“Mercy.” The word dripped out between tortured inhalations. Two splattered men stood over a prostrate Spencer Wallace, pale and bloody amid musty heaps of contracts and financial records that lay strewn across the floor.
“Let’s bury the bastard alive,” said Lefty. He reached down and with a brusque motion, took the wounded man’s belt buckle to replace his own. The size of a clenched fist, it boasted a cracked turquoise pebble at its center, surrounded by ornate silverwork that glittered red in the windowless office. Lefty had delicate hands and smelled of damp soil. He looked of it as well.
“Best leave burying for the campesinos,” replied Ezra with a cool voice. “He’s staying put.” A quiet steel buckle shone at Ezra’s waist, the image of a soaring vulture etched into its weathered surface by expert hands. His mother had always told him that “Ezra” means “help” in Hebrew; in 1937, the July 14 edition of Diario los Andes, the national paper, christened him “Pancho the Unrepentant.” Ezra straightened his hat and pocketed a handful of gold coins, taken from a pile near his feet. He and Lefty wandered outside to rejoin Solon and their filibuster company, leaving the door ajar behind them and the wheezing Spencer Wallace alive to chew on their impunity.
“Law’s at our backs,” said Ezra. “I say head where it don’t reach. Lord help us if they find us.”
Nineteen in all, the freebooters left on horseback for Cayambe, a downhill pueblo where events of consequence and autonomy were rumored to occur. Ezra rode first, followed by Lefty and Solon and the rest.
“Ezra, it’s a mistake to go down this way,” said Solon. “If we head any deeper inland, there’s no chance we’ll ever find a boat back home.”
“It’s only deeper for us, my friend,” said Ezra. “We’ve got a whole continent for the taking, and I won’t have you aching for Roosevelt’s teat. We’ve come this far. The gun’s our New Deal.”
“Besides, no boat would take us, not after what we’ve done,” said Lefty. “It’s best to go Ezra’s way. Might be good things waiting for us.” Lefty could not bare the thought of crossing Ezra.
The long and easygoing road offered a wide view of the open countryside below. They saw Mt Cayambe’s frozen peak in the crystal distance and the desertous plains below it. It is said that from its heights, a man of able eyes could see Ecuadorian Quito to the west, and Bolivian Cochabamba to the far south. Emperor Norton once swore that, after two years of constant staring, he could distinctly see the Brazilian coast to the east. Uncountable oil wells decorated the frigid hillsides, and from a long way off looked like flies absorbing an earthy carcass. A sea of hungry rose plantations lay along the bottom of the valley, threatening to conquer the slopes above as they grew.
Tall agave stalks leaned over the road in sparse clusters, marking the borders between plots of fallow land. From one cluster emerged a small child, naked and chapped and sanguine in complexion. The riders slowed their pace and made big faces for the child. Ezra called hello in English, then Spanish, but it only stared back like a cornered barn owl, wide eyed and unblinking.
“Kid looks of speaking age. Must be dumb.”
“Maybe she don’t speak English. Or Spanish. Anyone know a word of Quichua?”
The child pointed to Ezra, and the riders fell silent. “Dead.” The child waded backwards into the agave, eyes fixed on Ezra as she disappeared. They kept going and said nothing of the encounter.
In their silence, they came across a weathered old man a short distance down the road, bobbing on a skeletal rocking chair and cradled in the shadow of a sickly banyan tree. The rails of the chair were planted in parallel troughs of leathery roots and bristles of gray hair formed patches across the man’s gaunt face. Pale, perhaps a Mennonite. A worried smile, and a look of mischief shone in his cloudy eyes as he scanned the riders. “You don’t know what you’re riding into, friends.”
“We know.”
“No. Abulín is waiting.”
“Who is Abulín?”
The old man stopped his chair and fell silent. His teeth clenched shut. The riders could hear their beating hearts in the stillness. Lefty felt his insides contort. Ezra spat and resumed the road. The old man began to bob again, cursing and muttering as they passed.
Neither Ezra nor his retinue uttered a word, not a sound rising above their horses’ labored breathing in the thin mountainous ether. Their hooves touched quietly upon the dirt path and their sullen wet eyes blinked with lazy abandon. A number of autochthonous campesinos shuffled along the road in twos and threes, carrying water and roses and tubers in buckets and pails. None spoke, but only continued with their business as if the riders were not there. Their lowered faces suspended like bowls of cochineal jasper, hairless relics of the soil.
A long silence down the road, a stocky rose vendor stopped them. He held a dozen tattered flowers and frantically warned them of Abulín Machado, the burning spirit of Cayambe. He quivered when he said the name.
“Abulín Machado is a firestorm in boots.”

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Hi, everyone! I apologise for the delay in publishing the October/November issue of Synchronised Chaos, but I have been dealing with a lot of personal issues over the past month (moving, exams, computer issues), but the newest issue will be out by the end of the week. I look forward to featuring all of your work!

Welcome to the September issue of Synchronized Chaos, ‘The Temple of Reality’. Why ‘Temple of Reality’? Well, many of the works submitted this month represent facets of real-world existence through art, poetry and prose, through a creative and innovative lens. They are each slices of life, drawn from individual experience and insight. There is also a decidedly religious strain running through some of these works, as in Rebecca Scharlach’s Judaism-steeped poetry, and SN Jacobson’s Christian allusions that appear in some of his photographs.

This month, our contributions include the artwork and photography of Lilian Cooper and SN Jacobson; the guilelessly enchanting Edible Ensemble by Hobie Owen; Rebecca Scharlach’s evocative and haunting poetry; Lyndsey Ellis’s poetic character sketches; and Brooke Cooley’s autobiographical piece, ‘How Hurricane Charley lead to Eat, Pray, Love‘.

We at Synchronized Chaos hope that you enjoy this month’s submissions! Happy Reading!

Click here to see SynchChaos’ gallery of Lilian Cooper artwork, chosen for this issue.

Lilian Cooper is a British/Dutch mixed-media artist currently working from Amsterdam. She is an environmental artist, drawing inspiration from nature to create her beautiful, subtle pieces. Her work includes collages, paintings and drawings. If you’d like to see more of her work, you can visit her website at LilianCooper.com.

click here to see the SynchChaos gallery of SN Jacobson’s artwork

SN Jacobson is a photographer based in the San Francisco Bay Area, although he originally hails from Manhattan. His artwork is imbued with a combination of fantastical beauty and raw eroticism. Some of his work incorporates religious themes, as well. For this issue, I have chosen some of his work that would appeal to all of SynchChaos’ diverse audiences. His website is here. (Visit the site if you are of age to view erotic material, and are not offended by such artwork.)

It’s Wednesday night, and my stomach is once again vocalizing its need to be utilized as an important member in bodily functions. Like a D.C. lobbyist its carefully nuanced ministrations subtly influence my consciousness in the most subliminal fashion.  I am hungry.
This cleverly constructed injection of motivational stimuli instills in my mind an impetus for inspiration and catalyzes the critical mental and muscle operations required to initiate this quest for sustenance.

The stage is set. The venue: an 18-inch cast iron pan received as a gift for my 22nd birthday. The audience: the olfactory and gustatory chemical receptors of my nose and tongue.
With a flourish I produce my conductor’s wand, a stainless steel spatula not unlike those used on Hibachi grilles.  Smooth steel terminating in a soft wooden handle; it lies in my hand with the air of an expectant puppy that’s just realized it’s going for a walk in the park. I take a deep breath and savor the anticipation of the meal to come, eager to begin the culinary concerto that will creatively culminate in a climax of flavor and scent.

Arranged on the counter top are the players that make up this savory symphony.  Sliced, diced, chopped and quartered, vegetables sit with barely contained potential, patiently awaiting the performance of their particular parts in this movement.

A knob rotates and the introduction has begun. Flame meets iron as gas ignites, a gentle swish synonymous with the opening of the curtain, the audience breathless with anticipation.
With a syrupy splash olive oil takes the stage, coating the pan as it cackles and crackles, a percussive prelude to the main theme.  In the backdrop a pot belches steam, a cacophony of rain sticks altering ambiance with the most altruistic of ambitions. Corkscrew Fusili pasta parachute down into the gurgling broth, light mallets striking small drums and heralding the presentation of the melodic motif.

First in the pan are the red bell peppers and zucchini, cellos and violins plucking abrasively against the relative cold of a fresh yet full auditorium. Sizzles become string strokes of savory sensation; the audience sighs with premature yet tentative release.

The foundation is laid and quickly colored by the next part, an explosion of eclectic emphasis characterized by the addition of the onion. This is the brass, bold in its inception into the instrumental edifice that is being energetically erected.  At this point the audience perks up in its seats, olfactory receptors leaping upon the scents like 8-year-olds on piñata candy.
Crash! Clash! Crash! Clash!  Kale cymbals canter in and for a moment cannibalize the other sounds with their fiery foray.

Things are really cooking at this point and I can feel the waves of appreciation resounding throughout the crowd as I keep time with my metallic wand, each movement manipulating musicians to achieve an ascending quality of composition.

As the cymbals fade the woodwinds are introduced: Basil, oregano, red and black pepper soulfully season the arrangement in 4-part harmony, captivating those seated by crossing chemical channels to create causal cognitive characterizations of musical molecular motion.
All demonstration dims as the grand piano prances into prominence. Chopped chicken absorbs the timbre of its adjacent tonalities and guides the orchestra as it glides across the piece’s main theme. Foreshadowed by the previous vegetable productions, the primed poultry’s performance poetically pierces the palate and precipitates salivary perspiration. The audience sweats and weeps at the sheer beauty of the artists’ acumen and resulting response.
Bass drums bellow. Magnificent tumbling mushrooms touch down with a boom that is felt by all present. Neural observers tremble at the spectacle, delighted by the awesome power these mycological magicians contribute to the ensemble.

The energy in the pan continues to build, reaching fever pitch as it approaches the climactic moment of grand finale. All parts are represented, an awesome array of arranged edible audition.

The lid comes down in a dramatic curtain call as the finale resolves, heat fades as flames extinguish yet for the moment the hall is still possessed by residual warmth. Steam rises in a swirling cloud of applause.

I, the conductor, stare down at my performance-softened orchestra, no longer rigid but now instead limp with release from their dramatic exertion of expression.
Though their responsibility at first appears appeased, the pause is but an interlude in the larger show that is my meal. Mouth watering, my hands shuffle to the next stop on this munchable menagerie’s tour of appetite, the dinner plate amphitheater.

Man oh man, how I do love Italian.

Hobie Owen maintains a blog, Young Hobartus. He can be reached at hobedog007@hotmail.com.