ON THE SECRET SOCIETY OF HEADLESS AMERICANS

UEL ARAMCHEK

You’ve probably seen one of their members in public before and never suspected that anything was, well, off. One can only join the Society of Headless Americans if it is not readily apparent that they are missing a head, as this privilege is only extended to those who can prove that they have mastered their own decapitation.

The hardest thing about being headless, as most will tell you, is learning how to think without a brain. Over time, the rest of the body must learn how to replace the functions that were lost along with the nervous system’s centerpiece. During this transformative period, consciousness retreats downward into the spine, the stomach learns how to taste as well as digest, and breath becomes not only the usual automatic process, but also another sense. The headless body is remarkably resourceful; with enough practice and meditation, even its bones can be made to store memories.

Once the afflicted is fully acquainted with navigating and engaging with reality once more, they must then master blending in with the rest of humanity. The key to this subterfuge is being able to create a convincing facsimile head; while the Society has hidden workshops across the country dedicated to this art, the newly headless must build their first alone as a rite of passage. Most begin by dissecting a mannequin or sculpting with plaster on wire, but more desperate candidates have been known to take up grave robbing in order to perform their work “from the skull up.”

Obtaining a believable disguise is just the beginning, however, for the headless candidate must entirely relearn how to control their body. No longer does the self reign from atop the shoulders, but rather, from the solar plexus, from which the arms seem as distant as the branches of a tree, and the heart feels more like a waterfall than a pump. In this state of mind, the shape of the world is no longer ascertained horizontally, but vertically, from above to below as the wind is inhaled.

Every now and then, someone who has never lost their head attempts to join the Society, just to see what will happen. After all, the primary criteria for membership is being able to convince others that their head is real, something which anyone who has never lost theirs can manage with little effort. Most fools who attempt this fraud are unaware of the initiation ritual that follows, however, in which the new member’s false head is removed with a guillotine in front of their peers, then burned upon a pyre.

Headless humans are one thing; headless androids are another.

Without eyes, the headless are unable to exploit the secrets of mirrors.

Sometimes, the shadow still has a head when the rest of the body does not.

The Invisible States of America
HALUTH, THE SPHERICAL STATE

Sometime during the Hadean Eon, long before the formation of life as we know it, a comet fell to Earth in the most gentle manner astrophysically possible. It ended its approach at nearly the same relative velocity as the planet's own orbit, then sank into the sea of molten iron below, in which it cooked over the course of several centuries like a colossal Baked Alaska.

ON WATER TOWERS

Beyond a handful of major cities, the American Midwest can be understood as an archipelago of small towns rising from an agricultural sea. For most travelers, these isles are little more than waypoints between two nodes in a great concrete network: exits from the highways where gasoline is gathered, and urine is left behind.

TALE OF THE TUMBLEWEED

Another tumbleweed rolled into town yesterday- the third of its kind this month. This time around, the professor’s trap finally worked: we found the damn thing snagged in a tangle of barbed wire, screeching loudly, trying in vain to unfurl its hungry tendrils. This one was at least thirty feet in diameter, so we figured that something good had to be buried under all those thorns.

NO PLACE LIKE HOME

“You have such an interesting accent. Where are you from?”

“Maza, North Dakota. It’s a town out in the middle of nowhere.”

“You don’t sound like you’re from North Dakota, though.”

“Well, the middle of nowhere isn’t exactly in North Dakota- in fact, it’s not really anywhere at all. Hence the name."

THAT GREAT TOMB THAT KNOWS NO SOUND

The Hoover Dam is said to be filled with human bones. So the story goes, during its construction, workers who fell into the structure’s wet concrete were left inside, as those in charge believed that the cost and risk of retrieving their bodies would be too great. For those who believe this tale, the dam doubles as a colossal tombstone for those buried within.

THAT'S ALL, FOLKS

The coyote awoke one morning to find that his roadrunner was gone.

He’d disappeared, beyond the asymptotic horizon which outlined their desert, that unreachable boundary between two nowheres. Together, as predator and prey, they’d followed the same highway westward for thousands of miles, always encroaching on that same horizon, yet finding no end to the repetition of sagebrush and sand.

THE TOMB OF PAUL BUNYAN

While hiking through the woods of Selganac, east of Minnesota and west of Wisconsin, I happened upon Paul Bunyan’s tomb. Though I spent seven days wandering the perimeter of its brasswood walls, I couldn’t find a single corner or entrance. I turned around before noon on the eighth day, for though it was clearly the work of human hands, the structure had proven endless.

During the return journey, I crossed paths with a carpenter from Duluth, who told me that he had been hired to help build the tomb. “Yep,” he told me. “It’s still very much under construction.”

THE BOTTOM FEEDERS

Just before it reaches the state of the same name, the Mississippi splits in two- one river above, and one river below. The old waterway’s underground sister diverges into numerous caverns, most of which prove to be dead ends. One of these branches spirals downward for almost a mile, however, into a vast, subterranean kingdom where the borders of the nations above have no meaning.

ON THE SECRET SOCIETY OF HEADLESS AMERICANS

You’ve probably seen one of their members in public before and never suspected that anything was, well, off. One can only join the Society of Headless Americans if it is not readily apparent that they are missing a head, as this privilege is only extended to those who can prove that they have mastered their own decapitation.

LUCID DATING

“Pannasosia?” Her date narrowed his eyes. “There’s no way that’s a real state.”

“It’s as real as it needs to be, I suppose.” She sipped at a spoonful of wild rice soup. “The whole place is an underground lake, save for a few aquifers and caves. It’s actually pretty big, but not many people live there.”

“Hmm.” He thought back to memorizing the state capitals in middle school geography, all those annoying songs they had him memorize. Alabama and Alaska, Arizona Arkansas… “I can’t say that I’ve heard of it. You sure that it’s not a Canadian province or something?”

THE PROTOTYPE EYE

AN INQUISITOR'S DAGGER