44
Volmer
Nesh cowered under the huge sound, waving as
the helicopter thudded away. This is what you want-
ed, she reminded herself: Noise, speed, and solitude.
She was the only soul in a hundred miles of frozen
nowhere, perched atop a mountain gifted with fresh
powder, maybe ten feet of recent snowpack if the
broadcasts were true. Leaning on her snowboard, she
noted the gunmetal overcast of the Wyoming dawn.
She needed no weather report to tell her of the
approaching storm by midday, or sooner. Her boots
clicked into bindings with effortless grace while
gloved fingers stabbed into a pocket. The walkman
was old, the first shockproof unit, mummified in three
feet of duct tape. She'd cut through to the buttons
with a utility blede on the ride up, ignoring the pilot's
fears. Hell, it was her money. Stormriding was for the
quick or the dead. She zipped into tight white wrap-
pings which gave distant observers the visual trip of
watching a jet black freerider rocket down a slope,
seemingly without human power. A final crank on the
volume knob shoved Perry's avalanching sonic chaos
into her head: "Hhere Weee Goooooo, Awaayyyy!..."
With the smiles of the enlightened (or demented).
she launched down the valley.
Curled in winter dreams a mile under her boots, the
creature stirred. Not a classical dragon, it boasted for
too many arms and legs. Its wings were tiny, used
only for braking the speeds its multiple webbed claws
could propel it. Huge nostrils flared and a slow hiss
rumbled out of a short curving throat plated with
scales of icy blue moonstone. Its entire body respond-
ed to sound, having evolved way past the concept of
ears. A new noise was pulsing from above, a sharp
slicing vibration which suggested great speed and
agility. Another of its kind!? it thought it was the last
of its bloodline. Its tail flexed in hunger, the jagged
shape pouring a faint halo of steam into the ice cave.
The vapors webbed out to conjure a wave of unre-
lenting winter wind in front of the beast's ramlike
head. It snaked its way to the surface, propelled by
ancient hungers.
Nesh was not your average shred betty: Champion
downhill racer and freeride goddess at Jackson Hole,
physically prime, the kind of woman who held the
business end of the cutting edge firmly in her teeth.
While something scaly clawed its way closer, music-
induced adrenaline euphoria inspired her down an
unnamed mountain at sixty miles an hour. Reaction
time was a meaningless notion, so as a screaming
wedge of fangs and thunder erupted out of the slope
in her path, Nesh squinted and tucked into a banking
turn, tight and defensive. Bright spurts of panic
almost took charge but were wiped by a timeless
haze of guitar. Edging all available weight to the loft,
then right, she measured life in swooping arcs of
instinct and drum beat. Her head angled a bit and
metallic eyeshades tracked this rude interruption of
an otherwise blissful run.
internets
The creature had shot into the sky and was locking
on with unearthly speed. Its noise rippled out, a bone
throbbing crunch that tore a high fantail out of the
snowpack as the jaws dove to their target. Nesh's first
mistake was to focus on the eyes. Hypnotic after-
streaks left in their paths triggered visions of a jet's
wing lights on takeoff.
"Stop thinking! Just live long enough for 'Mountain
Song
Mistake number two, as she sliced deeper, slowing.
was to fight the strange new rhythms flowing all
around. A spooky bass line rode with the new arrival,
meshing with the stuff Nesh recorded in a smoky club
a million miles away. Wind speed dropped and the
sky lowered. Bad omens. Still, an impulse surfaced
she curled into a teardrop of extreme (continued page 77)
Whirling around, he smashed his body into the people around him. He flew back and forth, between
the bodies of the others. The pain he felt did not register in his brain, it felt good to him. He got
knocked onto the ground but he still kept going, thrashing around on the floor like a fish out of the
water. People stomped on him and he laughed. His face pounded against the floor and he began to
bleed. He got back up and jumped to get on top and people passed him around above their heads.
He had a tremendous buzz from the adrenaline pumping through his veins. As he got down his boot
kicked some poor sap in the face, and he slammed through the crowd. The song ended, so he left.
-Shawn Snell, Saint Croix Falls, Wisconsin
EPIC
REDNECK BEATDOWN
Explosion of white and the taste of metal. I really
should learn to look both ways. My eyes focus onto a
bumper. Rusty and bent, just great. I anticipate boots
thumping the pavement. Typical redneck, twice my
height and three times my width.
"This is my lucky day!" he says as he sees my board
lying splintered under his tire.
"Fuck you," is all I can come up with so soon after
my skull's introduction to his tire.
"What's that you little punk?"
Wiping at the blood trickling into my eye 1 reply,
"What's the matter with your ears, been playing your
Garth Brooks too loud?"
That did it. Another explosion of white and I find
myself embracing the pavement. "Fuckin' little punk,
I hear as a steel toe cracks a few.ribs.
"Thanks asshole,"
"Not enough, huh? Well maybe I can fix that
mouth." Leather and manure mixed with a little blood
create the most interesting flavor, and I can say with
precision what a cowboy boot looks like close up
As the urban cowboy turned away, I spet you s
later sheep-fucker" The truck's engine rumbled to life
and tires squealed. "Nice radials," I thought to myself
as they fast approached my limp body,
Another flash of white, then darkness. I was soaked
to the bone with some warm fluid. "Damn," I thought
as I turned on the light, I wet the bed again.
-Rick Davenport, Saint Anthony, Idaho