Scienda Quarterly
the armchair adventurer’s anthology
Spring 2012
Copyright Scienda Press 2012
Smashwords Edition
ISSN: 1927-7350
Managing Editor: C.L. Dyck
Copyeditor: Linda Yezak
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STORYTHINK
ESSAYS
Humour
ARE YOU A SUPERHERO? With Your Expert Guide, P.A. Baines
Life & Culture
CHEMISTRY by Paul and Laurie Mathers
BOOKS
Athol Dickson and The Opposite of Art
Columnist: T.E. George
PEOPLE
Columnist: C.L. Dyck
Editor’s Corner
Thank you for joining us for the inaugural issue of Scienda Quarterly. At this juncture, it seems fitting to provide a note on how this publication began.
I am a former atheist. Upon becoming an evangelical Christian, I went through alternating stages of quiet horror at the dearth of literary and arts culture in evangelical heritage and practice, and self-blame for being so inclined. The self-blame was the natural reaction of an arts child growing up in a small-town jock school. I have since learned it has no business with my life.
I’ve also concluded evangelicalism bears no correlation to a small-town jock school. It’s a milieu with a solid share of diverse, intelligent, educated and skillful people. A milieu that seeks to take responsibility for its own growth at a grassroots level. One not easily or accurately characterized by the stereotypes of mass media, politics and its own loudest voices—as with any group of human beings.
And so, here we are. Just a quiet wellspring; something small, but representative of a different window on the soul. ~C.L. Dyck
STORYTHINK
Investigative fictionalism
_____
On Atheism
Marc Schooley
Bone and metal make horrid playmates. Liz Beth Charlton experienced this timeless truth when the rear axle of her Cadillac pulverized her tibia, trapping her left leg against the gravel of a breakdown lane on a west Texas highway.
The August sun was at half-mast, but the heat was already forming mirages in the distance along the tarmac when Liz Beth shuddered out of shock. Trapped in a supine position, she ratcheted her head in the gravel away from the mirages, creating a muted rattle at the base of her skull. The vibrations clicked and clacked into her awakening mind.
The wall of a barren arroyo maintained a jaggedly parallel course to the breakdown lane. Liz lay sprawled roughly halfway down the steep slope, on her back at a forty-five degree angle from the car. The gravel littering the breakdown lane tapered into progressively larger chunks lining the slope descending into the ditch. A finger of granite poked Liz’s back between her spine and right shoulder blade. A jack handle lay just out of reach to her side. An old flat tire rested in the arroyo, dismembered from its vehicle body and forgotten.
She pushed against the gravel, forcing herself into a semi-sitting position. Her right hand slid in the gravel a few inches before it caught. Liz’s jaw clamped. Her nose crunched. Her cheeks pressed against her eyes. Her skull pounded like it was in a pressure chamber. Streams of breath shot out through her clenched teeth.
I’m going to lose my leg.