Cerise Magazine

Autumn, 2005

I smear my cheeks with brown face-paint and drape a frayed cotton tunic over my shoulders, tying it at the waist with a strip of muddy fabric. The Monster Mistress, Jenn, taps me on the shoulder and hands me a slip of paper.

“Break a leg…” She smiles evilly. “Or eat one.”
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By Samara Hayley Steele

Editor’s note: Though Samara was unable to continue her regular series this month, we at Cerise are pleased to publish a poem she has written that deals with the same topic, as an interlude.

I drink it in like communion wine, as though the crisp forest air can purify me, washing away the smog and dirt and grimy memories I left back in the city.

Reality Repackaged
The first rule of LARP is…you don’t talk about LARP
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By Samara Hayley Steele

Identity Crisis

(Five Notes Regarding Gamer Identity)

A•va•tar (noun) ‘a-və-,tär
5: an electronic image that represents and is manipulated by a computer user

-The Merriam-Webster Dictionary

Flashback: 1996 (eight years before our heroine’s first LARP)

A sixth-grader sits alone on a mossy log, her bony legs dangling over the edge, her short fingers wrapped around a ridiculously large Gameboy. A riveting .midi song dances up from the electronic box, and the simple notes merge with the birdsongs of the surrounding forest.

The girl hides here every afternoon, safe from the ridicule of her family. It’s better for them to think that she’s off kissing boys or smoking drugs then for them to know the truth: She is a gamer-nerd. No, worse than that: she is a female gamer-nerd who likes RPG games for boys.
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By Samara Hayley Steele

Or, The Damsel & The Distress

Part Two

When I left you at the end of my last article, a teenaged boy, his face caked in fake blood, was pulling me out the back door of a summer camp cafeteria and into the woods.

…only that’s not what was really happening.
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By Samara Hayley Steele

Or, How I Survived My First Day as a Female LARPer

Part One

I am nestled in someone else’s sleeping bag, in someone else’s cabin, on the top bunk furthest from the door. I stare at the ceiling. I wish I could sleep. But my body is still tingling with adrenaline.

There is a large rectangular hole covered in chicken wire above my head, and I reach up and run my fingers across the mesh. The wire has been stretched thin in some places. Did a Boy Scout camper once try to escape? I wonder.

The room smells like grass and heavy sweat and I can hear the noise of men sleeping below me—grunting, snoring, and shifting in their bunks. There are six of them, maybe more. Before tonight they were strangers, but now they are my sworn protectors.
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By Samara Hayley Steele

Claws and Evil Magic

Character Creationism vs. Social Darwinism

It is the day of my first Live Action Role-Play game and evening has descended over the Boy Scout Summer Camp. The first stars of the night glitter above me and I stand in the doorway of my cabin, looking out into a dark forest of evergreens. Suddenly I notice a shadowed figure slinking into the trees. Who…or what is that? I grip my sword tightly into my paw. I guess I’m going to find out. I follow it into the darkness.

The game has begun. Time to get into character.

I had designed my character a week prior, using the LARP organization’s official manual. Technically, she was a Level 1 Rogue Healer, with 6 Body Points and skills in Sword Fighting, Life Magic, etc. But none of that mattered to me. The only things I cared about were the opportunity to design a new personality, to pretend to be someone else, and to do so for three straight days. (more…)

Stranger in the Mirror

It is the day of my first LARP game. After riding in a cramped car for over a hundred miles, my companions and I have finally arrived at the campground. We unpack our gear and wander through the trees, searching for the tiny cabin that will be our home for the next two nights. When we find it, we push through the door and spread the contents of our suitcases across the dusty, pine-needle-covered floor.

Within minutes the six of us are donning tabards and leather armor, painting our faces with stage makeup, and tying little tinkling bells to our ankles. Someone is gluing little elfish tips to his ears, and the fellow next to him is affixing satyr horns to his forehead. I weave little rubber cat ears into my hair and paint whiskers across my face.

When I am finished I look into a mirror and see more than a mere reflection of myself in a costume. I see an opportunity, a chance to step out of my skin for a weekend and create a new identity free from the constraints of normal society. I imagine what my new character will be like: a gruff rogue barmaid that swaggers when she walks and don’t take shit from no one. I visualize myself strolling into the village tavern, edging up to the bar, swigging a rootbeer, and demanding a job. In my naivety, I think that it will be easy to define my character; that I will be given the same creative freedom and opportunities as everyone else. (more…)