maybe not in the enemy\u2019s pots. First to go unless I\u2019m useful.<\/h4>\n

There\u2019s no law and everything is offline. Former attorneys and IT people are infantry. But Zach saw utility in me, the nonthreatening waif artist: a spy. Blend, bluff the identical enemy if necessary. Slip in. Snap pics of their maps. Slip away.<\/h4>\n

Asked for this job and got it\u2014to stay relevant. Stay out of the stew.<\/h4>\n

That dead soldier looked like the editorial intern at Noughton Morris Northport who mistakenly uploaded the seventh edition of Introductory Biology<\/em>. Fully editable. One last entry slipped in right before going to print. Page 612. The wily and elusive, and fictional Mendosoma lyssomanes.<\/h4>\n

Got away with that too. Stakes were lower then\u2014just my illustration career\u2014and like today, worth the risk.<\/h4>\n

\"\"<\/h4>\n

M. lyssomanes, a jumping spider, mimics its prey, the adolescent telescope fish<\/em>. A hybrid. Part fish, part spider. A mutant. Not my best work artistically, but without a doubt, the highlight of my career.<\/h4>\n

Of that<\/em> career. Today is certainly the lowlight of this one. There\u2019s always a lower place.<\/h4>\n

Even if there\u2019s illustration after this, I\u2019m forever a mutant too. An artist-operative.<\/h4>\n

Their commanders will issue the order. To get the spy, kill any scavenger missing his pinkie. Zach will reach the same conclusion because he\u2019d give the same order. Thus, a pinkie\u2019s not enough. More phalanges gotta go, so the enemy can\u2019t identify me.<\/h4>\n

Their absence will testify to my brother\u2019s penny-pinching do-it-yourselfism. He and I built a rabbit hutch for his daughters. It was amazing really\u2014not the hutch\u2014the accident. I didn\u2019t even feel it at first. Table saw spun through \u2019em like hot butter.<\/em><\/h4>\n

To sell the story, say goodbye to the distal and intermediate phalanges of the ring and middle fingers. Keep the trigger finger. Zach may give me a sidearm after this. To advance my new career\u2014to prove my mettle to Zach\u2014they gotta come off now.<\/h4>\n

Luckily, the saw missed my nose picker<\/em>, I\u2019ll tell anyone who asks. These three had blood-soaked spikes poking out. It woulda made Clive Barker blush. Surgeons finished the job. Capped me off at the knuckles.<\/em><\/h4>\n

So line up those knuckles, Dr. Spy, at the point of disarticulation. Lay \u2019em under the blade. Already done this once today. No surprises here.<\/h4>\n

Hold on. Test that rusty pedal. Whoa. It\u2019s stiff. Gotta get all my hundred and twenty pounds on top of it. Both feet. Don\u2019t botch this. Line it up with one foot, stomp with the other. Then cauterize. Wait until dark and get back home.<\/h4>\n

Sure about this?<\/h4>\n

Why not open a central artery and go to sleep? Avoid the pain\u2014the new pain\u2014that lower place. Float away from this life of subsistence\u2014drift on to nonexistence.<\/h4>\n

Should I at least get back and let my comrades have this wiry carcass? Will it yield sixty pounds of boneless meat? Should I offer Zach the chance to eat my dick for real?<\/h4>\n

No. To hell with them. To hell with me. Rube Goldberg this shop. Bleed out and fall into cleansing fire. Finish what those bastards started. Right here. Join M. lyssomanes, jumping around with Zipper in fantasyland. Why not?<\/h4>\n

Because we did build that hutch, I suppose. That was real once, wasn\u2019t it?<\/h4>\n

Because years ago a violinist named Joanne scratched out the opening to Beethoven\u2019s Fifth across my back with her broken fingernail. Maybe I can find Joanne again. Or another violinist in the wilds of Alberta. I\u2019ll sneak away, take my free agency up north. All the way home. Me and my seven-ish fingers.<\/h4>\n

Maybe I\u2019m not ready to have killed that nephew for nothing. Because I\u2019m still a hybrid, not a fully ruined mutant.<\/h4>\n

Stop procrastinating. Face the music.<\/h4>\n

Hand under the blade. Step up, bring the blade down slow. Just kiss the skin gathered above the knuckles. Feel those ligaments? That\u2019s the line. I\u2019m going to pull away. No way my hand will voluntarily stay put. Maybe the looters missed some superglue in here. Come on, boys, where did you keep the adhesives?<\/h4>\n

Cabinet. Cabinet. Desk drawer. Hello, Penthouse<\/em>. How\u2019d you get overlooked? This\u2019ll be worth something inside Bountiful\u2019s gates.<\/h4>\n

Hallelujah. Two-part epoxy, unopened. Another miracle. Just cement the distals to the surface\u2014just the parts past the line. The parts to leave behind.<\/h4>\n

Per-fect.<\/h4>\n

Count to thirty. Don\u2019t look at them. Don\u2019t get attached. Disarticulate<\/em>. Word of the day. Body and spirit.<\/h4>\n

I should\u2019ve looked for a putty knife to scrape them off. I guess my buck knife will work. Whatever. Just don\u2019t leave the evidence glued behind.<\/h4>\n

Wow. Already set. Immovable. This epoxy really delivers. Committed now.<\/h4>\n

The welding rods? Glowing red. Ready? Exhale . . . all of it, buttercup, so there\u2019s nothing left to scream with.<\/h4>\n

Both feet. All your weight.<\/h4>\n

One.<\/h4>\n

Two.<\/h4>\n

Step up.<\/h4>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

READ LOCAL First is the world\u2019s most extensive library of Utah-related poets and writers. For this final iteration of the series in 2021, we introduce Steven Johnson, who writes as RG Halleck. Halleck lives in Utah with three others, two of whom share his DNA. Although he’s worked […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1566,"featured_media":60991,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_piecal_is_event":false,"_piecal_start_date":"","_piecal_end_date":"","_piecal_is_allday":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[35,2513],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-60989","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-literary-arts","category-read-local-first"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/12\/M-lyssomanes.png","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"publishpress_future_action":{"enabled":false,"date":"2026-05-06 00:31:51","action":"change-status","newStatus":"draft","terms":[],"taxonomy":"category","extraData":[]},"publishpress_future_workflow_manual_trigger":{"enabledWorkflows":[]},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/60989","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1566"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=60989"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/60989\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":61033,"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/60989\/revisions\/61033"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/60991"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=60989"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=60989"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/artistsofutah.org\/15Bytes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=60989"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}