Wordplay
by Teddy Holt ’22
This month at The Words, we are joyously celebrating the writing of our very own Rachel Warshaw ‘22. Rachel is an English Literature major with a Theater minor who is from Seattle, WA and who transferred to Macalester from Augsburg University in 2019. When I asked about her fascinations in writing, she told me she writes about the “Triple G”—ghosts, grandmas, and gay people; elaborating on this, she said she, “loves history that tangibly interacts with the present,” and she “believes in giving that history a chance to speak for itself.” Much of her writing is inspired by theater and classic literature, especially Shakespeare—being a Literature major helps her solidify that context while allowing her to use it creatively in ways that feel less draining than writing for a class might. We hope you enjoy “the devil goes down” and “heaven, or the promised land”!
the devil goes down
Let me tell you a tall tale, tall not for the lies it holds, tall instead for the many feet in it.
Joe Oatney was a lightning man, you see. He was a storm trapped in a coat, collection of catastrophe in his bones. He danced like God had made a mistake, and given him angel wings instead of toes. He tripped, and you’d weep for joy, that’s how mighty the man was.
Now, Joe Oatney was no boast-maker, no lie-teller, no falsifier. He was so humble you’d talk to him and want to apologize. Every father I knew was half in love with him, though they swore they only had their eyes on him for their daughters. “A man like that? If he fucks like he dances, I’ll never want for grandchildren”, they whispered amongst themselves. Joe pretended not to hear, you know.The man never said more than he needed, and we loved him for it.
Joe Oatney was humbler than a one-eyed horse in a rainstorm, and he had rhythm to make a river wail, but one day the Devil caught wind of his ways, and decided to pay him a visit.
The fires came first, of course, rollicking up the hills like there was a barn-raising to get to, or a wedding to attend, where the food was free, and the booze flowed like tears on a newmade widow. Then the cattle began to bleed, baying as they walked, living, dead, all of the above. The milk turned sour and the bread unrose, falling so flat you could call it a well, and be well on the way to right.
The old women knew who was coming, felt it in the ends of their hair, tingling in their fingernails, for he who was coming had visited them before. Often on their wedding nights, with a winking eye, and a clever hand, saying, “you won’t get it like this from that kind of man,” and they would always say yes. Lord knows, the Devil has a clever tongue, and maids know how to use it.
“Devil dawns,” they said, and ushered their husbands inside.
“Devil rises,” they whispered, and pressed scissors into their children’s hands, the better to have a fighting chance with.
Joe Oatney had no wife to help him. He kept his home alone, warmed by his dancing, cooled by his slow tongue. Joe Oatney knew no pretty words! He could not bat his eyes to save his life, so when the dancing was done, he hurried home to a solitary supper and a cold hearth, which was fine by him. Besides, his eye was not for womankind, no, sir, not he! Joe Oatney had a soft spot, or rather hard, for a pair of rough-hewn hands, that could build a bed or break it, however he willed it so. But Joe Oatney’s slow tongue and quiet ways barred his heart, poor soul.
“Joe! Joe, my good man,” the Devil hollered, shaking the stones out of the road in his sharp-toed boots, spurs shivering in self-generated heat. “Come and dance with me, or are you too scared to hold a poor sinner’s hand?”
Joe Oatney almost swallowed his own tongue when he heard the Devil say his name like it had been shaped to sit on his lips. Though his heart shook, his legs were steady. He danced a jig along the way, heading towards the Devil.
The Devil was all silhouette, the best and worst parts of a man rolled up into pure temptation. His smile flickered, flame in the fireplace of his face. Joe wanted that warmth, wanted it deep in his soul.
“You want to dance?” he asked, standing flagpole in the middle of the road.
“Do I ever!” the Devil crowed.
Joe Oatney bowed low and fair to the Devil, the prettiest girl at the dance, worthy of the praise and more, his hand outstretched in offering. Sacrifice on the altar of the Prince of Darkness, indeed. The Devil colored high on inhuman cheekbones, and fluttered his furnace eyes, wide and full of pride.
“Little old me? Why, I could never!”
But the Devil’s never can never be trusted, because there he went, hand over heart and into Joe Oatney’s holy hold, to be danced into pure oblivion.
Joe Oatney held the Devil fine china or tumbleweed, or bride on wedding day, delicate and darling, the dearest thing you’d ever seen. Joe Oatney held all that unheld love in his humble heart and set it at the Devil’s feet to be danced dust and forgiveness into the ruts of the road. The Devil glowed in light of all this love, as they whirled dervish around the lanes, spinning cars and toppling trucks, like Fortune’s wheel, or what-have-you.
Joe Oatney danced like lightning caught in a hand, red-hot and horrible. The Devil could barely keep up. He hooted and he hollered, and he had no grace, not an ounce of it, all bellows-mended and out of wind he was. The Devil would never be bested by mere mortal, no, sir, not he, no, indeed! But the Devil’s nevers can never be trusted, for that was when Joe Oatney dipped the Devil in a swooping scoop of sickening romance, and the Devil fell on his ass on a dirt road in the backcountry, all because Joe Oatney had the legs of a sinner and the heart of a saint.
Oh, the Devil swooned, and the Devil flustered, flapped, and moaned. Joe Oatney looked athim with those lonely eyes, held his quiet tongue, and hid his smile behind a hand. Didn’t you know? Joe Oatney’d never laugh at a dance partner, no matter how many left feet they had. Devil’s no exception. That’s how mighty the man was.
Joe Oatney bowed low and fair to the Devil again, all dignity, all courtesy, all turncoat kindness. He offered his hand with a flourish, and the Devil accepted with another flush of shame.
“So, Joe,” the Devil crooned, a goose-step tune, a tiptoe trapdoor test. “What’ll you have for besting such a one as I?”
Joe Oatney smiled as low and as fair as his bow had been, and told the Devil his price: “one kiss, and I’ll never tell how poor a dancer the Devil is, as long as me and mine shall live.”
The Devil cracked his own sort of smile like a beer, with a snap and a rush of cold, but he leaned in, and paid Joe’s price.
What happened to Joe Oatney after that? Oh, I couldn’t say for certain, but the last I heard, he had a warm house, and a broken bed, and a fireplace as hot as Hell.
heaven, or the promised land
Women is one letter more than omen,
men is one letter less: are you impressed yet?
I was assigned prophecy at birth,
born half-drowned, anointed by kings.
I did not crack my lungs with a scream,
I swallowed a bellow,
I had to be mended,
but oh, how I ache!
The rib! the rib! an addition
as a subtraction,
less than, or equal to,
and always, always either/or!
If I was a serpent in a garden,
would you listen to me?
Am I the serpent, or the garden,
or the intersection of the two?
Or am I the telling, the telling,
the telling of the tale?
Women are warnings, and men
are the storm: both do harm,
neither keep me warm. But wait!
Why linger in the plus and the minus
when limbo is so much sweeter?
Why wail after men and hold woe
for women when omen sits like silence
on my head. Like serenity.
Please, let me profit as a prophecy.
I am full of truth and no one will believe me.