| Brew City Magazine | ||
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Guidelines About the Magazine Editor-in-Chief:
Managing Editor: Associate Editor:
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Joseph DeRepentigny
In the center of the room, a man in a suit of fine clothes was hurriedly drawing on the hardwood floor with a large piece of red chalk. On his hands and knees, he scrawled intricate symbols along predetermined points marked by pieces of tape with numbers on them. After completing each symbol, he picked up the piece of tape and cast it in a corner. Then he referenced a small leather bound book that he kept in his coat pocket. With each break, he rubbed his cheek, smearing the red chalk dust and sweat on his face and clothes. Finally finished, he stood up and surveyed the design quickly and with a nod of resolution, he said, "If this is not right, then let god have mercy on my soul." He then took the chair, placed it at the edge of the circle, and sat in it. Watching the sunlight in the window fade away, he waited until only twilight lit the room and then began chanting to himself, "Anu, Seti Haas Bastet." When that last bit of twilight faded and darkness began taking over, the lines of the circle lit up like red burning embers. Smiling he felt assured that success was his at last. Standing up he recited, "Anu Seti Bastet Isis Haas." The air in the center of the circle shimmered and swirled like a whirlpool. At first, it looked like an illusion, then the image cleared and the floor in the circle fell away like sand in an hourglass. A few seconds later, a black hole formed in the floor and a cold wind blew up from the void that chilled him and gave him pause to reconsider his actions. Shaking his head, he resolved to go on and shouted. "Anu, Seti Haas, Bastet Ptah!" The room shook and a deep baritone laugh echoed from the hole. "Arise, Set Lord of the Dead!" He cried. "I have a deal to broker with you!" A black fog flowed out the hole and filled the circle stopping at the edge of the still glowing design. The mist churned and eddied like a black sea raging against an invisible shore, and then it stopped and spilled over the circle and into the room washing over his feet. As soon as the mist hit him, he felt an immense cold that made his bones ache. "Where did I fail?" He screamed as a huge grey hand rose from the mist lifting him from the floor. The crackle of his bones was the second to last thing he heard in this life. As the light of life slowly faded from his eyes, he saw a second claw rise up and point to a chalk-covered piece of tape on the circle's edge and a deep voice said, "You forgot one."
Mr. DeRepentigny lives in the Atlanta area. A former DeVry . . |