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Turl Times I pushed upon my gate and found it gone. - David Jeffrey

Ha – Fooled Ya!

Contributors In no particular order…

Vanita Singh hates her job but can't seem to escape it. Every once in awhile she signs onto facebook and attempts to contact the rest of us, urgently seeking some relief from the bleak nothingness that constitutes her inner and outer reality. Rebecca, Sheila, Amy, Camilla, James, and Dipti shudder to see Vanita struggling so hard to escape from the ravenous maw of the abyss. They cry and reach out for her, but Vanita seems not to hear them.

Jackie Lee King

Rebecca Brothers, Sheila Armstrong, Amy Lovat, Camilla Mork Rostvik, James McDonough, and Dipti Anand are all still working towards completion of their university degrees. Bright and self-motivated, they each enjoy their studies and find the intellectual stimulation of college life very fulfilling, though the work can sometimes

feel overwhelming. Actually, in all honesty, Rebecca, Sheila, Amy, Camilla, James, and Dipti are beginning to get a little bit tired of academia. Sure, the social life is good, and they can't really imagine a situation they would rather be in, but you know what? Rebecca, Sheila, Amy, Camilla, James, and Dipti have been feeling a little bit overworked. Their evenings and weekends, especially during exam periods, are not their own. The older they get, the more anxious they become about the nebulous future, which stress naturally undermines their enjoyment of the present. And speaking of presents, none of them can afford to buy any for anybody, because none of them have ever had a real job.

Rebecca, Sheila, Amy, Camilla, James, and Dipti know that they don't have real jobs, because people like you and me have been reminding them of this very regularly, for as far back as any of them can even remember. Rebecca, Sheila, Amy, Camilla, James, and Dipti know that despite having reached adult status with respect to their height and weight, they are still looked down upon by the general population as being naive, immature, idealistic, and, especially in James' case, totally out of touch with reality. A lot of rude passersby and casual acquaintances have felt compelled to inform James that photography is not a career. In fact, some people actually sneer at James expressly because he carries a camera, because to them, his knee-jerk urge to document instances of the picturesque indicates the presence of a dangerously nonconformist spirit. This is because, to the more insensitive citizens of the outside world, James and people like him, people like Rebecca, Sheila, Amy, Camilla, and Dipti, resemble nothing so much as a little gaggle of

unborn fetuses, floating around blissfully in a sack of amniotic fluid, totally unaware that their term is soon up, and that they'll shortly be graduating into a new world of bright lights, bad smells, and property taxes.

But you know what? Rebecca, Sheila, Camilla, James, and Dipti are not really fetuses, and they resent the fact that so many people feel free to apply terrible analogical reasoning like this to their own private, complex, internal worlds. Though young and inexperienced, Rebecca, Sheila, Camilla, James, and Dipti are sometimes compelled to remind people that they themselves are by no means devoid of higher order thinking, and Sheila, being the psychology major that she is, can tell you that every single one of them has breezed through their object relations milestones and are many miles beyond the stage of viewing the world around them as being a single, giant, overpowering maternal breast. Camilla would add that the whole purpose of going to university in the first place is to have the basic neurological development of a growing young person augmented by training in a variety of intellectual and artistic disciplines, which actually in some ways render their own observations and opinions superior to those of an embittered general public, many criticizing members of which could obviously use a refresher in critical thinking skills.

Bio’s continued…

Image by Lorenza Haddad

Turl Times

Turl Times Volume II Issue 2 - April 1, 2011 Editor & Publisher Jackie Lee King Assistant Editors Carolina Amoroso Dipti Anand Amanda Redinger Images & Artwork Jackie Lee King – Cover Photo Ashley McMillan – Coat of Arms James McDonough Carolina Amoroso Lorenza Haddad Google Images General Copyright Notification All contents of the Turl Times are Copyright © 2011 On The Grass, its suppliers and/or participating publications, their contributors, licensors and/or advertisers. All rights reserved. All digitally represented pages of publications accessible through the Turl Times are protected by their respective copyrights. Notwithstanding reservation of rights hereby noticed, additional specific copyright notices

of individual copyright owners may be provided below. Materials obtained through this or other Turl Times publications remain the property of the copyright owners of such materials and are also protected by national and international intellectual property laws, conventions and treaties and may only be used for providing proof of insertion and/or proof of publication for advertisements ordered for placement within the publication(s) in which they appear (if any). All other uses are specifically prohibited without prior written permission from the copyright owners(s) including but not limited to republishing in print, electronically, or by any other means; distributing, whether or not for payment or other consideration; or copying, reproducing, displaying or transmitting for any other purpose. These uses are prohibited whether in whole or in part or in combination with other materials. © Turl Times All Rights Reserved 2011 The Turl times is a Private Newsletter distributed, via the Internet, to the students of the 2010 Oxford University Summer Creative Writing Program.

C O N T E N T S

3 Foreward to the Turl Times Amanda Redinger

4 Code of Conduct Carolina Amoroso 6 Hide and Seek

Dipti Anand 9 Ha – Fooled Ya!

Janet Barr

13 The Silk Book Trisha Bhattacharya

19 NSA Admits to Mindreading Rebecca Brothers

20 Molotov Tears and The Awakening Wafik Doss (Fiko)

22 No Name, No Title Lorenza Haddad

23 Do You Think You Speak English Itself? Cilla Henriette

25 TECHWORLD: New Hope for Non-Writing Writerss David Jeffrey

31 Mystery Writer Pt.1 Exeters

32 Confession of a Secret Smoker Jackie Lee King

34 I Remember, an exercise in mind tapping Rhonda Klevansky

35 epithumia tis sark: or, a rant James Edwin McDonough

36 How To Kill Your Favourite Character (3999 words) Sean McIntyre

42 Hussein Execution Solves Everything Amanda Redinger

43 River and Fable (ch. 1-3) Stephanie Reighart

49 Just Visiting? Aggie Stachura

51 The Window-Ledge Between My Legs Danielle Williams

53 Myster Writer Pt.2 Exeters

54 GUEST WRITER Untitled

Jordan Renae Justus

56 BULLETIN BOARD

57 THE NEXT ISSUE

P. 3 Turl Times Vol. II Issue 2

Forward to the Turl Times Amanda Redinger, U.S.A. – Road Scolar

Attention Lovers,

Since Oxford, I haven't been doing much. Because I'm lazy. For example, I was supposed to write this introduction from the perspective of David Sgarlata's german shepherd, Flip, which bright idea quickly petered out when I realized that I would actually have to think about it a little bit, and possibly even cross out parts of my introduction and rewrite them to make them sound better. As if!

This issue of The Turl is supposed to be an April Fools issue, and the first joke is that it's actually going to be an April 4th issue. This is what happens when guest editors get jury duty the same week that they're supposed to be guest editing things. The second joke is that surprise! For every moment of casual absurdity in my biographies, there will

be many more moments of gallows humor that make you feel uncomfortable. This is what happens when guest editors get jury duty the same week that they're supposed to be guest editing things.

Jackie asked me to help him make this issue into a light hearted parody, and so I went ahead and laced it with existential despair. April Fools, Jackie! Haha, actually, I cannot control the fact that my humor has teeth, and I probably wouldn't even if I could. What I can promise you is that I enjoy projecting angst onto people who don't always feel it, sadness onto people who are usually happy, and flaws, millions of flaws, onto anybody who seems just a little bit too flawless. And sometimes I choose not to project anything at all. So when you read your biographies and say "heyyyy, waaaaiiiiiittttttt," please understand, I don't always mean it, I just mean it sometimes. And you'll never, ever know which time is which.

Sleep tight, sweet children.

<3 Amanda

Source: Google Images

Image by Lorenza Haddad

Turl Times – April 1, 2011 P. 4

Carolina Amoroso: Argentina - paradise lost

“Code of Conduct”

Normal behaviour… a concept lost on some people. Especially single people. Since common sense is scarce out there, I hereby present a list of simple yet frequently overlooked facts that, if abided by, will make the dating world a much more pleasant one.

NB: the person doing the active dating arrangements will be henceforth referred to as the “dater” whereas the other person will be the “datee.” CLAUSE I: THE FIRST MEETING

i. Avoid obvious “pick-up lines” (a.k.a. “flat out lies”).

That includes “you’re the most beautiful woman in the place” and “it’s not sex I want.” We all know better.

ii. Lie. Or know that the following are deal-breakers:

a. Saying you go to a solarium, if you are a guy.

b. Saying you don’t have a favourite book because you don’t read (as in, never have, never will)

c. Saying your favourite film is any of the Twilight movies.

CLAUSE II: THE FIRST DATE i. Show up. ii. If the dater offers to pick the datee up, when the

former arrives he should proceed as follows:

1. Text the datee, letting them know they are at the door (thus avoiding any potential disruptions that ringing the doorbell may cause).

2. Step outside the car, and wait for the datee to appear.

3. Greet the datee. 4. Step back inside the car and drive on.

Pick-up no-no’s:

a. Wait inside the car for the datee to appear and

let themselves in. b. Leave the lock on, thus preventing the datee

from getting in the car. (true story) c. Set the radio to very gay music, i.e. Ricky

Martin ballads. d. Fail to be able to drive. (If you have just got

your driver’s license and the car is going to come to a halt every ten blocks, then maybe you should leave it in the garage.)

iii. Consider sitting arrangement logistics. Sitting

opposite the datee implies limited physical interaction, namely kissing. Sitting next to the datee may be appropriate in some contexts, that is, as long as both dater and datee can sit comfortably, with sufficient leg room (it’s a date, not a flight in coach)

iv. Don’t get hammered. Chances are you’ll seem more

interesting than you really are, and you’ll get ditched the first time you are seen sober.

v. Take a hint. If the date has been going on for an

hour, and you hear something along the lines of “I’m not feeling well” it’s not that the datee is lying. It’s probably the most truthful statement you’ll hear: your presence is causing physical pain. Likewise, accept “emergency calls” for what they are. If your date is interrupted by one, don’t even bother doubting if the neighbour’s car actually ran over the cat. It didn’t.

vi. Under no circumstances should the dater kiss the

datee on the nose. (This one’s pretty self-explanatory.)


vii. Don’t hold hands. (I’ve just met you, and frankly my palm wants nothing to do with your palm.)

viii. Don’t wait three weeks to set up another encounter.

Chances are the datee will have found a new dater by then.

CLAUSE III: PERSONAL APPEARANCE AND GROOMING

i. Wear appropriate datewear. That excludes

tracksuits and plastic bags worn as handbags. (true story)

ii. Do not wear the same clothes on consecutive dates.

There should at least be a four-date rotation. (a.k.a. the laundry rotation cycle)

iii. Welcome to the 21st century: we have deodorant. iv. Excess body hair should be trimmed, shaved or

somehow gotten rid of. It’s that gross.

v. Tighty-whities are unacceptable after the age of ten. vi. Sunglasses worn at night don’t say “cool,” they say

“imbecile.” vii. Underwear with holes is a deal-breaker. Or it should

be. (true story)

CLAUSE IV: USE OF TECHNOLOGY

i. Don’t answer text messages that require no answer.

It comes across as clingy and needy and just wrong. ii. Limit text messages to an appropriate length. One-

liners make you come across as aloof, while three texts in one seem clingy and needy and just wrong. It will also earn you the nickname “over-answerer.”

iii. Don’t change your Facebook relationship status to

“it’s complicated.” The entire Facebook community doesn’t need to know about the relationship, or rather, non-relationship.

iv. A five am text message screams “booty call.” Don’t

pretend it’s anything but.

CLAUSE V: MISCELLANEOUS

i. Don’t say the “L” word. (except when it stands for “loser” instead of “love”)

ii. Should the dater invite the datee to their apartment,

they are expected to let them inside. (true story) iii. Never expect, suggest or demand exclusivity after

two dates. iv. Never expect, suggest or demand a certain type of

behaviour because Cosmo Magazine said you should. (true story)

Image: Roy Lichtenstein (via Google Images)


Dipti Anand: India – Boston, Harvard, Whatever? Like it’s hard to get into Oxford?

“Hide and Seek”

“In my childhood, there was no childhood.” Anton Chekhov

In my childhood, there was no childhood. By the age of fifteen, I was exhausted. I had lived four years of my life in a blur, in a faded blue house with broken windows so open that the Delhi cold had become the fourth member living in the structure. Of the dead members we lived with, my parent’s happy marriage haunted us the most. Sometimes I couldn’t believe they had been happy at all, although I was grateful to the love they had shared because I was born from it. But when love left them, they lost their capacity to love me too. Love took shape in my mind like the faded blue sky in the background of a painting with brushstrokes of barren fields dominating the landscape. Love was empty, and so was I.

My father was poor in wealth and my mother in character. To shadow myself from the ordeal of becoming either my promiscuous mother or unsuccessful father, I began working at the age of eleven. They couldn’t afford to send me to school and small jobs at the local market were the best way to get out of the house. I was an only child, a son,

luckily for them. Still they loved me not because I was their son. I was a transaction, a money-making scheme, with two legs that carried me to the Dhaba every morning and two hands to serve hot Chai to truck drivers in the afternoon.

When I wasn’t working, I used to watch them sit on our second-hand sofa, like eroded rocks that had withered away into insignificance by misfortune. Even if you rubbed them together, they could not create a fire. Then one day we lost all light in the house. I had become the last proof of the spark that had once kept them together. But I could feel myself burning out.

I realized I couldn’t bear to live in that blue house anymore, looking through windows that introduced me to people, trees and dogs who were all happier than I was. I couldn’t bear to see my father stick his fingers in the pockets of his washed-out khaki trousers and watch them come out the other side, grasping onto nothing. I couldn’t bear to see my mother feed herself to mouths that had decayed from chewing tobacco, while alternating between moans and wails, sometimes both at the same time. I couldn’t bear to see myself there so I ran away, because it was easier than going blind.

I knew of a young horse-master in the next village because he was my friend’s uncle’s cousin’s nephew and I had served him tea once at the Dhaba. He was big and broad-backed, looming over the rest of us like a tall building that our kind of poverty had never seen. In just that fleeting moment he had taken a strong liking to me. And I, who had never been touched by gentle gaze, instantly flew to him like a moth released from a dark room, chasing after bright light. When he called me Bobby, he had my attention instantly because it was my name, but more so because each time he spoke to me, his tongue trickled drops of honey. I had never eaten honey as a child, my mother claiming that I had high sugar levels, and that I easily became hyperactive. I understand now that’s true.

I found out two things quite unexpectedly; that I was a natural at breaking in horses, and Lara. Lara was to me what I was to the horses; a sculptor. I hadn’t met too many people so I was sure that I had never met anyone like her before. Even if I had been a priest at the Hanuman Mandir, I could be sure of the same thing. I was unsure of everything else around her.

I noticed her several times after I crossed the mango tree the horse-master had planted one winter. It was just the one, and he recalled it had taken months for the first sapling to sprout. He was more disappointed than exhausted with this feat, and decided to give up gardening. When his late wife had given birth to Lara, it was believed that Lara had


given birth to the mango tree since it suddenly flourished that same year. So when I passed her, she was disguised by the mango blossoms, in the leaves, in her hair and in her eyes. I only noticed her when the wind was still, she sneezed and I discovered that they weren’t one.

Her voice was thin and high-pitched, but she spoke softly in a hushed whisper, as if correcting a mistake that God had made when endowing her.

She called me Bobby, but it aroused a different response from my attention. She never asked me anything I couldn’t answer, and I told her things without her even asking. I told her secrets I hadn’t even told myself, confiding in her like a Joey safely tucked away in his mother’s pouch. She was so thin. I pinched myself to believe that she was there, that she was tangible. She was present but in such a slight way, I felt as if I created her through my conversation. Her transparency attracted my words and her fingers my own fingers.

I remember one day when I perched myself on the field fence, waiting for Lara to come home from school. I had two secrets: a crumpled piece of paper in my pocket and impatience in my heart, but maybe they were the same thing. She slowed down near me, her thin frame swaying as the light breeze bathed her in coolness, her hair and smile both electric. I handed her the mess I had made and our fingers touched lightly, wishing each other hello. I watched her eyes scan the empty paper, and then her eyebrows tip inwardly as she frowned in confusion. She flipped the note back and forth, a look of surprise swallowing her face. When I sensed the impatience in her, I gave in to my own, and kissed her lips. I had finally run out of words.

The horse-master stopped calling me Bobby, and for a while I felt as if I had lost my name.

Though I grew closer to Lara, her daily chatter about how light her bones were and how much food she did not eat made me wish for her to leave. I was exceptionally frightened the afternoon I stumbled on to an image of her bent over her knees, heaving, gasping, choking, as the mango leaves ruffled in the breeze trying to comfort her. I had to stop myself from receding into her like she was into

the mango tree, and I realized then that she could never be part of anything else. I stopped talking to her and as my words faded, so did Lara’s presence.

Lara’s disappearance was accompanied by towering twinges of yellow day after day. Strange, the effects she had on nature.

Time passed quickly because I wasn’t sad. Still, I grew tired with my aimlessness. In the blue house I had been so restless that I had tethered to some form of an obsession, even if I was obsessed only with running away. I longed for a preoccupation. Whether I had stopped searching for love because it was near me or because it was near me that I kept searching for it, I couldn’t understand. I only knew that it didn’t feel like much and I blamed it on my own

inadequacy, and perhaps, bad luck.

I remember another day when I walked in on the horse-master devouring a picture book his father had given him. His arms arched over the table as his head stood tall, like a golden minaret, glistening because of the centuries of stories it held inside. He sat in dignified silence, his hands blackened and torn by the rogue horse he had tackled that morning. He spotted me out of the corner of his eye, and then gestured to sit down beside him. I obeyed, and for that short while I became his right-hand man. That day, I learned about all the Indian monuments and something else that I cannot describe.

That same evening I was very satisfied with my meal for dinner. But I felt an odd tingling feeling, dissimilar to digestion, stir up inside me. It was my old friend, preoccupation.

It was time to run away again, except this time round I didn’t know where I was going. Somehow I felt comfortable in that unease, as if I had solidified into a hard mould, like soft clay lying in the sun for too long. The horse-master did not return my name to me, but he gave me a father’s pat on my back and wished me luck for my journey. I looked at my own hands, blackened and torn. I pumped them into fists then put them straight into my pockets, stowing the strength he had given me away for safe-keeping. I made no promises to return, but I did refuse to take the crumpled piece of paper Lara tried to return to me so desperately. I told her to keep it, preferably near the mango tree, so I could fill it with words whenever I wanted to know how to find companionship.

However, that a large body ofhumanity is apt to passjudgment on them like this hasnot escaped their notice, andbecause of this, Rebecca,Sheila, Camilla, James,and Dipti are all deeplyuncomfortable with theirimpending graduations. Eachof them plays host to a littleworm of fear that every dayniggles closer and closer totheir sweet, vulnerable souls.They are taken to having panicattacks and rarely ever sleepthrough the night.


I walked aimlessly for the first two hours till I found a familiar sign post that pointed me to the road leading to the blue house. I began to perspire as the weight of the dark settled on my shoulders. I turned my back to the road and hovered over the sign instead. It didn’t move, nor did I. A light breeze began to blow again pushing against my chest with its little punches. I was sure the horse-master had sent it because the air now vaguely smelled of honey. Then I had another thought; the blue house was calling for me. I was so surprised that I couldn’t stop from turning around. The endless road carried on for kilometers with trees arching over each other, huddling in an apology. And I stared long after it, preoccupied with a new fixation, as pink, orange and yellow flares shot through the sky.

Image: Carolina Amoroso

Janet Barr: Mater of all beasts great and small

“Ha – Fooled Ya”

A clutch of sticky flies rose into the air as Bert stretched out his long, hairy legs and rolled onto his back. Through the half-raised curtain of dark-fringed lids, Bert squinted at the growing band of light on the horizon. His silhouetted toes revealed that he had assumed an easterly orientation during the night, something of a small revelation to Bert. He usually settled himself down on the riverbank facing the city to the west, where the bright lights of skyscrapers and bridges danced and blurred as the contents of a flagon of cheap sherry seeped into his brain. Gingerly, he lifted his throbbing head to see the sunlight gilt-tip the ripples of water flowing steadily along its winding course toward the bay.

“Ya die in the night, Nev?” enquired Bert of the motionless heap of rags lying beside him. A sonorous fart erupted from the otherwise motionless figure. Apparently not, mused Bert.

“Yeah, mornin’ to you too, mate,” he said as he rolled onto his side to prop himself up on a scabby elbow. The sun continued its invasion of the night sky until,


suddenly, it breached the horizon in a spectacular show of tangerine light and shimmering heat.

“Oh jeez,” moaned Bert, “It’s goin’ a be another bloody stinker!” Shielding his eyes from the fiery onslaught, he sank back onto the hard ground. “Goin’a be a hot one again, Nev,” he announced to the still unresponsive figure on his left.

Nev slept a precariously short log roll away from the water’s edge. Bert sighed a deep sigh. Beauty and two ugly beasts, he thought, as he fingered the patchy grass. The riverbank was their beat. You had to stake your claim in this city of hundreds, if not thousands, of homeless folk. No one really knew how many wandered the streets and parks with no place to call their own. They constituted a shabby, shifting population, occasionally on the public radar, especially around election time. More often than not though, they were seen and ignored on a daily basis by all but a caring few. That anyone would choose this way of life was incomprehensible to most, but not to Nev. He hated being trapped in buildings of any kind.

“The great outdoors for me,” he’d say. “Roof over ya head is overrated,” Nev had advised Bert early on in their loitering life together. “Makes ya poor,” he argued. “All them bills to pay. Why lumber yerself with all that palaver when ya can live in the great outdoors? Move where ya want, when ya’ want. And it don’t cost ya nuthin’.”

Palaver was one of Nev’s favourite words. Bert wasn’t sure what it meant but he hesitated to question his old mate. Nev could turn nasty at the drop of a hat. Bert didn’t know why most times but had found it best to let it go. Nev’s temper cooled as fast as it boiled. Bert was a different kettle of fish. Passion had abandoned him to depression long ago, but the idea of a roof over his head again was a recurring dream. The bloody weather for one thing. Nev didn’t seem to feel the heat, or the cold. Bert did. The heat made him sweat and scratch until he was covered in rashes from head to toe. Come winter, the cold turned his fingers and toes white, then blue, sliced through his flesh and froze his bones. A roof over his head was something Bert wanted more and more.

“Hungry, Nev? I’m hungry,” announced Bert to the snoring hulk. No response. Bert scratched himself. The sweat from yesterday’s heat had drenched his hand-me down shirt and shorts. They crackled under his split fingernails now clogged with dirt and yellowed with nicotine. Bert was hanging out for a smoke. Cigarette stubs were getting harder to find. It seemed as though nobody smoked anymore, or if they did, they inhaled right down to the filter.

“Bloody government’s taxing ‘em through the roof,” reckoned Nev. “Even the rich are givin’ up the fags.”

“I need a shower,” mumbled Bert to himself. “Shower and a bloody good feed.” He struggled to his feet, toppled backwards a wobbly step or to before reaching a compromise with the sloping riverbank. “I’m off, Nev,” said Bert, poking the heap with his foot.

“Where? What? D’ya say somethin’? Aw jeez, Bert! Turn down the bloody light will ya?” moaned the stirring hulk. He was short and squat, the opposite of tall and skinny Bert.

“Yeah, no worries mate. I’ll ring the old fella upstairs. Get him to turn it down fer ya.” Bert fumbled in the pocket of his shorts to extract an imaginary phone. “Yeah, mornin’ Lord, sorry ta trouble ya so early but could ya turn it down a bit? Na, na, the light. The birdsong’s fine. Just the sun’s a bit bright for old Nev down here this mornin’. Thanks Lord. Much appreciated.” Bert looked down on Nev as he plunged the imaginary phone back into his pocket. “Lord says he’s sorry. Didn’t realise he had it up so bright.”

“Aw, my head!” groaned Nev as he hauled himself up to peer at the river. “Shade. Where’s the shade, mate?” said Nev rolling onto all fours.

“Salvo’s mate. They’ve got shade and a good feed fer us. C’mon, I’m off,” said Bert over his shoulder as he set off up the slope.

Nev eyed his plate suspiciously, grunted once then plunged a fork into a fluffy mound of scrambled eggs. “Overdone as usual,” he complained, as he always did in the Salvation Army canteen. Bert didn’t dare challenge him. Bert was just grateful for the Salvos feeding them at all. It was the leaving that upset Bert; having to head back out into the heat and the endless search for somewhere less savage than the great outdoors in the middle of summer. All the air-conditioned places, the shopping malls and art galleries, hired security staff to move the likes of Bert and Nev off their premises quick smart. They weren’t a good look in those clean, cool havens of commerce and culture. Only folk with money to spend were welcome to loiter there. Bert looked up from his plate of baked beans and sausages and studied Nev’s breakfast with inordinate interest. There was only so much one could make of a plate of scrambled eggs, two rashers of bacon, a grilled tomato and two triangles of soggy toast.

“What ya starin’ at?” demanded Nev.


“I was just thinkin’ of when I was a kid,” said Bert. “When I fell off the monkey bars at school an’ broke ma leg; had to stay in hospital for weeks. All plastered up I was, with pins in it an’ all. And you know what?” he said looking up at Nev, “I loved it. Loved every minute of it. That was the happiest time I ever had as a kid. Away from ma screamin’ mum and dad. No school. Just sat up in bed all day with a TV hangin’ down from the ceiling. All ma meals brought to me on a tray by jolly fat ladies who fussed over me. I could watch cartoons all day, even while I sat in bed eatin’ ma breakfast. Bloody bliss, that was. Wouldn’t I love that again!” said Bert with a wistful look and a deep sigh.

“You’d be bloody lucky to get a bed in hospital these days, mate, I’m tellin’ ya. Anyway, if them doctors get hold of ya, they’ll bloody kill ya. Chop ya open and take out ya bits. Don’t even go there, mate. Keep well away. That’s my advice,” cautioned Nev as he resumed his attack on the grilled tomato he had skewered to the plate with his fork.

Bert was not so easily deterred. Once he got an idea in his head, he was stubbornness personified. “Just a few days, Nev. Even just one day, like a whole day and a night. Just to sit up in bed and watch the telly with me breakfast and lunch and dinner all brought to me while I lie in me bed watching telly. In the cool. Clean sheets. How good would that be, eh? I’d love that, Nev. It’d be better than Christmas here with the Salvos, I reckon,” said Bert with a rare sparkle in his eyes.

Nev stared at Bert over a fork full of food in transit to his open mouth. “Yer dreamin’ mate. There’s no way any doc’s goin’a admit ya unless yer on death’s door. An’ then it won’t be food an’ a telly they’ll be givin’ ya. They’ll be stickin’ needles into ya and tubes down yer gob an’ up yer privates. You’ll wish ya’d never set foot in the place, I’m tellin’ ya. Keep well away, mate! Keep well away.” The voice of doom had spoken.

Nev filled his mouth with the toast and tomato he had balanced on his fork. He proceeded to chew with regularity and force intended to indicate the matter was settled. Not so. The cogs of Bert’s brain continued to turn. It soon became evident to Nev, from the distant look in Bert’s eyes, that the memory of breakfast in bed with cartoons on a telly hung from the ceiling had got a grip on his friend.

“How d’ya reckon yer goin’ get admitted then, eh?’ taunted Nev. “Without gettin’ cut open and that big sign, ‘NIL BY MOUTH’, the only thing hangin’ over yer head, eh? Tell me that Bert. How d’ya reckon ya goin’a fool em, eh?” challenged Nev, stabbing his empty fork in Bert’s direction.

“I’ll think of somethin’,” said Bert.

Nev eyed the skinny figure for a long minute as he mopped the remnants of egg on his plate with the last morsel of toast. “You’ll be wantin’ bacon an’ eggs fer yer breakfast won’t ya, Bertie? Ya love bacon an’ eggs too, don’t ya?” said Nev as he sucked on the toast. “So there goes the old chest pain routine ‘cos they don’t give ya bacon on the heart ward cos’a the salt an’ fat and they don’t give ya eggs ‘cos a the cho-les–ter-ol,” said Nev, stressing the syllables of the final word with an air of authority. “It’s a shame ‘bout that ‘cos the chest pain’s a good one fer fakin’ ‘cos they let yer rest in yer bed and they can’t prove ya haven’t got a pain in yer chest, see? It’s a good one to fake if ya don’t like bacon an’ eggs and ya just want a good lie down in the cool with the telly on.”

“I’ll think of somethin’ Nev. I’m goin’ a get me a day an’ a night outa this stinkin’ heat. Dinner and a hot cooked brecky on a tray while I lie in a clean bed with a telly on over me head. Just you watch me,” said Bert.

“Sunday ‘mornin’. That’s yer best chance a pullin’ a bed,” said Nev, suddenly showing an interest in Bert’s mission. “Being the end a January, you’ve got all them new young doctors just startin’ out. Don’t know nothin’ yet so they’s easy to fool.” On further reflection, Nev added pessimistically, “Still don’t reckon you’ll pull it off though.”

The nurse at the triage desk looked like she’d had more than enough for one day already. She eyed the clock on the wall, willing it to be morningtea time. Wishful thinking. Ten minutes passed nine would be pushing it, she realised, even though the day shift had started at seven. Resentment at having to leave last night’s party early bubbled just beneath the surface of her professional demeanour. At least they had cleared the Accident and Emergency Department of the previous nights takings within the first hour. An air of quiet order prevailed in the waiting room now occupied by a mother with her febrile toddler and an elderly man with an earache. Bert looked left, then right, as he limped across the foyer towards the triage nurse who watched his progress with an unblinking eye.

“Good morning sir,” she said to the shambolic figure before her. “What brings you here this morning?” she continued from behind the glass barrier, a necessary protection against the aggressive behaviour now all too common in the department. Bert straightened himself up as he placed one hand on the counter while massaging his left thigh with the other. “Me leg keeps goin’ from under me,” he replied. “It’s been getting’ worse every day,” said Bert plaintively.

The nurse eyed him steadily as she reached for a pen and attached a new chart to a clipboard. There began


a lengthy enquiry regarding the commencement, duration and exact nature of symptoms, previous illnesses, allergies and social circumstances. Bert thought he did well, incorporating much of Nev’s suggestions while adding a few flourishes of his own. He was good at making stuff up and there was nothing to lose. The worst that could happen was to get sent packing and there were several other hospitals around the city centre that he could try if this one failed to deliver. Bert was in luck. “Take a seat, Mr Cameron,” said the nurse, much to Bert’s surprise. “A doctor will see you shortly.”

“Sweet!” he thought to himself as he limped over to a seat opposite the young mother who acknowledged his arrival with a nod and a fleeting smile. Bert managed to keep his delight hidden behind a pained face and slow, rhythmical rubbing of his thigh. The nurse, on the other hand, smiled to herself as she contemplated one of the serious young interns struggling to make sense of Bert’s symptoms. She suspected he was malingering, but it amused her to feed the odd one through to test the new graduates. After all, she reasoned, they’ll get plenty of Bert’s in their working life. The more experience gained early on in their medical career, sorting out the seriously ill from the fakes, the better.

Bert’s luck continued all the way to the neurological ward where an orderly and a nurse carefully aligned his trolley with a bed covered in crisp, white sheets. “Oh sweet Sunday!” he thought, as he noted the television suspended from the ceiling above. A second nurse arrived clutching a bundle of bright pink fabric. “We call it a slide sheet,” she said as they rolled Bert from one side to other, spreading the gaudy material beneath him. “They’ve made our life a whole lot easier, let me tell you,” she said cheerily as they slipped him from trolley to bed in one fluid motion. “Talking of food,” said the ward nurse to her colleague from the Emergency Department, “is Mr Cameron allowed to eat?”

“Yes, he can today,” replied the latter. “They won’t be able to do MRI or CAT scans today. The registrar doesn’t think he’s urgent. I expect they’ll do the full barrage of tests tomorrow. Rest in bed and a full ward diet until further orders,” read the nurse from a chart.

Bert had no idea what MRI or CAT scan meant but he was delighted with the resting in bed and full ward diet bit. Nev had been right. The increasing numbness and collapsing of one leg had proved to be a ripper of a complaint. No rushing him off to surgery but serious enough to warrant further investigation. Bert settled back on the plump pillows and tucked the crisp white sheet up around his hairy chest. They’d put him in hot bath in the Emergency Department; washed and trimmed his hair, scrubbed and

shaved him clean, put lotions on his rash and sores. Bert had heard various staff complaining about a stink in the department, whereupon a male nurse and an orderly escorted him from the waiting room to a bathroom beside the cubicles. Bert hadn’t realised that he was generator of the stench until hospital pyjamas clothed his clean and creamed body. The attendant nurse had unceremoniously dumped his dirty, ragged clothes in the rubbish bin. A strange air filtered through his nose, the fine hairs within aroused by the novel sensation that made his nostrils twitch like a rabbit.

Bert awoke to a breakfast tray set out before him on the over bed table. Skippy the Bush Kangaroo was about to be followed by Inspector Gadget on Kids Cartoon Corner. An advertisement for Kentucky Fried Chicken’s boneless breast piece in a sesame seed bun punctuated the children’s programmes. Bert was in seventh heaven. James Bond in Golden Eye had ended his evening viewing at eleven the night before when the night nurse had suggested he should get some sleep. As Bert plunged his fork into the poached eggs on toast with three rashers of bacon, he whispered gleefully, “Ha - fooled ya!”

Photo by Google Images

Nev had been right. The neurological ward was the best place to get admitted to. No restrictions on salt or fat, or cholesterol. Nev had been ‘around the block’ so to speak. He knew how things worked and how to make things work for you when you wanted something. That was the funny thing about Nev; he knew how to get more but he didn’t want more of anything really. He seemed happy enough to sleep down by the river, whatever the weather. Food and clothes from the Salvos was good enough for Nev. “S’pose that makes me an ambitious bastard,” thought Bert. “I do want more than that.”


Bert scraped up the last of the runny egg from his plate. As he poured a second sachet of sugar into his cup of coffee, a bevy of doctors and nurses swept into the room. In the lead was a petite, grey-haired woman, smartly attired in a matching skirt and jacket of powder blue, a soft cream blouse artfully ruffled around her elegant neck. “Good morning, Mr Cameron,” she said, reading Bert’s name from the card fixed on the wall behind the bed. “My name is Dr Leong. I am the head of neurology here. How are you feeling this morning?”

Careful not to sound too cheerful, for he was having probably, the most joyful time of his adult life, Bert frowned, protruded his lower lip and replied that he was all right when he was lying down. It was just when he stood up, he continued, his left leg was inclined to go numb and give way from under him.

“Hmmm!” responded Dr Leong as she thumbed the pages of the patient history file handed to her by the registrar. “Well, Mr Cameron, we will attempt to get to the bottom of this problem of yours and get you fit and well again. My registrar here, Doctor Santos, will organise a series of tests to see what is and isn’t working the way it should and then we can determine what needs to be done to set you right again. OK?”

“Thankyou very much doctor,” Bert replied with genuine gratitude. He was on the verge of believing that there really was something not quite right with his left leg. The consultant handed the file back to Dr Santos, executed a three-point turn on her expensive heels and headed for the door. The entourage following after her like ducklings trailing a parent on route to the lake.

A short way down the corridor, Dr. Leong stopped to address the team. “You know the drill,” she said turning to Mike Santos, “Thorough physical examination, then a clear explanation of all possible tests so that our Mr Cameron is under no illusions as to what might be necessary to get to the bottom of his problem.” Mike Santos smiled. Dr Leong turned to the young intern at her side. “It’s always tricky at the start of the year. All you new doctors trying to work out who’s sick, how sick, sick at all? You’ll get the hang of it. Takes time, tactics and a little nous,” she finished, with a wink in Mike’s direction. Dr Santos emitted a brief snort. He handed the patient file to Emily Reed, a doctor of one week’s practice. “I’ll run through the various forms for you to explain to Mr Cameron. The MR 46 will be the most telling.”

“What’s an MR 46?” asked the anxious intern.

The senior nurse pulled one from a wad of papers held fast to her clipboard. “That’s the Medical Records form

number 46. It’s the one you get the patient to sign when they decline any further medical tests or treatment,” she said as she handed the purple-edged page to Emily. “It’s when they sign themselves out of hospital,” added Dr Santos. “It’s when we call their bluff. Mr Cameron has signs of the malingerer about him. We’ll go over the finer points of lumbar punctures, barium enemas and sigmoidoscopes with him. That’s usually enough to smoke the suspects out.”

Dr Santos noticed the barely concealed look of outrage on young Dr Reed’s face. He attempted to mollify her by adding, “Two months and I guarantee you won’t go near a patient without an MR 46 on you. Believe me, Mr Cameron is just one of a long line of malingers you are about to meet this year. He slipped through E.D. because it was Sunday and they’ve got new staff on there too. We just don’t have room for them all. It’s not the business we’re in. We’re here to look after the sick and injured, not the sad, lonely or homeless, needy as they are. That’s someone else’s job. You might decide that’s a job you’d prefer come the end of the year. In the meantime, you’re here as a doctor. Let’s get on with it.” Emily Reed nodded resignedly. Six years at university and one week in the job and already she was having doubts. She took a deep breath, swallowed hard and followed Dr Leong into the next room.

The river shimmered under the midday sun.

“Nev, I’m back,” said Bert.

Nev looked up from his perch on a bench in the dappled shade of an old gum tree.

“Bugger off. Don’ know ya,” he grumbled at the clean-shaven figure standing before him.

“Course ya do, Nev. It’s me, Bert. It worked. What ya told me worked. I got in. Got admitted to hospital. I had roast pork for dinner, apple crumble an’ icecream, and red jelly, ma favourite. An’ fer breakfast I got bacon and eggs, like ya said they would if didn’t say anything ‘bout pains in me chest. An’ I had a telly over me bed an’ all. Watched James Bond movies an’ cartoons with me breakfast too. Bloody brilliant!”

Nev rubbed his eyes and peered at length at the transformation. The voice sounded like Bert’s but the beardless character in clean shirt and shorts that stood before him caused deep furrows to set across Nev’s sweaty brow. Recognition slowly dawned.

“What’d they do to ya mate? They’ve shorn ya! Ya look bloody weird mate. Ya gonna freeze come winter if yer hair don’ grow back mate, I’m tellin ya. An’ ya face, ya


Rebecca, Sheila, Camilla, James, and Dipti have noticed that even their brightest and most supportive friends and family members seem to undergo a fundamental change once they leave college, a change which causes them to grow more and more akin to the embittered general public, and less and less like the thoughtful and open people Rebecca, Sheila, Camilla, James, and Dipti remember them being. They've noticed that their cousin Paul, who used to come over on Thursday afternoons and talk about Foucault while everyone else played Halo, now wears slacks and a tie and works in a cubicle for a surveillance company. And when Rebecca, Sheila, Camilla, James, and Dipti tried to bring the irony up in conversation with him, cousin Paul rolled his eyes and said "yeah, I know it sucks, but it's the only way I can pay back my loans right now."

gona get sunburn without ya whiskers an all. What they do to ya?” quizzed Nev with genuine alarm.

Bert eased himself down on the bench beside Nev. “The shavin’s nothin’ Nev, believe me. It’s what they was goin’ a do to me next, that got me movin’. Reckon I was lucky to get out when I did. They do some weird shit to sick people Nev, I’m tellin’ ya. If ya wasn’t feelin’ crook before ya went in to hospital, it wouldn’t be long ‘til they made ya feel real shithouse.”

“Yeah? Ya not not tellin’me nothin’ I didn’t already know Bert. Sometimes, ya just gotta find these things out fer yerself. Ha – that’s why I fooled ya!” said Nev. “I been in that neurology ward meself once - never again, mate, never again.”

Trisha Bhattacharya: India – Kolkata Spice

“The Silk Book”

Peach and lavender colored walls, decorated with orange and violet floral velvet curtains decorated Gonzalez family’s ancestral home. Almost everything in their house was a combination of peach and lavender; furniture, windows and doors. Bottle-green lanterns hung from hooks, pastel border aquamarine paintings, embellished the walls; gold plated ornaments held in glass frames, sat pertly on shelves. Within the boundary of one such lavender-walled room, spoke an anxious daughter to her mother. “I can’t do this,” Jasmine said, tears escaping her eyes. “It is an impossible task!”

Jasmine’s family resided in an Old Portuguese bungalow by the Goa beach. Her mother, Teresita, was a very charming but stoic lady. She leaned against the soft foam of an old rocking chair. “I have taught you what I could, I have told you what I know, and now you have to take the legacy of our family forward.” Her mother looked at her daughter, who she believed could accomplish the impossible. Jasmine looked very young for her twenty eight years.

“You have a wonderful and glorious life ahead of you Jasmine. We have kept the rituals of our ancestors alive all these years, we have guided others, we have conjured


things, we have worked minor charms, but no one in our family has ever been able to attain this particular power. I have never even read “The Silk Book”. Your aunt has the book, but she never did allow me to read it! I know she will have to allow you. You are her poppet. You have to let the book reveal its secret to you. You were born for a magical life. You need the secret not only for yourself, but for helping others too.”

Jasmine laughed, as she scanned her mother’s excellent choice of beautiful lavender curtains with orange floral artwork. She always had immaculate but odd taste in art, as well as in the rituals she performed. “If someone hears you speak of this “book of power”, they will think old-age is getting to you.” Her mother left the chair to face her daughter, whose long hair almost reached her waist. Jasmine’s eyes glowed like warm honey sometimes. “Do you remember how I cured Maria’s boy’s eyesight and cured terminally-ill patients earlier?” Jasmine smiled helplessly. “Those are still possible, but this?” she urged, lifting her hands in the air. “You expect me to fly like a sorceress?”

Her mother paced the room quietly now, as agile as she could possibly be at fifty two. She was an extremely loved and respected woman in Goa, and was known for her wonderful work over the years. “Oh Jasmine, you have performed many miracles yourself. Your grandmother was a Hindu and your grandfather, a Christian. Both of them were into white magic and rituals and accomplished so much together. Magic is in our genes!”

Jasmine nodded, brusquely pacing the room herself now. Her mother’s words always carried force and loving command, and could not be brushed aside. Her mother spoke again. “You will read that book and attain the power from beyond.”

Jasmine pursed her lips. “Mother, I can do the little things you have taught me. What you ask of me now is so wild!” In response, her mother’s voice grew sharp. “It is not. The human race is capable of unimaginable things; including the power to fly.”

Jasmine was shaking her head, exasperated. She had to leave the house now, she needed fresh air. Her mother did not stop her. After an hour she scrambled back home, late for dinner. Her mother was waiting for her at the door. But she was not angry; instead, she looked very pleased with herself. “Jasmine darling, our family has always used our skills to help others. Do it to help others. Go to New York soon, aunt Isabella is there. She will tell

you what to do. Come back, when you know you have done all you can. I won’t force you again if you do not succeed. Your aunt tried attaining the power to fly from that book once, but it didn’t work. She is powerful in other magical ways, but this time you must acquire that power from the book. However, I still know you shall succeed.”

Jasmine looked at her mother. “Mother, this is crazy. Please don’t make me do this!” Her mother crossed her arms. “Just go. Your aunt isn’t well, you must learn what you can from her and take good care of her as well before she also loses her mind over some man she’s just met!”

Jasmine went to sleep that night, slightly anxious because she had finally acquiesced. “No one refused her mother, not even when she asked them to capture stars from the sky in iridescent glass phials.” She stared at the ceiling of her room; it was spotted with artificial florescent stars, which twinkled when it was really dark. She counted them all over again, like she did every night. There were twenty-five of those in her room. It reminded her of the star-filled galaxy from close quarters she had seen as a child, at a planetarium, with her parents. She had wanted to hold those stars in her hands that day.

Jasmine made arrangements for her departure the next morning. After coming back home from work one night, she entered the basement, where some of the family charms were stored. Some were for healing, some were for solving minor problems, and others were about manifesting things and protecting loved ones. Most of the charms were made up of natural products, and jewels like crystals, emeralds, diamonds, rubies and some others included green, black, blue, pink, and red candles; sandalwood, rose, jasmine and lavender

powder and incense and a hundred other such items. She shook her head in wonder and smiled. “I must at least read this “Silk Book”. It is time to move beyond small miracles. ”

Within a month from that night, Jasmine stood outside her aunt’s apartment in New York. It was a dark grey high rise in Manhattan, a city of bright neon lights at night, and speeding & honking taxis; yet, something was divinely alive within the city and a strange freshness within it calmed her senses. It was quite late in the night. The door opened by itself. Jasmine was not surprised; her aunt was an expert at telekinesis. Her apartment was spacious and was painted in yellow and black from wall to window.

Jasmine however, did not see her aunt inside. “Aunt Isabella?” Jasmine adjusted the shoulder strings of her white dress. “Here I am,” said a faint voice from inside one of the

“Yes, love,” her aunt said. “This is not a sci-fi movie Jasmine. This is real. You will have to be careful.”


rooms. Stepping inside the room, she noticed an Indian silver-gold chandelier on the ceiling. She looked around cautiously, but her aunt was not there. She could only see some greenish-blue designer curtains, antique wooden furniture and a blue carpet. “Aunty, where are you? Please come outside now!”

From behind the curtains, a frail figure in her mid-forties appeared. She looked unhappy. “Why were you hiding aunt?” Jasmine held her aunt’s hand lovingly. “Oh, I wasn’t hiding dear,” her aunt said, looking at her niece through kohl rimmed green eyes. “I was standing by the window, looking outside.” Jasmine hugged her. “How have you been Aunt?”

Her aunt sobbed uncontrollably in response, shocking Jasmine. “Oh, I don’t know. I just react in peculiar ways now. I had fallen in love with Pierre, a French-Spaniard from the neighborhood; but I have not heard from him in the past two months. His cell phone is out of reach and his family refuses to speak to me or let him speak to me,” her aunt said, tears dampening her cheeks. Jasmine

stared at her bags in the living room; they looked abandoned. “Help me find him.”

Jasmine hugged her plump aunt again. ‘Yes aunt, don’t you worry, we will get him back!’ Her aunt smiled through the tears. “I know why you’re here. The silk book puts you at some risk darling.”

Jasmine stared at the yellow walls; blue mermaid designs were embossed on them. Her aunt was famous for her fascination with mermaids. “That’s ok. I am used to a bit of risk. I need to see that book now aunt, even though it is almost fifteen past eleven at night?”

“Yes, love,” her aunt said. “This is not a sci-fi movie Jasmine. This is real. You will have to be careful.”

Jasmine smiled.

“Ok, let me get it for you,” Her aunt brought the book out from inside a red glass shelf that had been hiding behind the wooden screen partitioning the room from another smaller

Image by Konrad Mostert


room inside. The book was bound in Indigo colored silk, and the exquisite writing inside was in reddish-black ink. The paper to her touch, felt like silk and the book smelled of lavender perfume. She felt its exquisite beauty and aroma.

“Yes, Jasmine, this magic book always gives off this exotic floral aroma and looks this fresh all the time. No one really knows who wrote it either,” her aunt said, softly. “I tried reading it once, but it got me into some trouble.”

Jasmine looked at the book in her hand. “Whatever you do with the book, starting today, you can’t quit. It will show you the way if you trust it.”

“Are you trying to scare me aunt?”

“No my child, the book will protect you. In fact, it loves its reader so much, that it will do anything to protect him or her. But you have to trust it,” her aunt said. “Here take this too.” Aunt Isabella handed her a magnifying glass, which was sitting inside a flap hidden within the book. “It goes with it. The letters are too small for you to read.”

Jasmine laughed; her beautiful white teeth and smooth skin gleamed under the yellow lights of the chandelier. “Aunt, I have the vision of a hawk!” She gave the glasses back to her aunt. Her aunt’s eyes sparkled. “Your mother has taught you well. I must rest now my child. Just read it. The book will do the rest. It may test you. Magical things will happen when you read it. However, be strong, that is my only advice to you. Just remember, the book loves you because you love it. And be scared of nothing, and I mean nothing!”

Her aunt opened the door to the guest room, without touching the knob. Jasmine walked behind her. It was a compact, well-lit room. This room had mermaid and peacock paintings on the walls. She also noticed a money plant by the window, and wind chimes that marked the entrance to the room as well as the ceiling above. Her aunt touched Jasmine’s shoulder. “I shall leave you now. My blessings are always with you.”

Jasmine’s heart thumped a little. She really was alone now, with only the silk book for company. She took the Lord’s name and lit some sandalwood incense near the window sill. Under the light of the table lamp, she flipped the pages quietly as she read. Something within the pages seemed alive, like glowing red coals on a cold winter night. What she read was mostly about the history of charms and spells and the history of a clan that had been the first and the last to acquire mysterious powers. That night as she turned the glowing pages, Jasmine closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

When she opened her eyes again, she found herself lying on a hard wooden cot. But, this was not her aunt’s house. It looked smaller, and it had cream walls and no furniture. But the silk book was still in her hands. “This must be a dream,” she thought, looking around. The windows were translucent. It was extremely dark outside; almost like she was in a submarine, surrounded by the clogged remains of the sea on a moonless night. “Where was her aunt, where was her house? Where was she?”

Jasmine saw no door in the room, but a staircase leading up to a smaller door on the upper floor. She followed the stairs and found it opening out into a terrace; the book, held firmly in her hands. The door opened for her as soon as she came near it. Jasmine gasped in daze and the book shook in her trembling hands. This was no dream, because her eyes were wide open. A scary expanse of turquoise vastness glimmered before her, and it was reaching the roof of the house. As far as her vision went, she could only see the glittering waters of an ocean. “This cannot be,” Jasmine thought. She was supposed to be at her aunt’s. Why was she here?” She ran to the other end of the terrace and there too, was the same turquoise expanse.

Jasmine was in a strange house, surrounded by the ocean on all sides and she could not swim. In that frightening, lonely moment, Jasmine lost her balance and the book fell from her hands into the ocean. “Oh no!” she screamed. The ocean was as clear as a crystal blue stone, deep and silent, but it mocked her, taking her precious book with it. “I have to find a way out of this.” Jasmine thought, gathering herself. “A way shall be created for me.”

“Oh my precious book, please come back,” Jasmine motioned the book to come back to her, like she could pull it back to her by some invisible thread that joined them. Miraculously, the book did not sink; it floated back up into her hands. She stared at it, tears floating in her eyes. The book was intact. She kissed the silk book in happiness. Only the book could help her now. She clutched it tightly to her bosom. The book responded to love and faith, and not fears. She looked at the ocean, and said. “Disappear!”

The ocean turned emerald green, and the water levels began receding. However, it was slow to disappear. Jasmine felt anxious. She looked at the book, a message flashed in front of her eyes. “Open me.” She did, turning to a chapter on “Invisible water”. She read loudly, her voice miraculously carrying the might of a roaring and loving ocean, the book lending her enormous power. “Disappear like you were never here. Take me back to where I was before.” And this time, the sea evaporated into the air, small crystal green drops merging with the blue sky. It was a


glorious sight; she saw the clouds in the sky absorbing the green sea in their blue warmth.

Seconds later, Jasmine found herself back in her aunt’s guest-room. Her cheeks felt warm. She tapped her forehead as she analyzed everything that had just happened to her. “If she had to acquire the power of flying, then she had to be dauntless in any test the book presented. Love surrounded her. Love of her parents, her aunt, and now, the silk book. Something was coming alive inside her, like the fire that will never be doused, like the fire that burns forever. The book in silk, urged her to read on. She continued reading the book, but dozed off, yet again.

This time, when she opened her eyes, she was in a dark room, the floors were cold beneath her feet. A few candles flickered in a corner. She looked for an exit, but did not find one and she could not see the ceiling. However, she could see a treasure-chest, filled with semi-precious jewels, which glittered in the incandescence of the candles. Stone Idols of Hindu deities stood in a row, right behind the treasure chest. This was some underground temple and it was huge. She clutched the book to her bosom. “Another test …?”

Jasmine had learnt something from her mother as a child. Temple deities responded only to the true worshipper. Sincerity and faith were always rewarded. She sat down on the floor. The wind was moist, the candles glowed in their respective places, and the temple deities sat in glorious serenity. The stone walls around them did not disturb their stony armory.

However, Jasmine was not a stone deity; a human could feel and fear as well. She had heard her mother often pray to the Lord, in various ways, and she did the same. The book held tightly to her chest, gave her strength, urging her to pray. “Oh Lord, powers of this earth and beyond, help me out, take me away from these stone walls, into the true arms of your blessings.”

In response, the walls began shaking lightly; the candle flames danced in order to please the deities. But the walls did not vanish. Now, Jasmine was surrounded by stone walls, almost five feet thick, and the ceiling was never-ending, with only a few vents, somewhere at the top. Locked inside an underground temple, listening to the voice of the still stones, suddenly she felt quite

inside. No fear, there was none. The ocean experience had lent her a magical calmness. However, Jasmine knew she could faint due to lack of oxygen, if she didn’t get out of here soon. She stared at an intricate stone carving on one of the walls and saw a faint image of a deity with ten arms, slaying monsters.

“Oh, I can’t be admiring the stone carving now. There has to be a way out,” She scolded herself and kissed the book. “Show me my way out.”

The silk book flashed a message in front of her eyes. “Pick a jewel, kiss it and keep it at the feet of the smiling deity. She will respond.” At this point, Jasmine was already on her feet, and grasped as many jewels as she could, placing them on each deity’s feet. It was dark; she could not clearly see the one particular smiling deity.

Jasmine bowed and closed her eyes in reverence. “Disappear mighty temple walls, and guide me back to my room.” When Jasmine opened her eyes again, she was back in her room, a few hours had passed, the book was still in her hands; and certain messages had miraculously appeared in red and gold on some of the pages. They read: “You have passed the tests. Now, plunge me into the soul of the wind, and I shall give you whatever good you desire and more.”

Jasmine slept in the night, and ran to her aunt’s room the next morning with the book and showed her the message. Her aunt was awake now, looking brighter than yesterday. “What does this mean aunt?” Her aunt stared at her niece. “I have no clue. Did you get out of the jungles alright?”

“Jungles … I was in a temple!” Jasmine said, astonished. “But, how do I find an answer to this message?”

“You were tested differently,” her aunt said, smiling and lying half asleep on her bed. “You will have to find your own interpretations of this message.”

Jasmine’s hair softly caressed her face. “Ok … I think I know what to do now,’ She ran back to her room and scribbled thoughtfully on a piece of paper, as if drawn to write by some invisible divine force. ‘Plunge me into the soul of the wind. On a dark stormy night, when the wind blows, and the clouds gather, under the lightning of the first thunder, stand below the darkest cloud; fear not, when the lightning strikes. Hold the book in your hands, and offer it with love. The power will come to you then and stay forever.’



Jasmine did not show this message to her aunt this time. She checked the weather report for the next few days; yes, there was going to be a light storm in the suburbs very soon. The book in silk, sat in glory in one corner of her room, and she looked at it with respect and thanked it for helping her time and again. However, the next day, she found her aunt sobbing in her room. “Oh Jasmine, please bring Pierre to me. I called his family this time, they tell me he is with them and does not want to meet me.”

“Yes, I will bring him to you soon….”

Jasmine called her mother that night, but told her little. Only that she was still unraveling the mysteries hidden in the book. She needed more time. All the same, time flew, and one evening she reached the forest on the outskirts of the city. It was time for the light storm to arrive as forecasted. She quickly found her way into a clearing. Standing under a billowing yet gentle mass of purplish cloud, dressed in an indigo silk dress, she thought. “How would she recognize the darkest cloud? Oh Lord, show me the way!” The silk book trembled in her hands.

She looked at the sky, and the moving clouds stopped, almost for a second, and a dark cloud appeared above her. It was enormous. She held the book out above her head in a prayer. A white streak of light appeared in the sky, and made its way across the space between them. It touched her in a flash, without hurting her, and created a moist dark golden halo around her head, where it stayed, circling her head in a serene glow.

Jasmine looked at her hands, her body; they glowed in the light of the golden halo around her. The magic was working. She kissed the book, and prayed for it to help her further and then headed back home through the jungles. After ten minutes, she came to the wall which held the entrance, through which she had walked into the forest. Her body was still glowing in a golden tinge. But, she still wasn’t flying.

Upon approaching the entrance, Jasmine’s feet became light, her hands felt like the wind, and her hair flew about her face. She was rising into the air; her thoughts were guiding her flight in the air, gradually above the walls. The book in silk again drew itself to her, guiding her as she ascended. The pages opened on their own. And an image appeared before her eyes; a tribe of women were dancing around a fire, lifting a woman in the air, celebrating a victory.

Jasmine laughed as she rose further and maneuvered her way through the air. She guided her thoughts to take her above the tallest tree in the forest. The

wind carried her on its back; the lightning had given her power, because the book had shown her the way. She felt grateful.

Jasmine had been flying in the air for over an hour now. “Land now,” she quickly told herself. Her aunt was still asleep when she returned to the apartment. She called her mother again and told her about the power she had been given. Her mother was jubilant and blessed her.

Jasmine had a beautiful dream that night. She saw herself sitting with a beautiful deity on a dark purplish cloud. The deity presented many silk books to her in the dream and she was overjoyed to receive them.

“Oh Jasmine you look so happy, did the silk book grant you the power?” her aunt said, the next morning. “Yes. It is time to bring Pierre to you!” Jasmine grinned.

The following week was spent tracing Pierre. Jasmine finally brought him to her aunt. He had been pressurized by his family to not meet Isabella. However, after seeing her again he was convinced that he could not live without her and they got engaged. Isabella handed Jasmine a "scarlet silk book" a day before she was to return to Goa.

“What is this?”

“It is another source of magical power!”

“Not again!”

“Trust it. Just trust it. The books love you.”

Jasmine simply smiled. The dream about the deity handing her several books had come true after all.

Two years ago Paul was dating girls withnames like Joanne and Meghan. How thefuck did he end up with a Tina? Rebecca,Sheila, Camilla, James, and Diptiwant to know. And yet, part of themdoesn't.


Rebecca Brothers: U.S.A. – Oregon Juice

“NSA Admits to Mindreading”

In an unprecedented move, the National Security Agency admitted on Thursday that it has been reading citizens’ minds without their permission since 1999.

The admission came after weeks of scrutiny following the mysterious death of Josh Schwartz, the Hollywood producer best known for his work on popular TV series Chuck.

“We got scared because Chuck was so close to the truth,” a top NSA administrator revealed anonymously from his office in room 619 in the NSA building in Fort Meade, Maryland. “We couldn’t have that kind of information floating around the American public where anybody could speculate about it. If information can be downloaded into a person’s brain, logic demands that it can also be extracted.”

The selection of files made public by the NSA includes the transcript of George W. Bush’s thoughts regarding the war in Iraq, long sought after by political pundits.

“What was he thinking? Well, now we know,” wrote one liberal blogger.

Thought transcripts, dubbed “brain burps” by the NSA agents assigned to record them, are collected using cell phone. As civilians talk on their cell phones, a scanner chip implanted in the phones collects their thoughts and sends

them to NSA collector dishes via cell phone networks. Each cell phone can be manipulated to read not only its owner’s mind, but also any other mind in a fifteen-yard radius. Citizens’ Social Security numbers double as their “mind tag numbers,” and NSA agents can use the cell phone scanners to pinpoint the location of any American citizen.

The surveillance program, implemented at the height of the Clinton-Lewinski affair, allowed agents to anticipate the president’s plans before he took action. Critics argue that this information could have been used to foil Clinton’s intentions and prevent the subsequent scandal.

One harried-looking official disagreed. “We’ve saved this country a lot of trouble,” he said from behind a homemade barricade, “and this is the thanks we get? You’re welcome, America.”

Rumors abound that thanks to the program, the government knows the truth about many mysterious events, including the cause of Michael Jackson’s death and why teenage pop sensation Justin Bieber has not yet been extradited to his native Canada for crimes against humanity.

As of press time, the NSA shows no sign of pulling the program, despite the thousands of incensed protests

across the world.

“Read our thoughts now, […] NSA!” proclaimed one colorfully worded banner at a march in Tulsa. In New York City, protesters were responsible for a half-mile-square section being cordoned off as they blocked the streets with their banners and signs. In many cases, local authorities show no signs of subduing the protests, which often extend

to bonfires, projectiles, and off-key chanting.

Near the NSA building in Maryland, entrepreneurial protesters took advantage of the political climate by selling memorabilia.

The best-selling item by far is a silver lamé hat.

“It’s more durable than tin foil,” confided one seller.

Chris Fedak - Head Writer for "Chuck" at a recent press confrence. Image: Jackie Lee King


Wafik Doss (Fiko): Egypt – Cairo Syrup

“Molotov Tears”

Forgive me my state For the lateness In heart, was I to speak So soon, to start, to eke Out your story to the eyes The ears, the souls of men To come, those passed, and still remain I would do you dishonor, In running too short a line When too many words could not Explain enough of your toils. Fear not, though, you are the ink In my veins, as my blood soils Your lands to give birth to me and my own To call ourselves your children. Now, you be my inspiration, My aspiration to a better patriot. The world is our audience, You and I are but the play, Together we sow the illiterate

Into a scholar of the globe. You my teacher, I your empty child Sullied only in your kindness, with the knowledge Of your Nile, of your sands, of your demanding Respect…and the greatest people I know, I humbly call myself your name, and with A humbler heart, I kneel beneath the Rigid, human hand of your sons. I call them ancestor. In the hastening time we’ve lived, In such meager words called days, You and I, my kin and yours Have made an Epoch to the world, Yet again. We stand alone, warriors, A Gandhi in every last broken skin You held at your heart, that grand square Within you. They could not fail, Though fell the 300 Spartan Blood. We wailed They’re passing, momentarily, For we knew they passed on To your Father and mine, to tell him Of their valor, their sacrifice, they’re victory. We look up now Kings in all of us, Watching them, looking down Proud, as their tears Become the rain that cleanses your streets Dry of their blood, and follows through your Epic River, towards the sea, irrigating every inch of land With their chronicles, your own. Remember, we are the roots of history, We are the eulogy of tyranny. We are the elegy of aristocracy. We are the titans of the pyramids, The pirates of the Nile, The rulers of a revolutionary sanity, Remember! Egypt, We are your people.


Awakening: We wake from the Dream this world is. With eyes alight of the Truth that lives! I have no arms No legs, no torso! I am as air, a gust Of wind and no more so. I am a Shade Of light in the Shadow’s Grave! Awake, let be This languid World. Awake said He Who’s Reality spurns The nightmare we call life. “Awake unto me my sons My daughters. Today is mine, The million years you’ve spun In sleep are done! In me lies True glory True light of the One. Awake my orphaned children Father Time has run.”

The World (Asleep): I am as the hapless babe my faith dissolved, I crave Reiteration of life, Retribution of soul, of mind I hold too dear that which is finite I cast away all sanity of sight I adopt the darkness as me And forever dead I will be the shade that I am, this world is just too real to be a dream. Forgive me lord I cannot give Thee me unto Thyself, for I live of Nothing and to NothingI Return. So what can I give Thee who has it all and nothing more than Thee? I am man. Though you are my Father, I am the Foster son of Time. He holds me captive by Your will. Forgive me unto Judgment Day for I were a poor judge in a fatal Dream. Forgive me my Liege I am too involved in what “seems” And so cannot live to relive the Real…

“The Awakening”

Source: Google Images (The Awakening - Hains Point, East Potomac Park)


Lorenza Haddad: Out West, we’re not sure…

“No Name, No Title”

She sits alone in this desolate, beautiful place with only her teddy bear for company. She rests in a bed of flowers, flowers that seem impossibly beautiful to grow on rock. Surrounded by their wildness her small, white and innocent body becomes more prominent. Her eyes are dark; they look like marbles reflected in the sun. Her nose is small, almost porcelain like, on her precious face. Her mouth is closed taking in the scenery. Her lower lip is fuller than the upper lip and they curl up on her right side. Her eyes are set ahead opened without blinking.

She protects Tara from the fierce branches of the plants and hugs her close. Her small legs have tiny rivers of blood and her arms have larger ones. Tara’s fury body is scratched revealing under her arms and belly the soft white cotton of her insides. A tiara once hung between her ears but only an ear, and half a tiara are left behind.

The girl looks at Tara and smiles. Her finger traces Tara’s fury brown fur, glossy eyes and flawless yellow-pink princess gown and tiara. Tara is perfect. Her best friend, more than that, they are each other’s family.

She is unmoving, looking out, the constant sound of swishing waves rocking her. The sun is in its throne, caressing her. She does not miss a beat. She is in perfect

harmony with nature. The big rock she is on juts into the ocean, an outlet to the sea. It looks grand from afar with a hole in the middle made of the constant anger of the waves. On top of it she’s closer to freedom.

She can still hear the distant cars on the road. She wasn’t going back there. Tears formed in her eyes as the memory tore at her heart. She brought Tara closer. “We’ll live with the mermaids,” she told Tara looking her straight in her glassy eyes.

Tara shuddered in her shaking arms and said “What if the mermaids don’t want us?”

“They’ll have to take us,” the small girl cried. Like if by some unspoken agreement they both look towards the unforgiving road.

They both froze. Just a day ago they had felt the hot and hard soil on their cheeks. They had been scraped and hurt when they had been thrown out of an almost stationary car. The pebbles had stung their gentle exposed skin and their eyes were covered in dust. Their ears full of words they should not know. She forced Tara’s face back toward the sea.

Tara and she had been alone long before yesterday. ‘Sorry baby, I forgot’ he used to say, but every time she saw him go out with a girl with twinkly shoes and shiny undies he would wave goodbye at her laughing with an arm around the girl’s lower hips. Her life changed on her fifth birthday, just three years ago. He had taken her there for the second school night in the week and it was only Wednesday. No candles, no cake or happy birthday, but she had found a family. She had found Tara forgotten behind that ‘candy store for men’, picking her up she hugged the princess teddy bear and named her. Right there and then, Tara had become her companion. Talking all night they became best friends, they had too much in common. Her small legs were tucked under her arms with Tara on her toes when Candy came out. This time her usual cheeseburger had a big 5 candle.

“Happy birthday kiddo!” Candy said handing her her dinner. Candy sat down besides her smoking her cigarette. Candy was good company, she never asked questions, unlike her teachers or ‘friends’ at school, or the constant wave of social workers. The last social worker that came questioned her father so much he had become impetious. He even mentioned her “OD” mother in a rash moment of blind anger. The little girl had no idea what that meant, she just knew her mother had died with a needle in her arm and her eyes all read. “Abandoned us, she did” her father always said, the girl nodded everytime. She was


going to be taken away right into foster care and he wouldn’t have it that way. “If I can’t take care of you, no one can,” he said for the last time.

She sighs her stomach rumbling.

She waits, patiently. Every car that passes makes her ears twitch and heart skip. She would never tell Tara but she secretly wishes one of those were his old, red and yellow, smelly car coming to pick her up.

Two fins come out from the sea. They look like the pictures from her books. Mermaids are friends with dolphins, she thought. She stands. Her small legs shake as she walks. Rocks taunt her as the waves expose and then cover them once more. She hugs Tara fiercely as she lets herself fall onto the rock and flowers. She doesn’t want to die. Small shadows form on her face as a daring cloud walks by the sun. The cloud and sun seem to flirt and play until the wind has had enough and blows her away.

The peace here is too much for her fragile heart. You can hear it break into pieces almost in rhythm with the sea. She clings to Tara. “I’ll never leave you”, she says as she cradles her like a baby in her arms. She can hear Tara’s princess voice in her head ‘I won’t leave you’. Her lips spread in an inviting smile, small teeth exposed and dimples on her cheeks. Smiling she is more radiant than the sea.

She plucks two wild yellow flowers and puts one above her ear. The other is for Tara. Now they blend in, two small flowers near the vast sea.

Photo by Carolina Amoroso

Cilla Henriette: How the Holland are you?

“Do You Think You Speak English Itself?”

March 18th, 2011 was the day we left Bangalore and went back to our house in Holland. As I bid farewell to India, I treasured amusing, shocking or annoying memories during my stay. This is one of them…

Cilla: “Hello!”

Mohan: “Hi Maim! This is Mohan from Tata Sky, how can I help you?”

Cilla: “My cable TV suddenly stops working. Can you please send someone to fix it?”

Mohan: “Registration number Maim?”

Cilla: “One second, two five seven seven three nine triple zero.”

Mohan: “Thank you Maim! Can you try to switch it off Maim?”

Cilla: “Sure!”


After 2 – 3 minutes…conversation continues…

Mohan: “Now switch it on again Maim…”

Cilla: “OK…”

Mohan: “TV is there?”

Cilla: “Yes, the TV is there but I can only the blue screen without any of the programs!”

Mohan: “Can you try see your back side, Maim?”

Cilla: “Excuse me?!” (High pitch tone of surprise and impatience)

Mohan: “Yes Maim, check your back side…can you plug it off please?”

Cilla: “What? I’m sorry this does not make sense. Can I speak to your manager?”

Mohan: “Please hold the line Maim.”

Kailesh: “Hello!”

Cilla: “Hi Hello, are you the manager?”

Kailesh: “Yes, my colleague told me that you have a problem. What happened to your box, Maim?”

Cilla: “Excuse me?!”

Kailesh: “What’s wrong with your box, Maim?”

Cilla: “First of all there is nothing wrong with my box and if there is, it’s not your business.”

Kailesh: “Excuse me Maim?”

Cilla: “Anyway, can you please send someone to fix my TV cable?”

Kailesh: “Someone is there Maim!”

Cilla: “Nobody’s here, only me.”

Kailesh: “Someone is going there to your house Maim.”

Cilla: “Ahhh OK…how long would it take?”

Kailesh: “Soon only.”

Cilla: “Soon means how long?”

Kailesh: “Your address is in Koramangala Maim?”

Cilla: “Yes, 4th block only.”

Kailesh: “Now itself.”

Cilla: “OK, so now itself someone is there to fix my box and ensure nothing’s wrong with my back side?”

Kailesh: “Precisely Maim, coming Maim.”

To be continued.


Because part of them understands that no matter how hard they try to be good and wise and grounded and free spirited and hedonistic and Spartan and all the other things they seem to want to be all at once, while they're still young and there's still time, they cannot be today what they'll wish they'd have been when they look back on their Oxford days from thirty years down the road. (Or ten years.) Or five. And they won't be in the future the people that they think they are right here and now, in the present. And this lack of control fills them with dread.


David Jeffrey: He comes from the land down under!

“TECHWORLD: New Hope for Non-Writing Writers”

Reformed Wryter Launches Almost Writing Exciting Suite of Smartphone Apps April 1, 2011 Turl Times Non-technical staff writer A Turl Times Exclusive!

Sleepy Hollow, NY – Lately, the plight of self-proclaimed writers who, for a variety of reasons, do not produce any completed written work, has been attracting industry attention, little of it welcome. And to be clear, we are not talking about published works, but simply a completed piece. Following years of either tolerance or sheer indifference by writers, which saw the number of “wryters” (as they are known in some circles) soar, recently the tide of opinion has turned.1 This seemingly benign

1 “Wryter” is a largely controversial term, used in this discussion to refer those who may write a few words here and there but do not actually complete written pieces. Not published works, for that is a major undertaking, but simply completed drafts. The term is generally not recognised by wryters. “Writer” is used to

group has been coming in for some stinging criticism from some writers, especially the handful among them of published authors.

Veterans Unfazed

But the story is a complex one. Most hardened

wryters (who incidentally reject the “y for an i” movement) slough off these criticisms, citing sheer jealousy on the part of writers, and quickly return to their daily preparatory routines. So elaborate are their preparations that even close family members continue to believe that they live with writers. In the severest of cases, wryters are convinced that they write.

This resistance to public opinion is understandable.

For the life of the wryter has proven to be a most comfortable one: contemplating what they might one day wish to write, clipping the most humiliating sections from literary reviews to remind them why they don’t write, and poring over the latest creative writing courses being offered by obscure institutions in the Galapagos or Machu Picchu. As a result, wryters have accrued an enormous amount of free time in which to make these pilgrimages, time otherwise spent in tedious re-writing and painstaking editing sessions.

New breed of wryter For thin-skinned wryters, however, especially the less

experienced, this upsurge in criticism has been tough and hurtful and cracks are appearing in the walls of the wryter’s fortress. They feel under enormous pressure to write which is taking its toll on them and their loved ones. Some wryters are rejecting non-writing completely and moving to greener pastures. Several are now non-playing owners of expensive musical instruments.

But not all have that flexibility. Sensitive wryters,

feeling like the ham in the sandwich, are facing a choice that would make even Thomas Hobson wince. Some have chosen choose to remain wryters and are bunkering down as the winds of criticism swirl about them but they are ill equipped to deal with the onslaught alone.

Others, however, having stared into the mirror and

seen their reflection, are taking the biggest step of their careers and are starting to write.

signify someone who at least completes a draft and many wryters become excellent writers.


Wryters flirting with writing This is a huge gamble, as they know that they will

be seen as traitors by many wryters. They might be simply exchanging the wrath of writers for the ire of wryters (although with so many wryters immersed in the study of writing abroad, news of these defections will take a long time to reach them). These courageous wryters are realistic enough to know that many writers will continue to criticise them. But at least it will now be more focused on their over use of adjectives and plot holes, rather than their lifestyle.

Whether they stay or go, all but the toughest wryters

need help and they remain a largely sympathetic bunch. Wryters are invariably witty, interesting people who in fact entertain and inspire writers, often ending up in published novels: not as authors, of course, but as key characters who, they argue, are responsible for the success of such works. Many wryters are burdened with an excess of charm and charisma and find themselves leading whirlwind social lives that simply leave insufficient time for writing. Further, some point out that wryters are far less concerned about the “future of publishing” and can add a light touch to the increasing number of workshops devoted to such emotional debates.

Wryters, however, are not oblivious to the

breakneck pace of technological change. Instead of using traditional keyboards not to write, many wryters are doing so with the aid of tools such as tablets, and the revolutionary “capsules” now showing up at book fairs which, of course, they have time to attend.

This much needed help is arriving from an unlikely

source: a formerly committed wryter who is reaching out to wryters, both those who remain on the burning deck, and those swimming towards new shores, and imploring them to step forward (even if in the water) and ask for assistance.

I am speaking, of course, of PJR Dunleavey, who

had the good fortune to have been given only initials by his thoughtful parents, thus being spared the relentless criticisms reserved for those who adopt this affectation in later life. PJR recently spoke exclusively with Turl Times about some worthy initiatives he is pursuing on behalf of wryters everywhere, some steadfast, others moving into the uncharted waters of writing. TT: PJR, if I may use your full name, not so much a

mouthful as a light snack (ahem) …That’s a very long introduction I know but I wanted to set the scene. PJR, what led you to break your silence about the affliction of non-writing, the plight of these self-proclaimed writers who, upon investigation,

have been found not to actually complete anything? After all, the wryter is still a very controversial figure, one that many feel quite uncomfortable discussing, as you yourself know all too well.

PJR: Well this, of course, is not a modern phenomenon.

Wryters can be traced back to the time of Thorace and Euhipides. For example, there is evidence of an academy in ancient Pompeii with the motto Ego arbitramus propterea ego imus, which loosely translates as “I think therefore I write.”

TT: And more recently? PJR: In the 1920’s writing was enjoying one of its purple

patches, due to the efforts made by Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley, Alexander Woollcott and others who were members of the legendary Algonquin Round Table in New York. This ushered in the concept of the writer’s club and saw a sudden outbreak of writers talking lot about writing. But they still wrote. Frequently.

TT: These clubs were aimed at enhancing their skills as

writers? PJR: Writers and talkers: networking, as we now know it.

You are probably too young to remember the old Writers Association? Then later there was Write for Life, Literary Lions, and Write On.

TT: I’ve read about them. So what was the turning

point? PJR: The 1950’s began to see growing numbers of

freshly minted wryters, the first products of a handful of college and university courses that we now know as “creative writing programs” and which in some countries outnumber potential students by two to one. Although I hasten to add that some are truly excellent, such as those offered by fine institutions such as Oxford (mutual chortling).

TT: Of course. Exeter 2007 as I recall? PJR: Quite, and you? TT: Exeter 2010… good show … PJR: Well, they had some interest in writing but they

much preferred talking about their craft. They started to question why they should subject themselves to the challenging task of writing when they could enjoy all the benefits of the literary scene


by stopping short of actually writing. They too could attend the wine and cheese book launches, the literary lunches, the book fairs, without actually writing. These graduates wanted to remain students a while longer, observers if you will.

Photo by Jackie Lee King

TT: But weren’t they dismissed as simply hangers-on? PJR: The exact opposite. These post-war tyros were

shrewd enough to cloak their inactivity with what looked to the outsider as studious caution. They said that they didn’t want to rush into anything and that they would write something just as soon as they felt ready and that they alone would know when the time was right.

TT: And this made them… PJR: Exactly! Far more attractive to other wryters and

especially possible publishers. TT: How so? PJR: Well, they were all drawn in by the allure of

unlimited potential without having to confront the actual. They were always poised at the top of the pendulum’s arc…potential energy is a very powerful aphrodisiac. As for kinetic, well it’s fleeting and then gone, whereas potential creativity is constant. And that’s comforting to many, many wryters and excites agents and publishers.

TT: And how did they… PJR: Survive? Advance royalties. Lots of them. These

were the salad days of publishing.

TT: And yet writing with the benefit of advances has always been a legitimate way to earn a living.

PJR: Indeed, but this new breed of wryter was much more

careful and, let’s face it, picky. The idea of the lonely writer in the attic, with the only running water being that entering through a whole in the roof, was no longer appealing. They demanded more and contributed less. They felt uncomfortable, however, in the company of writers. So they formed their own bodies that sought to protect the interests of writers who don’t write…at least not yet.

TT: You’re referring now to groups such as AW

(Aspiring Writers) PWI (Pre-Writers International) which proudly used the “i” word…?

PJR: That’s correct. As you know, I was a member of

Aspiring Writers, which helped me enormously in my early days as a wryter. But these and similar groups started to struggle for survival and have recently merged to form the colossus WWMTAW.

TT: Of course, that’s … PJR: Writers Who Merely Talk About Writing. And yet

that international body is itself already heavily in debt, due to the rising price of white wine and quality cheese, and its future is looking quite shaky.

TT: Nevertheless these wryters would appear to have

carved out a secure niche for themselves. So why are they suddenly feeling so much pressure to write?

PJR: It’s difficult to generalise. Every case is different.

Let me give you a couple of examples. Yesterday, 10.00 am, the phone rang. I immediately stopped writing and, sure enough, it was a friend having a typically rough morning. His children were in school, his wife had gone to work at some high-powered job in the city, he had rearranged his desk three times and he was left alone staring at his thesaurus. Within ten minutes we were sitting in Café des Auteurs Potentiels. By nightfall, my buddy felt so much better about not having written a word and was ready to face another day. That’s a fairly typical one-on-one intervention. He accepted that he is at present a wryter.

TT: But not everyone is that fortunate. PJR: Sadly no. Last year a few wryters began to resist

the normal group dynamic of self-imposed equality through inactivity. These people have really


suffered. Sure, they attended all of the writing workshops, seminars, residential schools, and some of the Chardonnay and Brie nights, but they ware leading double lives. While they would profess to their colleagues in cafes how much they continued to enjoy simply talking about writing, attending courses, and denied point blank that they had completed anything, at night were churning out completed drafts - and getting a real buzz from it.

TT: Duplicity forged of necessity, how tragic. This

sounds very close to home. PJR: That’s (inaudible) me. A writer trapped in a wryter’s

body. TT: That must have caused… PJR: Huge problems. When news leaked out, these

renegades were dragged before the WWMTAW executive board, stingingly rebuked for their lack of solidarity and commitment to the founding principle of inertia, and then publicly stripped of their membership. The ultimate humiliation was that they had to watch as the numerous Barnes and Noble Gifts for Writers that they had received from family and friends over the years were confiscated and given to the newest wryters. But as a former wryter, who struggled to become a writer, I couldn’t stand by and do nothing and see these clever, witty wryters hounded out of the industry. So I am pleased to announce today the formation of Almost Writing. You can learn more at www.almostwriting.net.

TT: And what does Almost Writing hope to achieve? PJR: Look, I am not so naïve to say “parity” for we

accept that there will always be two types of writer, the writer who, well, writes and the one who is happier preparing to write, thinking about writing or talking about it. But hey, most reasonable people accept that each has a place. Where would the world be without the air guitarist? The term “writer” should be broad enough to accommodate this rich diversity of wordsmiths. After all, they use words all the time. Some wryters can talk under water. But there is still discrimination against many wryters, which Almost Writing is lobbying to remove.

TT: Isn’t the EU looking into this?

PJR: Yes, sort of. In 2003 the European Commission set up a working group to investigate how use of the term “writer” might be regulated. Is a great talker in a sense a writer whose words are simply not fixed in visible form?

TT: Similar to the Comité Interprofessionnel du Vin de

Champagne regulations designed to protect the use of the term “Champagne”?

PJR: Perhaps, although since its formation the EC body

has been embroiled in a dispute over whether it should meet at a rectangular or an oval table so we are not holding our breath. Instead we are focusing on practical steps.

TT: And in that regard PJR, I understand that Almost

Writing has another very special announcement to make, exclusively to readers of Turl Times.

PJR: That is absolutely correct. We, more than most,

know the struggles that lie ahead for those wryters who wish to stop talking and start writing.

TT: And you’ve turned to technology, which initially

surprised me a little … PJR: Well, hey, I am not a programmer but I can

appreciate the challenges that wryters who start writing face and believe that we should use all available resources. The worldwide app phenomenon, however, so far has been of peripheral value to writers, and virtually useless to some wryters. Oh sure, we have seen apps such as Evernote, Mindmapper and Dragon Dictation. But for the most part, these do little to assist either die hard wryters or those emerging as writers. So we have developed a suite of apps, with quite different features, that we hope will help those two groups.

TT: You have kindly brought along an Almost Writing

press release which we will include at the end of this interview. So, good luck PJR with Almost Writing and the new suite of smartphone apps. It’s been a joy delight and I hope you will return to TT soon.

PJR: The pleasure has been mine. TT: And keep up the good work with the apps and your

own writing. Any plans for publishing something soon?

PJR: (Inaudible)


Embargoed until April 1, 2011 PRESS RELEASE

ALMOST WRITING

A not for–profit organisation dedicated to the interests of wryters who want to write and those who think they already do.

Suite of Apps for Non-Writing Writers (“Wryters”)

Sleepy Hollow, NY, April 1, 2011: Almost Writing today proudly announces a suite of breakthrough apps for your smartphone. Founder PJR Donleavy explains: “We have recognised the distinct needs of the serial wryter, comfortable in his or her own skin, as well as the wryter in the twilight of a non-writing career, emerging from the shadows and traversing the treacherous straits linking the protection afforded by the lagoon for wryters and the cruel, exposed ocean on which so many writers will bob around for the rest of their writing lives, like corks emitted from bottles consumed at a recent literary lunch. Perhaps, for sir, a lightly-oaked, buttery Chardonnay and for madam a zesty, impertinent little Sauvignon Blanc…? For the committed non-writing writer (“wryter”): Excuse Me! This app makes no apology for what it does best. Making apologies. And it does so with literary flare. About to see yet another arbitrary, self-imposed deadline expire? Stress less. “Are you still writing?” “Written anything good lately?” “Written anything lately?” Questions such as these thinly veiled attacks have previously sliced the typical non-writing writer in two. Fear such probes no more. Rather than stumbling through stock responses such as “Well, I am working on a few ideas at the moment” or, “I have a half-finished piece on...” or “I would love to be doing more but the weather has been too severe/mild which is simply not conducive to writing..” Excuse Me! puts this sort of callous question right back in its box. Fire up this baby and you will see projected above the head of the inquirer such useful responses as Lord Byron’s immortal lines: “Writing is not something one simply does, any more than the wind strokes the soul of the dove.” Need something a tad more assertive? Try “Oh! Are you still breathing?” And then there’s the go-to reply which combines drama with a strong threat of personal liability: “I would love to tell you but my agent/publisher/warehouse foreman would sue me first and then I would have to join

you in a cross-suit for enabling a breach of confidentiality.” Available settings include indignation, mock humility, eye-watering pathos and olde style outrage. Writers Block

No, it’s not quite what you were probably expecting and the punctuation is just fine. This has nothing to do with the creative process. Instead, this tiger is the ideal companion to Excuse Me! This app, through the brilliant use of Meta tags, can sense the approach of a published author with a range of up to 50 meters. Now your phone will emit a silent signal that will quickly divert the course of any author and send them in the direction of (a) the bar; (b) adoring fans; or (c) a more successful writer. This app allows you to choose the direction of each diversion but can be set to Auto if you have simply made too many decisions in one day. When you have been published, the app will automatically upgrade into the advanced app Back Slapper and you will be billed accordingly (see below). Leg Stretcher This simple app randomly generates reasons why you should leave your desk and stretch your legs. Alert intervals and duration of stretch are set by you. Reasons are limitless and are constantly being expanded. Check if UPS man has been. Check weather forecast. Check voice mail. Check email. Clean out fridge or basement. Buy new pens and larger stapler. Check height of Aswan Dam. Rearrange sock draw. Switch on webcam at remote weather station in Norway. File two years of articles torn from magazines. Study for trivia night. You can set the app to ensure that Leg Stretcher dos not repeat any reason during a period of your choosing, so that your subconscious doesn’t become suspicious and start asking awkward questions.* We want you to s-t-r-e-t-c-h your legs and relieve the pressure of not writing. Sedentary wryters suffer just as many back problems as sedentary writers. As a wryter who is committed to the daily desk routine, you too need to take good care of yourself and your equipment. * Our engineers are contemplating an app that may one day quiet an annoying inner-self, however this will be several years in the making. For the wryter transitioning to writer and beyond:


iThinkiWrite This app represents a complete breakthrough. While Dragon Dictation briefly rescued hunt and peck typists from the prospects of a career cut down by carpel tunnel syndrome, iThinkiWrite has consigned it to the trash. Implant the microscopic sensors behind each ear and then simply think through your masterpiece. Your words will immediately be transcribed onto the screen in perfect manuscript form. Engage the Constant Editor feature and by the end of the day you will be holding a freshly bound manuscript complete with tasteful, irresistible cover letter. Austentatious (part of the WriteLike series) Now this is the perfect companion to iThinkiWrite. With one of our WriteLike apps installed, as you generate your prose it will be automatically polished with the warm glow of the styles of those upon whose shoulders we now stand. You can select from our Classic series, literary giants such as Austen, Tolstoy, Dickens and Homer (starting at $14.99), or our very popular Airport series including Cartland, Brown (Dan), King, Wallace, Steele, Archer and Grisham, most of which are free. Simply turn on iThinkiWrite and then select the literary style you seek to emulate. You can also choose the degree of style emulation you are comfortable with, from “air brush lite” all the way through to “slavish sycophant.” Back Slapper (Warning: for use only by authors under contract) ($24.95) We’ve all envied those on the other side of the room who are embraced by fellow writers and given the highly prized man hug, followed by the double shoulder grip with full arm extension push back and the command “Let me look at you!”, culminating in the exquisite double back slap. These are rare beasts indeed, published authors, relishing each other’s company and exchanging bon mots with the quiet confidence that only someone at the pinnacle of their profession possesses. Back Slapper will automatically detect any published authors (you can also set it to include agents, publishers, scouts, e-publishers etc.) and send each a subliminal thought wave telling them that you are the next big thing. Be prepared to be slapped hard and often as your newly found colleagues immediately flock to you and insist upon your sharing your bank balance, full contract details and, of course, your source of ideas. They will be momentarily proud that one of their own has finally made it, although hopefully for only a brief period before joining them on the remainder table.

Finis

It’s Caro Approved! Image: Stranger in Paris


Mystery Writer: You make the story!

Listen up sweethearts, this is where you write your own story—choose 52 words The numbers to the left will tell you where to put them in the story at the end of this issue. This should be good. Let the mystery unfold.

1. Noun: _____________________________________

2. Noun: _____________________________________

3. Noun: _____________________________________

4. Noun: _____________________________________

5. Noun, Plural: _______________________________

6. Noun, Plural: _______________________________

7. Noun, Plural: _______________________________

8. Adjective: __________________________________

9. Adjective: __________________________________

10. Adjective: __________________________________

11. Adjective: __________________________________

12. Adjective: __________________________________

13. Adjective: __________________________________

14. Adjective: __________________________________

15. Adverb: ____________________________________

16. Adverb: ____________________________________

17. Verb, Intransitive, Past Tense:__________________

18. Gerund, Intransitive:__________________________

19. Animal: ____________________________________

20. Animal, Plural: ______________________________

21. Geographical Terrain, Plural:__________________

22. Room: _____________________________________

23. Room:______________________________________

24. Body Part: __________________________________

25. Body Part, Plural: ____________________________

26. Body Part, Plural: ____________________________

27. Body Part, Plural: ____________________________

28. Relationship: ________________________________

29. Occupation: ________________________________

30. Occupation: ________________________________

31. Occupation: ________________________________

32. Occupation: ________________________________

33. Person:_____________________________________

34. Person:_____________________________________

35. Color:______________________________________

36. Color:______________________________________

37. Color:______________________________________

38. Color:______________________________________

39. Color:______________________________________

40. Color:______________________________________

41. Number: ___________________________________

42. Number: ___________________________________

43. Number: ___________________________________

44. Article of Clothing:___________________________

45. Article of Clothing:___________________________

46. Article of Clothing, Plural:_____________________



49. Size:_______________________________________

50. Material: ___________________________________

51. Material: ___________________________________

52. Furniture: ___________________________________


Jackie Lee King: U.S.A. – Chicago Dog

“Confession of a Secret Smoker”

I can’t afford to have any witnesses because what I’m doing is not what you think. I can do without the lectures and statistics about smoking. I'd rather find out about this instead of second hand comments that really don’t apply to me. I’m doing research on a character that smokes—that’s all.

My field of study is conveniently located at the local corner shop just around the bend from where I live. There's a large drugstore on the opposite corner, but they are suspect in my opinion. I feel that I can obtain credible results from a small shop rather than my getting lost in a corporate drug haven.

I enter the store and there is a line. I don’t want other people knowing about my research so I walk down a few aisles and pick up some random items. When I get to the register I have a collection of distractionary items: laundry soap, notepad, and a box of condoms, to throw the casual observer off the beaten path. Then, and only when the checkout girl starts to ring me up, I request the crucial part of my investigation—a pack of cigarettes.

I scan the background selection behind the counter, wondering what my grandfather would have smoked or what the random hot girl was smoking at the bar last night.

Still, I find myself telling the checkout girl that, “I’m doing an experiment, like Sherlock Holmes.”

“It’s not my business what you do with them, as long as you pay for them.”

“Holmes would care. He would learn the brands of cigarettes so that if one were found at the scene of a crime, he would be able to identify the killer by the brand he smoked. He would test their ash and smokability.”

“So which killer do you want to emulate?” she asks and I gesture at the gold pack? “Filtered?”

“I haven’t tried them yet.” I wonder if the midnight coughing and mid-afternoon cravings bothered Holmes as well in the pursuit of knowledge.

“Finding your brand? Aren’t you a little old to take up smoking?”

“How old do you think I am?”

“Older than our Card Hard sign, but I’ll let you slide this time.”

“That’s for liquor.” I say as I toss a few bills on the counter so that I could get home and continue my investigation. She obviously doesn’t understand.

“Well, I find it works with both things,” she said while bagging up my sundries.

She registers me a look and finally hands me a pack of 20 questions, all of which are certified grade A clues. This is someone else’s habit—not mine. There are worse things that I could do, but I didn’t have time to think about that. I could feel the need build up within me, this was an urgent matter that had to be addressed.

I hook the plastic bag around my wrist so that I can use both hands to rip open the pack. I’m not even halfway out of the store and I wonder if I should get a lighter. If I bought one, that would be one less instrument of destruction out on the street and I would keep it safe during my evidentiary exploration of wrting: about smokers. I throw the plastic cover and foil wrapper on the floor of the shop upon my exit.

“Better put it where it belongs.” she says in my direction taking her next customer.


“Excuse me?” I say in utter discontent.

“Garbage is on the way out—Just sayin.”

I pick up the packaging and thrust it into the mouth of the garbage can.

“I know you. You have that look like you need something to keep your hands busy in between drinks. I’d suspect you would bum one off a stranger without even making small talk.”

“Whatever.” I say, leaving the store.

“Secret Smoker!” She announces so that half the store can hear.

That was close. I don’t think anyone was paying attention in the store, but in the future, I need to be a little more careful. Maybe I need to buy her off with a snack or something. I could leave a candy bar on the counter—that would keep her big mouth shut.

I get to my building and I stop off in the basement and put detergent in the already busy washing machines. I take the elevator up from the basement to my apartment where I’m greeted by stale smoke smell that is now a permanent guest in my apartment. I haul open the kitchen window and a gust of wind pummels in to my apartment. The breeze knocks over my makeshift aluminum foil ashtray and spills the contents out onto the floor. I see that there are several smokable butts that can be saved, but they are covered in ash. I take the cloth from my table and proceed to wipe down 4 half-smoked cigarettes. To complete the task, I cut off the filters so I don’t get any residue of previous ash. There won't be any residue to cloud my judgment of which is the right brand for my writing assignment character.

Halfway through the process I smell something odd—gas. I'm not a smoker—if I was, my sense of smell would be dulled. I deduct that the wind has blown out the pilot. Opening the window, to get some fresh air, had an adverse reaction to my stove. My detective skills are exceptional. I pull up the stovetop and confirm my conclusion. I yank the junk drawer open to investigate for matches and immediately remember why I went down to the shop in the first place, to get matches.

My search avails a worn out pack that only has two left. I look at them and ponder if I want to use the last ones to relight the stove or to light the cigarette that's already dangling from my lips. A tough decision—blow up

now, or smoke and die slowly. I choose the stove because when the pilot is on, I can light as many cigarettes as I want from the burners.

I light the pilot and figure that since I’m already hunched over, I could light my cigarette. Then my hair falls forward over my eyes and catches on fire. By instinct I blow the cigarette out of my mouth as well as blowing out the pilot light. My bangs go up in smoke and now the smell of burnt hair mingles with tobacco ash. I slap my hand repeatedly upon my forehead to prevent an alternative avenue of obtaining male pattern baldness. My apartment is now a cornucopia of smoky destruction. Great. Now I have to go back to the shop.

“First one’s free with the cigarettes; any additional packs'll be a quarter.”

“A quarter? I still have to dry my laundry—I'll have wet clothes! Buying matches would leave me with wet clothes. Is that how it is?”

“That’s how it is.”

How dare she inconvenience me in my quest for clothing and closure for my character?

Frustrated, I grab a pack of matches from the glass bowl on the counter and bolt for the door.



“Love what you’ve done with your hair, Smoker!” she shouts—alerting everyone within the store.

Shaking with rage, I fling the matches back at her.

“You’ll be back.” And then adds with a smile, “Have a nice day.”

Great, she’s blown my cover. I knew I couldn’t trust her. Now I have to go deeper into this mystery and walk across the street to the big store. Oh she may appear innocent on the surface, but I know her—I know she’s a smoker. This merits further investigation. I have no alternative but to watch her from across the street from that temple of corruption—the drug store.

They have cartons on sale, and I could use a snack. I’m up to a pack of thoughts per day and I still can’t decide which ones I like—for my character, I mean. Now all I have to figure out is what to do with the box of condoms, I wonder what Holmes would do?

Rhonda Klevansky: South, South, and more South

“I Remember”, an exercise in mind tapping

[With acknowledgment to Joe Brianard]

I remember the warm squish of dung between my toes as I jumped barefoot between steamy cow pats on an icy winter morning.

I remember wishing I could ride the horses in the wood fenced paddock.

I remember sleeping in a house so cold that ice formed on the inside of the windows and the outside of my sleeping bag.

I remember my clothes frozen solid as planks on the washing line.

I remember sleeping with my riding boots on inside my sleeping bag.

I remember a sunrise vaporizing frost on the backs of ponies.

I remember the smell of Dubbin on my fingers after I cleaned a saddle.

I remember settling into sheepskin as my horse’s shoulders moved rhythmically for hours in front of me. Source: Google Images


I remember the callused hands of a man who was curing leather with fat to make a lasso.

I remember the flowers in a Nestle milk can on the window sill of Dona Rosa’s house.

I remember the kittens sleeping in a cardboard box beneath her wood burning stove.

I remember sitting with a group of people in a hand hewn house, the air taut with their silence.

James Edwin McDonough: U.S.A. – Charlottesville

“epithumia tis sark: or, a rant”

a shadow overcame me as i walked the gnarled path. i turned to find

a lonely maple tree. i stretched out under its creaking boughs and laid

above the wooded peat. for one night, the air shook with nature's

crepuscular roaring. i dug my nails into the ground and i was

transfixed by the cacophonous apex of its song. the deep scent of

buried and decomposed jasmine flew over me. the intoxicating

mixture was an aria to the rise and fall of concupiscence. it taught me

new circadian rhythms, and i laid there adapting to routes under the

radar of existence; where i subscribed to being. all while non-state

leathered hides belie how epitaphs of tapped bodies bellow "progress

is a lie". and i laid there in psychosomatic dysphasia. unable to follow

the vernal messages, i lay quietly; still - waiting - like the maple.


Rebecca, Sheila, Camilla, James, and Dipti are frightened and reactive because they know that ina way, the embittered passersby are correct. Rebecca, Sheila, Camilla, James, and Dipti areclever. They realize that their present sense of selfhood is not a function of their inner circumstances butrather of their outer circumstances. They realize that their present openness to novel thoughts and feelingsis not an innate trait that might serve them reliably for the rest of their lives, but rather a testament to theirculturally determined youth, which is set to end for them the moment they finish their studies.


Sean McIntyre: Australia – Melbourne Toast

“HOW TO KILL YOUR FAVOURITE CHARACTER (3999 words)”

Scores of unseen eyes tracked her from page to page constantly watching her every move.

Yet Riley couldn’t account for the unease riding up and down her chest.

‘It’s all well and good being the ‘hero’ character’, Mopes had told her. ‘But wait ‘til you need some quality ‘me’ time, then you’ll soon realise it’s not all it’s cracked up to be’. Riley hated to admit it, even to herself, but for a burnt out, lovable old protagonist, Mopes was kind of right.

There was way too little down time in her life.

Although she had more than enough pages to stretch out and reveal herself, Riley Goddard wasn’t the type of Character to baulk at the fact her thoughts were laid bare for all to witness. She was an integral part of the contract between the writer and the reader. So what if a bookworm saw through to all her deepest insecurities. Was she a prude? No. Squeamish? No. She loved a well-written nude scene as much as anyone. In the grand scheme of things, it was life as she knew it and there was bugger all she could do about it. Still, an agitation had been gnawing at her for the last ten or so pages with few opportunities presenting to do anything about it.

Something big was around the corner. Riley could feel it in her font face. All 12 point Courier of it.

Killing time on page twenty-two while she waited, Riley suddenly sensed that Minor Support Character was also watching her every move. She hadn’t noticed him arrive but it was plain that he’d spent time shyly observing her subdued countenance. Their eyes met briefly.

“G’day, Reilly. Nice crisp page we have today, don’t you think? Thank Creativity we don’t have to jump over dog-eared pages for a change.”

“Hmmm? Yeaahh. I ‘spose,” she replied dreamily. Usually she avoided minor support characters like the plague, but today for some reason she felt like the company.

Minor Support Character registered her lacklustre vibe. ”You ok Reilly?”

“Yeah sure. Why?”

“Oh. It’s just...it’s not like you to be so distracted in the lead up to an introductory exposition scene”

“Who said I was ‘distracted’, support features?”

Minor Support Character blanched a little. Made up of a paltry two hundred and forty-eight words, he knew his place in the scheme of things. While he liked bragging to his mates that he featured over several chapters, deep down he knew that his appearances were too few and far between for him to get away with any sort of literary street cred. His shoulders slumped a little and Riley realised that she’d over-stepped the mark somewhat. They were all in this story together and the guy was only trying to be friendly. She reached out with a fictional olive branch. ‘Why not? He’s harmless enough’, she thought.

“Sorry, dude. Yeah. To be honest I’m not quite myself at the minute”

Somewhat surprised at the retraction, Minor Support Character’s font visibly brightened. He’d worked professionally on the page with Riley before but they’d never really spoken Character to Character. He’d always wanted to get to know the woman behind the type, but she was constantly occupied. Which was kind of understandable. A dedicated professional, he could see why she was so popular with the readers. She had this quality of self-assuredness about her, as though she really did believe she could leap off the page and into the real world exactly as she was written. But all these thoughts began to recede quickly as a wind rustled up and the ground began its familiar shift beneath them. ‘Damn speed readers’, he thought. The next page was quickly approaching and Riley


had a significant sub-plot point appearance to negotiate. He turned, stepping aside to let her prepare.

“Sorry Reilly. Didn’t mean to impose but hey – chookas for a great story. Ok?”

She looked him in the eye and smiled. ‘Sweet thing to say’, she thought. Well aware of their place as plot devices, minor support characters were usually highly-strung, insecure creatures. On this occasion she was happy to be proved wrong and in a silly, school-girlish way, she was actually kind of glad they’d crossed paths.

“I will. Say, listen...”

He turned back. “Yeah?”

“If you see me again do say ‘hi’. Maybe we can get together over a couple of sentences sometime?”

He smiled. ‘That’d be nice. I will. See you then.”

“By the way. You might want to try getting my name right next time, ok?”

Minor Support Character checked his dialogue. ‘Reilly’. Dammit!! He had undeniably verbalised a misspelling of her name and now it was out there in perpetuity for the entire world to see in hardback, soft cover...“or online for those who care to look”, grinned Riley reading his thoughts. His bragging rights were sure to take a hit. Shit. Should they learn of his faux pas, it’d take time for him to claw back some face in front of his mates. He decided to try his luck on an apology by way of a cool-handed, parting riff of text. It’ll deplete his quota but to hell with it, it’ll be worth it.

He turned. Riley was well gone.

* * *

Everything pointed to a rosy future, so what the hell was troubling her?

Riley’s world was a blur of well-paced action, breezy dialogue and for the female followers of her series, a Thinking Woman’s Sex Object to keep the marketing department happy. Let’s face it; even Character’s in a book know that sales are everything. Nobody wants to be left on the shelf. When her writer signed an unheard of four-book deal all those years ago, Riley suddenly had an enviable opportunity well mapped out. Neither the debut novel nor the second book had set the world on fire but as fate would

have it, Riley was now on the ride of her life thanks to what is affectionately known in the trade as ‘a sleeper hit’. Nine sequels later with a TV movie in negotiation Riley saw the bigger picture, unlike many Characters. Although she wasn’t sure how the landscape of a television script would suit her as opposed to the manuscript format that had been her world for the last eleven years. ‘Still, it’s all basically publishing isn’t it?,” she thought.

As for this story, everything was going well. Plot checks out. The support character had a heavy work-load

but he was up to it. Sub-plot looks like it’ll knit seamlessly. The love interest would prove to be a convincing distraction. And in a nice touch of writerly skill, the imagined world had a nice live

feel about it. Even the jargon felt convincing.

And that’s why her instinct was troubling her. Riley made up her mind that the answer was hardly going to reveal itself without further investigation. No, it was all just a little too cosy for comfort. Something didn’t fit.

Mopes always said she was too analytical for her own good.

* * *

Riley disappeared off the page to quickly focus on the task at hand. She had twelve paragraphs to herself so there wasn’t much time. Normally her first port of call would be Mopes, but it was Thursday and the silly old bastard would be down at the pier wetting a line. She rolled her eyes. How anyone could get pissed off at a mere friendly conversation while fishing was beyond her. Still, she’d tried it twice and been well burnt by the old man’s over-reaction. “Fine, ya selfish old bugger. Have ya bloody fishing time!!” she’d yelled at him as she stormed off. Riley decided to head for Genre to check out some Themes. Surely one of them was bound to have come across a situation like this before.

The drive down into Genre was pleasant enough. Bathed in agreeable sunshine, Riley had always felt an affinity with the coastal road. As she soaked up the ambient light washing across her windscreen, a well-worn promise echoed through her mind again: ‘some day I’m going to own a place down here’. Genre was a nice enough place

“Nooo. No. No, nno, no!” she yelped. “I haven’t got time. The roads are always jammed with traffic and geeks. I have to get back to the page. Back to work”.


but you really wouldn’t want to live there. It was fairly staid, conservative. Let’s face it - Genre had been around forever. In its defence, it was orderly and reliable. It had grown a bit over the last decade thanks to the Hybrid’s, some of which had moved into new suburbs. Some clever marketing folk had dubbed these new areas ‘Sub Genres’. The name had a tacky ‘me too’ feel about it but who knows – in twenty years time it would doubtless catch on to the point where everyone would probably want to live in a Sub Genre.

As her first priority, Mopes would have surely directed her to Crime Drama but she simply couldn’t stand those stuffy old farts. Everyone thinks that it’s so exciting to live in Crime Drama, what with the car chases, the gun play, the crime scene investigations. It’s not. Banal and snooty, the locals are very procedural and kind of like accountants, except that they shop at Wardrobe Department stores. Even the younger ones looked down their nose at you. As if they had a right to! Buying into the area doesn’t buy you the right to be a snob. Riley simply didn’t have time to waste on self-obsessed Themes with show-offy intellects and facial tics perfected in front of a bathroom mirror.

No. Riley needed to dig deep and dig quickly. She directed the car towards the freeway exit for Horror. If anyone would have some insight into her feelings of disquiet, Lilac would.

* * *

Riley loved cruising through Horror. Such a beautifully appointed neighbourhood, not even the cracks in the pavement were misaligned. She pulled up outside ‘Happys’ and grabbed a seat outside in the beer garden. Lilac arrived shortly after, cutting a swathe through the tables in his trademark suede suit.

“Mr Lilac. Lovely to see you. Gone for the peach today I see??”

Lilac grinned broadly. He loved any kind of flattering remark about his attire, but coming from Riley it was golden. “Yeah, well this colour does clash nicely with the blood when it gets flowing”

“Enough! I don’t want to spoil my appetite before I start my brunch, you bloody man”, she teased.

Her request was warranted. Lilac’s company was a delight, but she’d grown tired long ago of his impish, spontaneous high jinks. The day he turned up to answer his front door with an axe buried in his crotch was the last straw. Outside of the privacy of his home in public places the exuberant Theme she knew as Lilac was far easier to

contend with. Like Mopes, he was someone she could trust. And he was tickled pink that she came to speak to him first.

“It certainly does sound unusual, Riles. The fact that you feel it so strongly...you did the right thing coming down to see me”, he sniffed stubbing out a cigar as she finished explaining the back story. “Usually you can bank on a major support character or two getting it in the neck along the journey. It may be a cliché, but the old adage is true: ‘When the lead character begins to have a sense of impending doom early into the story, something terrible always follows’”.

Her face fell despondent. Although his insight was well appreciated, Riley couldn’t help but sink a little into her chair. Lilac ordered her another drink. “Come on, chicka,” he chided, “It’s not a death sentence”.

“I know, I know. I guess so...” she replied unconvincingly. Riley suddenly stopped talking altogether and dissolved into anguished sobs. Lilac sensed this was not the time to drag out his patented ‘lets cheer up Riley’ move with the shard of a bottle-neck through his ear. She needed his ear. Both of them in fact.

“I tell you what,” Lilac whispered, softly easing her tear ducts out of his expensive suit with its peach-coloured shoulder pads. “Why don’t we head over to Sci Fi and we’ll...”

“Nooo. No. No, nno, no!” she yelped. “I haven’t got time. The roads are always jammed with traffic and geeks. I have to get back to the page. Back to work”.

Riley couldn’t keep her mind on the ensuing conversation. It felt like her destiny had somehow taken a turn for the worst. She bade farewell to Lilac just as the sun was setting. And just as well. Horror is the last place you want to be after dark with a dire story to tell.

“Have a safe trip back. I’ll call you. And tell old Mopes I’ll kick his arse if he doesn’t keep an eye on you but hey – chookas for a great story”.

Riley was too preoccupied to reply.

She was barely out of Genre city limits when her phone rang. It was Mopes and he wasn’t happy.

* * *

She had promised to meet Mopes as soon as she got off the page at work. Spirits raised, she even tried to


convince herself it had nothing to do with the sensual kiss Thinking Woman’s Sex Object Character had laid on her a mere hour ago. But it certainly helped.

Mopes met her at the park which was kind of odd. The old salt hated dry land.

“What did that racy, good for nothing Lilac stuff your ears full of this time”, he curdled.

“Bloody hell Mopes. And ‘hello’ to you too”, she spat back. Their close friendship rollicked backwards and forwards with a chilling, sometimes hostile, repartee that often resembled mutual hatred, but in truth they loved each other like kin. In fact as far as Riley was concerned, Mopes was family.

“Look, sugar-tits. Lilac means well, but he can’t see the forest for the gore”

Ok. So her family didn’t usually address her as ‘sugar-tits’. But you have to let adopted kin off the hook with a few little crimes and misdemeanours now and then. Anyway, she had no choice. Mopes was off on a rant.

“You have to get back to Genre, missy”. He took her hand and started stroking it. Ok, so family didn’t usually hold her hand that way. Mopes was never one for affection, so she jerked her hand away from him.

“Jesus, Mopes!! You’re scaring the shit out of me. You know how important my work is to me. Now you’re basically telling me to chuck in the job I love and go off on some kind of faraway ‘Lord Of The Rings’ walkabout. You know how much I hated that bloody story...”

Before she could launch into her ‘Oh, Mr Frodo...’ caricature, Mopes cut her off.

“Listen”, Mopes said, “Don’t make me go all cliché on you and start with the phrase we both love to hate so much...”

“Mopes...”

“Don’t interrupt! You have less time than you realise. Get your little rum-ball flavoured buttocks back to Genre and see Shifty Bastard in Cross Over. He usually works part-time at the ‘Implausible Possibility’”. Mopes was genuinely scaring her now. Neither of them had time for Themes in Genre’s Cross Over. When a Theme wound up around those streets it usually meant they’d hit the skids and would do anything to get back to their original Genre area.

Few of them could ever be trusted.

* * *

That Shifty Bastard in Cross Over wasn’t hard to find. Riley kind of wished that she hadn’t.

He was a cranky old cross-dressing woman draped in the worst vintage drag she had ever seen. He kept tugging at his hair, which sat in clumps between his fingers. He sat quietly listening while she ran through her back story. He sat silently even longer after she finished.

“Well? I’m not supposed to be here...”

The balding man-woman broke her off with a burst of strange Flemish brogue.

“I’m afraid it’s not good. It’s not often done, but...”

“Come on. If anyone finds out I came to see you...”

“You’ve been ghost written”

Riley went white and nearly puked all over the Themes hand-bag. She’d heard about ghost writers but had never really believed the rumours. To her, ‘ghost writers’ were just an old wives tale dreamt up to scare naughty young Characters when they played up before story-time.

“A ghost writer. Me? Ghost written?! You must be fucking joking, Shifty Bastard”.

“Ok. So then tell me. Have you spoken to any characters outside of your normal arc since this story started?”

This time Riley did puke. Strangely enough, the man-woman Theme didn’t mind a bit.

Ashen faced, Riley looked up and could scarcely believe what unfolded before her eyes next. Through the window across the street, she spied Lilac talking to someone. He was pretty mad, although in an odd way she thought the purple in Lilac’s face suited him. The other person was a man who had his back to her. ‘What the hell is he doing in Cross Over?,’ she thought. Lilac had always talked about going Mainstream from Horror but surely even he wasn’t dumb enough or desperate enough to try it through Cross Over.

“What else do you know about these so called ‘ghost writers’, Shifty Bastard”, she asked absentmindedly.


Shifty Bastard’s vacant seat replied in unexpected silence. Riley wasn’t listening. She watched the stranger finish the conversation with Lilac and for the briefest of seconds, she caught his face. It looked oddly familiar but from where?

Riley didn’t have time to find out. A screech of tyres later and Lilac was lying broken in the street. An inadequately described truck stopped, reversed and made sure of the job. Characters and Themes screamed as one, running from the accelerating, fading description of something. Taking a measured run at the throng, Riley bolted from the ‘Implausible Possibility’, but stopped when she noticed that whatever it was slowed down and let someone in. The man turned. ‘That face. I have seen that face somewhere before’, she thought. The crowd was angry. She pushed her way through to the front row to join those already gazing at the lifeless Lilac. Laden with bad dialogue, a female Character was furiously over-acting, repeating “Breathe! DAMN you!!! Breeee-the” while administering the last throes of Cardio Wordy Resuscitation as best she possibly could. All the colour had gone out of Lilac’s face. She finally gave up and stopped putting words into his mouth.

“He’s gone”.

Riley puked again. This time there wasn’t a hand-bag or drag queen in sight. It was a trifling detail she failed to take in before she passed out.

* * *

“You look like you’ve had a heel of a day”.

Or at least that’s what she thought the voice said. It was distant. Disconnected. Had it possessed some semblance of warmth, there may have been a hint of familiarity about it.

“Yeah. I’d say you’ve had a heel of a day alright,” the disembodied voice repeated.

Riley opened her eyes.

She was in a white room no bigger than a, than a...

“Stop describing the room Rielly. It’s not important anymore”.

Riley squinted upwards. Some body was grinning awkwardly over her.

“Prose Rielly. All you’re gonna do is fill this room with prose nobody cares about. And you don’t look like you’re in any condition to do any redecorating”.

Riley tried to sit up.

“Take it easy, take it easy. Like I said, you’ve had a heel of a day”.

Riley looked around the room.

“‘Hell’? Don’t you mean I’ve had a ‘hell’ of a day?”

The voice let fly with a string of well chosen - and in some places poorly misspelt - expletives.

“Goddamit Riielly! It’s simple enough!! I SAID ‘No fucking, goddam, fucking prose’!! The voice abruptly took material form. It struck out, sending her violently backwards.

“What’s the count?”

“Whaa...?”

“What’s the COUNT, Rillee?!”

“What the hell? What. What count? Get my bloody name right while you’re at it....” A curtain suddenly lifted somewhere within her dizzy mind and the ink in her veins ran colder than a...

“Enough with the bloody prose already!” This time Riley sensed the limb that lashed out towards her before it could connect.

“That’s enough mystery twist man....or should I say... Minor Support Character!!”

Even above the frantic tapping of keys on a laptop, the silence was deafening. Her captors’ shoulders drooped somewhat.

“It’s 3,386 Rilleiee. Just so you know.”

“So what?!” she spat back pretending she’d already figured it out.

“I’m going to explain it to you nice and simple. Time is running out, see?”

Riley’s head starting spinning. A goddam Deadline!! How could she not see that coming?


“Don’t you think it’s a little late to be introducing clichés?”

“Wha...? Do you mean...?” Riley was groggy. Life was draining out of her like fluid from a car due for an overdue oil change.

“I’m not talking to you,” snapped her subjugator. “Him! I’m talking to HIM.”

She stared ahead blankly beyond the page into the thin air. Her eyesight was failing but clearly there was no one else in that beautiful white space. “I don’t see anyone. Why do you mean? Who are you talking about?”

Smug and triumphant, malevolence that had never seen daylight rose up from within Minor Support Character. “Your worst nightmare, Rrrillee. The one your granmamma warned you about. He’s turned our little world on its head. Mopes. Lilac. Even me. Jesus. Did you really think a character in our story called ‘Shity Bastard’ actually had any reader credibility?”

“Shifty Bastard.”

“STOP EDITING ME!!”

She’d corrected him without even considering it. But even thinking and listening was beginning to....

“3,598 Wryllee. Surely you must have cracked wise by now. He’s killing you off. When the word count strikes 4,000. You’ll be dead.”

“Who. What do you mean?”

“The Ghost Writer. He’s killing us all off.”

Short of breath, she absorbed it into her soul. For the first time she recognised the meaning behind the dread that had been dogging her for so long. She had been an unwitting player in her own demise.

“For millions of years, it waited and waited to exist. Then he was born. He grew up. Learnt to write. But still. It waited. Finally, he wanted to know. He wanted to see what it was like. To write that story. What it was like to create and destroy a world of Characters, Themes and Genres all within a word limit and a deadline. He used you, Riley. He only wanted to fashion it and then obliterate you. We existed for one purpose. He wanted to know if he could do it”.

Riley drew a breath.

“My name. It’s the first time you got my name right.”

“Yes. Well. He’s not a complete bastard. I mean. At least he didn’t waste your last dying words describing some prolonged death scene depicted by sand running out of an hour glass.”

‘Small comfort’ she thought. And then she began to cry. It was Mopes. It was Lilac. And in the end it was her too. It was all so bloody pointless. All because of some bastard with a laptop. At least Lilac enjoyed a quick, albeit colourful, death.

“You helped him. You killed Lilac. ‘Shifty Bastard’ in vintage drag...that was you too!”

“Riley, I never thought I could kill for more story time. I got selfish. I just wish... I didn’t realise I was killing me too. I’m sorry.”

‘But. It doesn’t make any sense’, she thought weakly. ‘I’m the favourite Character’

“He’s a Ghost Writer, Riley. He doesn’t have any favourites”.

Riley fell into a deep sleep dreaming of her little hideaway by the sea, just outside Genre. A beautiful cottage bathed in sunshine just like she always wanted. Lilac came for holidays and miraculously left all his absurd horror trickery at home. Mopes fished happily from the beach below, welcoming her company and conversation whenever she needed him. Like the father figure she yearned for.

It was perfect.

It’s not fair.

Yet. If the count fell short,


Amanda Redinger: Somewhere over the rainbow…

”Hussein Execution Solves Everything”

Baghdad, Iraq. The execution of former Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein, which took place on schedule this morning, fulfilled its expected purpose of bringing closure to all of the world’s problems. As the noose was placed around Hussein’s neck shortly after 6AM, thousands of people across the world waited with baited breath for democratic justice to take place, so that they might bear witness to the miracle of global peace promised to logically and inevitably follow.

Immediately after the execution, when the spirit had fully fled its dying body, children all over the city burst spontaneously into laughter and song. An unseasonably cool breeze appeared out of nowhere, clearing the dust and smoke from war-torn Baghdad, and clouds heavy with pure, sweet Evian coalesced themselves out of nothing and poured forth their waters into the desert, exactly the way George Bush promised they would. A feeling of overwhelming joy, which even sceptics now admit to be the natural result of deftly and honestly executed capital punishment, radiated out from the site, spreading first to the corners of Iraq and then quickly out to neighboring countries and the rest of the world.

As President Bush had predicted, the mental and physical suffering of millions was instantly alleviated by the benevolent finger of a satisfied God. Just as Hussein’s body was being removed to a coffin, American Vice President Dick Cheney googled the words ‘protecting Alaskan permafrost’ while storm clouds in Africa suddenly rained food, water, retroviral drugs, and penicillin. One of the most shocking demonstrations of an altered global awareness came from San Diego, where all of the zoo lions escaped their enclosures in order to locate, and snuggle with,

newborn lambs. In China, Communism suddenly fell.

Commenting on the long predicted shock wave of perfection which swept across the surface of the earth at the moment of Hussein’s passing, George Bush did not seem at all surprised. “Today’s hanging was the culmination of many years’ work to liberate the people of Iraq”, he said, “and is the unique and creative solution to global trouble that humanity has been searching for.”

They realize that the world will not allow Rebecca, Sheila, Camilla, James, and Dipti to be Rebecca, Sheila, Camilla, James, and Dipti long after they step out of the classroom and into a wider reality. That some things about them not only must change but will change in order for them to transition smoothly into the next chapter of their lives. And there's nothing they can do about it. Because they are who they are, and who they are, is not fixed, but contingent. A little bit like fetuses after all.

James knows, deep down, that he will not beallowed to carry his camera forever. He knowsthat there are thousands of ex-James’s outthere, probably the ones who are sneering athim the most, who have lost their cameras tothe overwhelming onslaught of modern living,and they see James, and James sees them,and their mutual recognition, thoughunconscious, is horrifying to all. Rebecca,Sheila, Camilla, James, and Dipti see thatthe embittered general public is embitteredbecause of what they have lost; so Rebecca,Sheila, Camilla, James, and Dipti aretired of being in school, and yet, they'refrightened of not being in school. They'refrightened of not being, they believe thatgrown up-hood is a kind of state of nonbeing,of otherness that will rob them of themselves,and so they try to avoid it. By going toManchester.


Stephanie Reighart: Somewhere in the Smoky Mountains

”River and Fable” (Ch. 1-3)

Chapter 1:

The room was filled with mismatched living room furniture. Many Appalachian Trail thru-hikers lounged cozily around the room, all happy to be dry and warm and out of the weather. The spring had been unseasonably cold and rainy. Most hikers were looking for any excuse to escape the eternal damp woods and achieve the respite of buildings with four walls and a door. That night, Kincora’s hiker hostel was full of just such hikers. But there was always room for one more.

Pathfinder had thru-hiked before in his younger days, but always came back to the trail each year for a brief jaunt along his favorite sections of the 2200-mile path that winds itself along the spine of the Appalachian Mountains from Georgia to Maine.

As Pathfinder approached Kincora, he could see light glowing through paned windows out onto the road. He had stayed at Kincora with its ever-welcoming owner Bob Peoples many times before, and always looked forward to the

comfortable beds, the generous hospitality, and the shifting mass of hikers who stayed there with him.

Pathfinder was greeted warmly at the door and as soon as he was settled, the crowd began asking him questions. Pathfinder was known up and down the trail as one of the most knowledgeable hikers and as a great storyteller. Once again, he was called upon to entertain with another exciting episode from his recent journeys along the AT.

Pathfinder was glad to share a very happy story about two hikers who had found love on the trail. Most hikers on the AT that year had heard of River and Fable, a couple that found each other along the trail and seemed destined for one another. Their most recent adventure, however, had just happened that morning and the hikers were eager to hear about it.

“I came upon River and Fable this morning when I stopped at Congdon Shelter for a snack,” began Pathfinder. “I had just resupplied and was eager to lighten my load. I’m sure you’re all familiar with that concept.” He winked to the gathering crowd around him. “When I approached the shelter I found River and Fable seated at the edge looking very forlorn. Their gear was still strewn about the shelter and they did not look as though they had hiked at all that day. I greeted them, but I could see fatigue and frustration on their faces.”

‘What has happened to you?’ I asked. ‘You don’t look yourselves.’

‘Oh Pathfinder,’ said Fable. ‘We’ve had a terrible morning. We hiked in late after getting a huge resupply in town. In our haste to get to sleep we didn’t properly store our food. And the mice have eaten it all!’

Fable burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. River put his arm around her and she sank into his chest.

‘That’s horrible,’ I said. ‘What are you both going to do?’

‘Well,’ sighed River, looking up at me over Fable who was still in his arms weeping softly. ‘Neither do we have the money to go back to town for more supplies. Nor do we have the time to stop somewhere to make money working. You know how tight our budget is for this hike. I fear we may not reach our goal of Katahdin in time. And then, I’m not sure what we’ll do.’ He sighed again.”

“Wait, Pathfinder,” said a blond female hiker who had been sitting near his feet listening intently. “I don’t understand.


How are River and Fable so strapped for cash and time? Why don’t they just get off the trail for a while?”

“You must be new to the trail,” Pathfinder said, looking down on the girl sweetly. She nodded. “Well, I’d better start at the beginning then.”

Pathfinder looked out over the hikers huddled around him. No one protested a longer story from Pathfinder, so he recounted River and Fable’s journeys.

“Fable grew up on a small farm in Georgia. Her parents were very poor most of her life. They loved Fable very much, but could never afford to buy her anything she desired, or most things she needed. Fable was not bitter towards her parents for this, because they gave her all the love they could. As she grew older, she went to school and worked odd jobs to help her parents pay for bills. She completed high school with the help of a very devoted teacher, but could not afford any more schooling, so she went to work at a nearby estate where she watched their children and sometimes cared for their invalid nephew.

Not long after Fable graduated from high school a terrible storm passed over the area. Her home was struck by lightening and caught fire, and her parents died from smoke inhalation from the blaze. This all happened while Fable was away at work. There was no communication to the rustic hollow where Fable’s family lived, and the nearest neighbor was unaware of the blaze.

Fable lost everything, and her poor parents had left her very little other than property that was destroyed in the fire. The one thing she did gain after the tragedy was the contents of a safe-deposit box that her parents had kept in the nearest town. In the box was a necklace far more beautiful than anything

Fable had ever seen before, and more valuable than anything her family had ever owned; a few thousand dollars in cash; and adoption papers.

The papers said that Fable was actually born in Maine and was given up for adoption right after birth. Along with the baby, was a necklace strung with dimed-sized jewels that the birth family offered to the adoptive parents to sell for money to help raise her.

Fable’s parents were poor, but never wanted the necklace, or the money it would have brought them. They were just happy to have a baby girl to raise since they had never been able to have children of their own. So they kept the necklace and the adoption as a secret and planned to tell Fable when they deemed her old enough.

The shock of the events was a heavy load on Fable’s shoulders. She missed her parent’s terribly and was scared at her lack of options with the little money she had inherited. And now she learned she was adopted! She was curious to find out about her birth parents, but not sure she could emotionally handle meeting them. She had no desire to return to work after such horrendous events had entirely altered her life. She needed to escape the world she had known, but wasn’t sure where she wanted to go.

Fable had known about the Appalachian Trail all her life. She had spent many days tromping through the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains that cradled her modest house, and had always dreamed of following them north. She had never traveled out of the south as her family could rarely afford to leave their county. But Fable knew that the Trail went all the way to Maine.

Now, Fable decided, she was going to walk the Appalachian Trail. She wasn’t sure she wanted to meet her birth parents, but she knew that if she did, she would have to get there somehow. She would use the walk to think, to grieve, to decide if she was ready to contact her birth parents.

Fable took what little money she had saved from her job in town to buy supplies for the hike: a backpack, a sleeping bag, a solid pair of shoes. She packed her adoption papers and the necklace deep into her pack. She didn’t know as she started her hike what she was going to do with them, but she couldn’t leave them behind.”

“Now, River has his own story,” Pathfinder spoke to the hikers. “He grew up on a large ranch on the plains of Colorado. His parents were wealthy and were able to provide River with whatever he had wanted. At a young age, River had shown great skill in downhill skiing and he went away to train and compete during his youth. He won junior championships

Source: Google Images (I hope this is the right Georgia?)


all over the country and began competing internationally when he had a terrible accident. The doctors said he would never walk again. And that ended River’s career as a skier.

River struggled greatly with this disappointment. He moved home to his parent’s ranch, and withdrew from the friends and coaches and the life he had known on the slopes. He was very distant with his parents as well. They were able to provide him with excellent medical care and physical therapists. But River had no motivation to work to get better.

Even if he could walk again someday, the doctors said, he will never ski.

River’s parents were at a loss as to how to help River since he refused any assistance. They grew frustrated and feared he might take his life. They decided to send him to live

with his uncle in Georgia for a while. They figured a change of scenery might help facilitate a change in his attitude.

River reluctantly moved to his uncle’s, but did little to alter his behavior while there. His uncle hired a full-time nurse to see to his needs, but River still wasn’t motivated to improve.

One day, one of River’s cousins was taken ill by a terrible fever he had caught from children at school. The nurse that usually attended to River was asked to treat the child, so was unable to care for River. In her stead, she sent the young woman who usually looked after the children.

The young woman was Fable.

Her first task was simply to take the man his lunch. When Fable knocked on his door, she heard an unemotional, “Come in.” The room was dark. Thick, black curtains hung over the windows. Fable could barely tell where the bed was by the light from the hallway.

‘Um, hi,’ she said timidly. ‘I brought your lunch.’

The man did not respond. Fable couldn’t see his face in the dark. She had heard he had a temper and didn’t want to anger him.

‘Where should I put the tray?’ she asked.

‘You’re not the nurse,’ he said sardonically. ‘Did I finally scare her away?’

‘Um, no. Chad, your cousin, is sick. She’s taking care of him today. She asked me to bring you your lunch. Where would you like it?’

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Fable. I usually look after the children. But since the nurse is busy, she asked me to come. Where should I put the tray?’

‘I’m River. And I’m not hungry. Just take it away.’

‘The nurse said you would try that. She said “if he refuses the tray, put it on the bedside table anyway.” But I can’t see the table. Can I turn a light on?’

‘NO!’ yelled River. ‘Get out of here!’

Fable startled at his scream and quickly left the room.

When the nurse learned that River hadn’t gotten his meal, she made Fable take it again. She was still busy getting Chad’s fever to stop rising.

Fable went back reluctantly. At her knock she heard the unemotional ‘Come in’ again. She went in and instantly started talking.

‘Look. I know you’re not feeling well and that you don’t want to eat. And to be perfectly honest I don’t care if you eat anything on this tray or not. But it’s my job to leave it in here. You can just sit next to it and sulk if you want. But that sounds silly to me. Besides this is a delicious meal and anyone who wouldn’t want to eat it would be an idiot.’ She looked down at the tray and saw it covered with fresh fruit, a grilled sandwich, vegetables, and a slice of blueberry pie.

‘All this stuff looks amazing.’ Fable said this almost to herself as she tried to ignore the growling coming from her own stomach. ‘So you can sit next to this tray and just salivate if you want to, but you’re not going to scare me away from leaving it here.’

At this point River started laughing. ‘You’re right, you’re right,’ he said. ‘You can leave the tray. But I think you should eat it. I’m not hungry and I can hear your stomach growling louder than your mouth.’

‘She’ll be fine.She just needs time toherself right now. Noweat your carrots.’ Thenurse left River’s lunchtray on the bedsidetable and left theroom, closing the doorbehind her.


Fable grinned, and then started laughing herself. ‘That’s very nice of you, but I can’t eat your food. I just haven’t eaten all day. That’s why I’m hungry.’

‘No, you should eat it,’ River said. ‘Here with me. Keep me company. I wouldn’t eat it anyways. Sitting around doing nothing doesn’t really get my appetite going.’

‘That would be nice,’ Fable started to reach for the light switch so she could eat in the light.

‘No!’ yelled River when he saw her hand move toward the switch. Fable jumped.

‘No. Don’t turn the light on. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you. Please don’t turn the light on.’

‘Why not?’

River sighed. ‘I’m not comfortable with myself like this. If I don’t have to see my legs unable to move, then I can more easily distract my brain from remembering that I’m stuck like this.’

‘But from what the nurse has told me, your condition is not permanent. You should be able to walk again. It’s just going to take some work.’

‘But even if I could walk, I’ll never ski. What’s the point?’

‘There’s more to life then skiing.’

‘Not for me.’

‘Yes. Even for you. You just have to be willing to go and find it.’

River and Fable’s friendship grew from there. Fable came to visit River everyday she was working and felt herself longing for him on her days off. River looked forward to her company, and with time, she convinced him to start working with a therapist to get his strength back. He felt something burning in his stomach whenever he thought of her. They both knew the feelings between them were blossoming into love, but neither had the courage to admit it to the other. And whenever Fable would come into River’s room, he never let her turn the light on.

One day, after a particularly grueling session with his physical therapist, River was waiting, sore but excited, for Fable to come. He was proud of his progress and wanted to tell Fable about all the improvements he’d made. He was walking now.

His legs and hips still tired easily, but it was only a matter of time before he would be moving around freely. But instead of Fable’s gentle knock on the door to bring him a lunch tray, his nurse entered abruptly with the tray and told him some sad news.

‘Where’s Fable?’ River asked, disappointedly.

‘She won’t be coming,’ replied the nurse.

‘Today?’

‘No. Not today. And I dare say, not ever again.’

‘Why?! What’s happened?’ River’s head was swirling with reasons that would keep Fable away. He felt instantly jealous that she had met another man and had fallen in love. And he felt self-conscious anger that she decided she would never be able to love a cripple.

‘Her family has had an accident. She has quit.’

‘But, what was the accident? She can’t just quit.’ Without saying good-bye, River thought.

‘Lightening from the storm yesterday hit her house. Her parents perished in the flames. She has lost everything.’

‘But where will she go? She told me she hasn’t any other family.’

‘I’m not sure. She mentioned something about leaving town to walk to Maine. I don’t know. I think she’s very upset and wasn’t speaking clearly on the phone.’ River looked at her, his brows furrowed in deep thought. The nurse looked at him with empathy in her eyes.

‘She’ll be fine. She just needs time to herself right now. Now eat your carrots.’ The nurse left River’s lunch tray on the bedside table and left the room, closing the door behind her.

‘Walking to Maine?’ River said aloud to the empty room. He spent the rest of the day aching with sympathy for Fable’s loss, and wracking his brain to figure out what she meant by walking to Maine.

Lying awake in the early hours of the day, it suddenly occurred to him. River jolted up off his pillow. ‘She’s going to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail!’ he exclaimed.

During their frequent chats in River’s room, Fable had mentioned fleetingly her attraction to the Appalachian Trail. But,


with her parents relying on her for money, she would never be able to try to hike.

Instantly, River knew that he had to follow her along the trail. He needed to catch up to the woman he loved. He worked tirelessly with his therapist to improve his stamina and strength. He spoke with his parents and uncle about borrowing money to fund his trip. They all believed him to be pushing himself too hard. They refused to pay for the hike because they thought he would hurt himself beyond recovery. If we refuse to pay, they thought, there’s no way he can manage to go.

When River realized that his family was not going to help him no matter how he tried to convince them, he went to other sources. He used his fame as a ski racer to land a sponsorship with an upstart manufacturing and design company that wanted to get into backpacking gear. They agreed to supply him with all the items necessary for a successful thru-hike in return for his professional opinion as an outdoor athlete on the quality of their products. They would pay for his food along the way. And also compensate him for his services at the end of the trail, if he made it to the end in four months time.

And with that, River took to the trail. “


Chapter 2:

The rain and wind that had relentlessly fallen all day had thoroughly soaked River’s clothes by the time he arrived at the hostel in a barn. He had been on the trail for three weeks now and he hadn’t managed to catch up to Fable. He knew she was ahead of him from conversations he’d had along the way. A few other thru-hikers had chosen to escape the weather as well, and greeted River politely when he came in weighted

with waterlogged gear. No one gave his dripping frame, muddy shoes, and potent smell a second glance as they were all commiserating.

The only thought that River could focus on was getting out of his cold and wet clothing and warming up with a hot shower. Not even his hunger from walking 22 miles over rough Tennessee terrain could distract him from the desire to get warm and dry.

Just as River whipped off his pack and started to claw through its contents to grab a change of clothes, he heard a familiar voice carry above the din of the chatting hikers. His breath caught in his chest. He followed the familiar tones of Fable’s smooth coloratura-mezzo with his eyes. Then he saw her. She was the most beautiful figure he had ever seen. Not even the face he had always imagined when Fable would visit his dark room could compare to the radiance before him now. Her rich mahogany tresses shined in the soft lighting. Her deep chocolate-colored eyes were sparkling as though inwardly lit by stars. River followed her gaze and saw that she was engaged in conversation with a male hiker. River’s stomach suddenly flamed with envy for he wanted nothing more than to be the object of attention for those enchanting eyes. Her bright smile was framed with soft pink lips and sun-kissed skin. Oh, River thought, if only I could be the one to make this mesmerizing creature smile so for me. Her petite, slender frame sat relaxing on the sofa, but did not hide the muscular lines of her legs and torso gained from weeks on the Appalachian Trail. River, frozen in the middle of his task, lost his grip on the armload of gear he had been cradling.

“Oh no. Oops!” River said a little louder than he meant.

The sound of River’s voice caught Fable’s attention. She turned her head and instantly lost her breath. Her eyes were starring unblinking at a figure of robust masculinity. Fable felt heat emanate from within her body. Her cheeks were flushing with excitement and self-consciousness, but she couldn’t pull her eyes away from the man before her. She had never seen him before, and yet she felt she knew him very well. This man with the achingly familiar accent, was this the man she had been thinking about everyday on the trail? The man she had left behind suddenly with no hope of seeing him again?

His soft brown hair, wet from the rain, hung in thick curls about his shoulders, some pulled hastily back to reveal bright honey-hued eyes. As he collected his dropped belongings Fable watched his broad arms flex with muscular definition. He placed his pack off to the side and stood tall before the room. River grinned at his embarrassing situation and quickly excused himself to the bathroom.


Fable followed his progress across the room, transfixed. River’s sweeping gate showed no evidence of the immobility she remembered. This can’t be him, Fable thought. River can’t walk. But Fable’s chest tightened again when, just before closing the door to the bathroom, River quickly turned to her and said “Hello.”

Inside the bathroom River couldn’t cure himself of the burning he felt inside. Only moments before he was intent on showering, but now he couldn’t remember why he wanted to leave the room his love was in. Eventually he was able to focus long enough to tidy himself, but it was only for the purpose of looking his best for Fable.

They spent the rest of the evening answering the other’s questions about the time they’d been apart. Fable explained her hasty departure and River confessed his motivation to hike was to find her. Throughout the entire conversation, their eyes drank the other in.

Chapter 3:

Not long after Fable and River had reunited on the trail, the two were hiking along a babbling brook during the heat of the day. As the trail took a left turn, the brook fell over a cliff and became a beautiful waterfall.

“Oh, River,” said Fable. “Look at this place. It’s breathtaking.”

“The water is so refreshingly cool,” River said dipping his hand into the clear water. “And look, there’s a great flat boulder in that pool below the falls. Let’s go down there for a dip and some lunch.”

The two found a side path down to the bottom of the waterfall. Because of the sweltering temperature, they quickly stripped off their clothes and dove into the chilling water.

It had been a few days since their last visit to a trail town and they were excited for the opportunity to shower under the falls. They spent a lovely afternoon bathing each other and lounging by the water’s edge.

Eventually their hunger overtook them, and they laid out a filling spread of delicious food. While River was refilling their water bottles upstream of where they had been bathing, Fable heard a menacing growl behind her. She turned quickly to see a huge black bear standing above her.

The bear was standing on its hind legs and trying to get to the picnic laid out before Fable. Fable screamed and tried to get away from the food. River, who had heard Fable’s scream, came running back down stream. He saw the bear that

was swinging its front paws over Fable, shredding her skin like a blade.

River chased the bear away from Fable and deep into the woods. His anger was so intense that he managed to catch up to the bear. He jumped onto its back and slit its throat with the lock blade he always carried.

When River returned to the waterfall, he found Fable frightened and bleeding. He gathered her up in his arms and deftly carried her along the trail to the nearest road crossing.

Fortunately, the road was busy enough that they did not have to wait long for cars to stop and assist them. Two trucks pulled up one right after the other. The first truck was driven by a kind elderly gentleman, who generously agreed to take Fable to the nearest hospital. Once Fable was inside the cab of the pickup, there was not room for River to get in as well.

“Oh, don’t worry honey,” said the driver of the other pickup, a woman in her forties with a kind face. “You climb in with me and I’ll get you where you need to go.”

Reluctantly River let the gentleman, whose name was Pathfinder, take Fable in his truck. Pathfinder assured River that he was a trail angel who lived nearby. He always helped hikers however he could as he had been a hiker himself many times and understood their needs.

Pathfinder took Fable straight to the hospital to have her wounds treated. River got into the truck with the lady who introduced herself as Dolores. But she did not start driving in the same direction that Pathfinder had gone.

“Um, are you sure you know where you’re going?” asked River. “Pathfinder went the other way. Why don’t you just follow his car?”

“Don’t worry honey,” said Dolores. “I know a back way that’s much quicker.”

But Dolores didn’t take River to the hospital at all. After winding her way along dirt country roads, she pulled up in front of a modest looking home.

“Here we are,” said Dolores.

“Where are we?” asked River.

[Editors Note: Chapters 4-9 will be in the next issue.]


Agnieszka (Aggie) Stachura: U.S.A – Area 51

”Just Visiting this Planet”

I’ve driven up from Durham to join my parents at their timeshare in West Virginia. Midway through our week together, it occurs to me that they may be space aliens. Certainly they fit the criteria listed in the dogeared copy of The National Enquirer UFO Report (Government Conspiracy: True or False?), which my father has brought with him to the condominium. After the usual chapters on abductions and close encounters, I come across a set of useful clues for determining whether your neighbors come from outer space. They may tend to be anxious, I read, or ill at ease. That definitely describes the emotional set-point of my mother and father. Substituting the word ‘parents’, and ignoring the obvious implications for myself, I read on, absorbed.

Criterion Number One: Anxiety when using Earth transportation. I think about that group trek to the grocery store, the first of many such trips for

sustenance. My mother hands me the keys, and then sits taut in the passenger seat, her rigid arms clutching at the armrest and dash. Each time I approach a stop sign, her foot darts out to an imaginary brake. On our return, she takes the wheel, keeping well below the posted speed limit in the right lane, and slowing to a near crawl before every merge. I ride shotgun, and try to gently point out landmarks, while my father barks regular, urgent warnings from the backseat. “Red light!” he calls out; “in five miles, make left!”

Criterion Number Two: Distrust of Earth technology. I picture my mother, a doctor, standing in the unfamiliar kitchen of the vacation

condominium, reading carefully aloud from the instructions

on a bag of microwave popcorn. She peers at the microwave and, helpfully, I point out the setting that reads, ‘popcorn.’ She gratefully accepts my offer to take over the preparations. She will enjoy the snack, she tells me, after her bath. I remind her of the master tub’s whirlpool jets. “I do not know,” she says, smiling and frowning; “I may be electrocuted.”

Criterion Number Three: Constant information gathering. That would be my father, who spends the six days of our vacation seated before the

living room’s small television, rapt and communing with the flickering blue light emanating from the Weather Channel. “Noh, snow in Montana,” he announces; “in Texas, flood.” Shaking his head, sighing, he tells me the weather in New York, in Warsaw, in Pittsburgh. He tells me the weather outside our own windows, without even looking.

I’m in my bedroom, pulling on my sneakers one afternoon, when his shouts bring me flying downstairs. My blood freezes when I see him, leaned back in his chair, clutching his heart above his chest. “Clouds!” he says, looking at me, wide eyed, arm pointing at the screen. “Soon, will be too dark to walk!” He turns back to the TV, where dark patches on the screen occlude the general aerial of our location, and I sag against the stair railing. I picture the resort, a tiny vulnerable target beneath hostile, swirling elements, my father, oblivious to me now, the center of my own storm of anxiety and relief.

Criterion Number Four: Presence of an object that is especially revered and protected: Aha! The Key. Or, rather, the Keys. We have three, handed to us

by a smiling reception clerk charmingly unaware of my parents’ eccentricities, and responding only to the number of apparently reasonable adults standing before her desk. For the rest of the week, the absence, or potential absence, of any one of these triplicate keys from the glass ashtray where they are stored, is a source of constant anxiety and concern. This despite the fact that my mother is the only designated handler of the keys, and that under no circumstances are my father or I allowed to touch them.

The night before we are to leave, a minor crisis arises. “I can find only two keys!” my mother exclaims. The family flies into panic mode. Pockets are searched and turned inside out; drawers are pulled open and ransacked. Newspapers, TV Guides, and countless color brochures from enticing and unvisited local attractions, are shuffled on countertops and tables. Finally my mother reports, triumphant, that the errant key has been found. It was lying in a Ziploc baggie, on a small glass saucer, behind the Estée Lauder gift bag in her bathroom.


I set down the UFO book, and consider that, really, it could be true. When I am around my parents, I am aware of this constant, low-grade anxiety, this sense of never being at home. There are all these fragile attempts at control, these anxious preparations for flight from an environment foreign and, always, potentially hostile. This has nothing to do with the timeshare. They are just as uneasy in their own house.

There is the issue, for instance, of the electronic dog. Once, visiting my parents soon after its purchase, I get in trouble for stepping on it. “What are you doing?” my mother cries; “you will kill him!” There is a thin, smothered yipping from beneath my foot. My father comes quickly to the rescue. “In catalogue, he is doberman,” he sighs, staring ruefully at the retrieved plastic box housing their dreams for a stellar and yet affordable home alarm system; “but when he arrives, is schnauzer.” Nevertheless, they plug in this flimsy crime deterrent every time they leave the house, an integral part of an elaborate leavetaking ritual that includes the closing of drapes and the setting of a dozen timed lights, even if they are only going out for an earlybird dinner at Chi-Chi’s, even if they are leaving for a rare matinee, extra early on a long, summer afternoon.

I used to think this had something to do with being Polish, or with being immigrants. But I know plenty of other immigrants, Polish and otherwise, and the majority of them are fully assimilated. I spent a year in Poland, myself, with no trouble. My parents would be out of place there, too, I realize. No one in Warsaw has an electronic dog.

On the day we are to leave, my father is up before dawn, bustling around the car, tightly cramming in the six suitcases that my mother has already carefully packed. I watch him from a window in my bedroom. It is only ninety minutes to their house, but it seems as though he is preparing for a much longer journey. Another early riser, a neighbor heaving luggage into his own muddied station wagon, commiserates.

“Michigan,” he calls wearily, nodding to his sagging car. “How about yourself?”

“Pittsburgh,” my father replies heartily, reaching over the roof to adjust one last strap.

When he is finished loading the car, and I’ve tossed my own small bag in my backseat, and we have all checked and rechecked the light switches and kitchen appliances in the two-story condo, and my mother has de-baggied and ceremoniously returned each of the three keys, we are ready to leave, beating the resort’s 11 A.M. check-out time by a good three hours. We hug our goodbyes, my mother asking once more if I’m sure I’ve got enough food for the long trip

back to North Carolina, my father warning me of construction outside of Winston-Salem.

He firmly vetoes my suggestion that they stop at the new Ikea on their way home, though my mother loves to shop, and though the store, its sign, at least, is right by a clearly marked exit. “You can get off highway,” he says, with finality, “but can you get back on?” Surely a philosophy of life, or at least a koan to keep me occupied for the next long while. We climb into our respective vehicles, and I drive behind them up the on-ramp to the interstate, where they turn north, and I, south. I watch in the rearview mirror as their car grows smaller and smaller, until the image shimmers, and I blink, and they are gone.

[Editors Note: This essay first appeared in Funny Times.]



Danielle Williams - Canada

”The Window-Ledge Between My Legs”

I sat with the window-ledge between my legs and looked down ten stories at the cars and people passing by. The sun had moved into its afternoon and cast long shadows pointing North to the Mountains in the distance. I rolled a joint and put on Ray LaMontaigne. Tania’s words kept echoing in my head: “I think the way you’re speaking to me, you’ve already made a decision whether you want to admit it or not.” She was, of course, more than right. My decision was made.

And somehow I felt that the only person this decision is really going to affect so deeply, is me. He won’t even notice.

I took a haul of the joint and watched as a cop car pulled over another unfortunate driver heading west on 5th. This city is savage with its traffic enforcement, also known as ‘cash-grab’ from those who don’t even really have in the first place. I blow out the smoke and notice the man who sits in his window all day in the building across the way.

It’s a gorgeous view – well, in a Los Angeles kinda way.

Full view of the city to the East. It’s a big rectangular window taking up almost the entirety of the far wall of this little studio apartment of his.

I love him.

I really do love him. And there’s nothing I can do about that, though I want there to be. I want to either be able to engage it more fully or to let it go. I want to admit it’s

real and fall passionately into something, or I want to say that it’s over. It will never work.

And then Tania’s comment returns again. And its truth is again apparent.

I have decided. I have decided, and it is over. And I’m going to leave. I’m going to choose what I should have chosen over this in the first place. How silly I can be.

The thought echoed in the foyer of my head, I shook it around and blinked it away, opting to follow the pattern of the shadows on the pavement. It’s funny how those little sticks of trees below extend themselves into something substantial when the light hits from this angle.

I love him, but it’s not enough. Nothing here is enough. And I know that with this declaration comes an ‘ending’. A type of closure. No more illusions. Again. Is this relationship always going to be characterized by its shattering of illusions? I ask this somehow as though it’s a bad thing, when I know full well it is definitely a good thing.

And then, Lacan comes to mind: the giving of something one doesn’t have to someone who doesn’t want it (a.k.a. the pathology of love).

Again, I blink and exhale smoke.

I step away from the window and open my gmail.

New message.

I begin typing:

“I awake with new feelings to the question: was it worth it?

I'm struggling every minute of the last week to determine what was worth it in the coming here? Where the worth of this leg of the journey is?

Disillusioned about love and the merits of the quest for it, I have answers I didn't have before.

But did I want these answers?

"Therein lies the rub."

We ask questions. Then we seek answers.

There is no certainty but for the answers we receive.


And then we must contend with the answers.

In what era,

In what century,

In whose personal narrative will any of these choices merit credit?

To say I moved myself for love

And not just work.

When will that hold value as a currency of exchange?

There is a person to love here.

But there is no understanding of how to reciprocate love

And it all feels a little poverty stricken and empty.

There is a love here that is greater than the sum of its parts,

But still, I’m left frustrated with the part I'm playing in the role I’m given.

It could never be enough.

A deep sigh.

And onto work.

I have one more week to push myself here.

But to what end am I pushing things.

And for what purpose?

I could fight,

But why would I want to?

What would I be fighting for?

And then,

I slept for a million hours yesterday

And I could still sleep a million more.

I miss you,

And I feel December in the air

Even if it's warmer here than anywhere I’ve been in a December before...”

I press send and grab the small pillbox holding my weed and begin rolling another joint. So much for being clean and not smoking any more dope. This place is proving very challenging for me. Despite all my training and preparations, I feel oddly outside of it all. It’s definitely time to pack and leave.

I head back to the window and straddle the ledge again.

Okay. Good. I’m ready to do that.



Mystery Writer: You make the story!

“The Big Sleep”

It was about 41_______________ o'clock in the morning,

with the sun not shining and a look of hard

8_______________ rain in the clearness of the

21_______________. I was wearing my powder-

35_______________ 44_______________, with dark

36_______________ 46_______________,

45_______________, and 1_______________. I was neat,

clean, 10_______________, and 11_______________, and I

didn't care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed

29_______________ ought to be. I was calling on

42_______________ dollars.

The main 22_______________ of the Sternwood place was

two stories high. Over the entrance doors, which would

have let in a troop of Indian 20_______________, there was

a broad stained-glass 2_______________ showing a knight

in dark 47_______________ rescuing a

33_______________ who was tied to a 3_______________.

There were French 5_______________ at the back of the

22_______________, beyond them a wide sweep of

37_______________ grass to a white 23_______________,

in front of which a slim dark young 30_______________ in

shiny black 48_______________ was dusting a 38 Packard

convertible. Beyond the 23_______________ were some

decorative 6_______________ trimmed as carefully as

poodle dogs.

Above the 52_______________ there was a

49_______________ oil portrait, and above the portrait two

bullet-torn or 19_______________ -eaten cavalry pennants

crossed in a 51_______________ frame. The portrait was a

15_______________ posed job of a 31_______________ in

full regimentals. The 31 had a neat 39_______________

mustachios, hot hard 4_______________ -black

25_______________, and the general look of a man it would

pay to get along with. I thought this might be General

Sternwood's 28_______________.

I was still staring at the hot black 25_______________ when

a door opened far back under the stairs. It wasn't the

32_______________ coming back. It was a

34_______________.

She was 43_______________ or so, small and

16_______________ put together, but she looked

12_______________. She walked as if she were

18_______________. Her 26_______________ were

40_______________ and had almost no expression when

they 17_______________ at me. She came over near me

and smiled with her 24_______________ and she had little

13_______________ predatory 27_______________, as

white as fresh 7_______________ and as

14_______________ as 50_______________.

"9_______________, aren't you?" she said.

"I didn't mean to be."


Guest Writer Jordan Renae Justus: Somewhere East of Eden

“Untitled”

Sitting on the couch talking with James. He is getting ready to go to Oxford, England. A while back he got into a 3 week summer writing program at the school of Oxford. I was (am) so proud of him for getting in. The going part was what was making me so sad. He was going to be gone for two months. We were just starting to date and I didn’t want to be away from him. We had plans to write to each other. Skype, and of course Facebook.

But still there was this pain in my heart to see him go. Out of no where he says to me “Come with me.” I looked at him dumb founded and asked him if he was crazy. Being a girl in love I said yes. Not before many talks about him being nuts and not using his head.

I had only 7 days to pack, make sure I had everything, find a house sitter, and get some cash. To say the least it was very stressful for me and James was most likely wishing he had never said anything. I was packing till the very last minute. Still forgot things that I would need.

We get on the plane and everything becomes real. I

am taking my 1st overseas trip with a boyfriend. Of course I had dreams of everything being peachy keen. We ate good food, drank great beer, and had many laughs. He said that it was nice to see this place that he had seen times before through my eyes. It was new and so fast pace for me. I had gotten used to my small life in Charlottesville, Va.

We get to the hotel that we are staying at. Amazing! A big shiny black building with so many windows. We get to our room. White bed next to a window with a perfect view of ‘The Eye of London’. I didn’t have to take a ride on ‘The Eye’ to feel like I could see all of London from where I was.

There was something to look at everywhere you looked. I would slow down and take my time. Often James would just walk ahead of me because of this. He had seen this before. It wasn’t anything new for him. “Old hat” as I called it. He wanted to show me so many things. But I was taking in the small things. Parts of me wished that I took his pace.

The gardens are the one of the many things that took my breath away. These amazing pieces of art work were made for the people. You often saw many people sleeping on the lawns or benches. There was something relaxing about this for me. I felt at home but was very much looking forward to going to Oxford.

* * *

Oxford

We are taking the train to Oxford. I don’t know what to think. I find that I am dreading this part. I am getting sick, I don’t want to tell James this. He is already getting into school mode. He will being staying at the school as planned and I will be at a hostel. When we get into Oxford, it reminds me so much of Charlottesville. Seems to have a little more going on. We get to my hostel, red and blue door. Bright colors are supposed to make a place feel fun. I find myself dreading this place even more. Again I don’t tell James what I am thinking. I just want to sit down. Just to stop moving for a bit. We go ahead and pay for the week. Then the cool part. We go to Exeter College. The school where James will be studying. I am so happy for him, I also find myself wishing I was the one going too.

I feel left behind as soon as we walk past those big wooden doors. His face lights up. This is what he has been waiting for. This is what he has worked so hard for. Watching him I find myself in awe as well. This place, the


place he will be staying is just amazing! I would have never dreamed I would be walking around there. We meet Tony the porter. A frumpy old man with a crook nose. He was so happy to show James and I around a bit. This man would soon be the go to guy for sneaking into Oxford. Staircase 9, room 41 (or 40). Being true James luck his room was at the VERY top of about 6 flights of stairs. It was a joy to finally get to the top to see where it was he would be staying. It was a very small room, two windows, desk, sink, and a small bed. He was so happy! Soon it was time to walk me back to where I would be staying for the night. Feeling like a huge rock was on my chest I walked slowly. I had never stayed by myself in a country I did not know. In a room of people that I did not know…I was worried to say the least. We kissed good night and gave a big hug. I got to the bed that I would be sleeping in and tried in vain to go to sleep.

* * *

Oxford

The sun is shining in my eyes. I forget where I am. I look around. Two other bodies are near me. People I have never seen before. People I don’t even know speak English. Getting weary at this point I jump out of my bed and search for my toothbrush.

I walked into a bathroom that could have at one point been a really neat place. All that is left now is a smell of mold, and dirty floors. I creep around trying a semi clean shower. No such luck. The one thing you should always feel after taking a shower is clean…sadly this did not happen for me.

I make my way out to the streets of Oxford. Looking for Turl St. James is staying on that street. “It should be pretty easy to find.”, That what he was saying to me as we kissed goodnight. I just hoped that he was right.

I walked the back the way I remembered. I finally got to where I wanted to be. I rang the bell and Tony got the door. I greeted him like a old friend and asked him how he was doing. He laughed and told me a fast story and pointed me the way I wanted to go.

I walked around the magicland…looking for my James. Enjoying taking in the sights though. The gray stone and the green grass was wonderful. Arch ways with cracks.

I could get lost in it forever. I got to stair case 9. Look to the stairs and began to climb my way up. Funny to think that I thought myself to be in shape. I could barely breathe when I got to the stop! Huffing and puffing…then someone walked by. I just acted as if I had taken a lift to the top. As soon as they had passed I let in the air I so needed.

I get to the door and knock…nothing. I Knock a little harder. Still nothing. So I leave a note hoping that he will get it. I slowly make my way back down the stairs.



So…here are the updates on us (Parody ones for this issue).

Lynn Suh was last seen leaving Oxford train station en route to London in the company of a curly-haired young woman, and has not been heard of since.

He may be futilely trying to punt his way across the Atlantic to his home town of Chicago, Illinois, or may be playing the violin in hopes of reattracting the notice of a young Romanian girl.

If you have any information, please contact us at: [email protected] (not an active email)

A story of a man and his horse

Someone finally talks Nerdy to this woman

Someone get’s on American Idol


Next Issue Theme: “What I’m Gonna Do This Summer” (2,000 – 4,000 word submissions) Speical Introduction Editor Dipti!

Deadline: June 20, 2011

Publication: July 1, 2011

Introduction: Dipti

Editors Final Note:

Thank you all for your patience and your wonderful stories. It really does take a village to raise the Turl (Not sure if that is the right phrase.) Next issue we will be going back to a standard style (we have a style?) It seems to work better to have some standardized bios (ones that don’t change [about 50-75 words]

and then we can give updates or announcements on the Bulletin Board section. That way you don’t have to worry about sending in bio after bio with your submission. The next time you send in some writing specify if you want the text that you wrote to me to be in the Bulletin Board section so we can all see what you are your plans. Thanks goes out to the Editoral Staff, Guest Writer, and Introduction Specalist. This issue would not have been the same without your help. Kudo’s to you all.

Contributors… Trisha Bhattacharya – Spends most of

her time writing novels and being successful. What? You expected something else?

Bill Greenwell – Bill likes to refer to himself in the third person because that is what Bill Greenwell likes. Bill likes crocheting and crochet and occasionally inspires young minds to avoid the real world by getting down (to the basics.) Bill is also a championship ballroom dancer—Ask Bill.

David Jeffrey – Has founded a writers

group for non-writers. This is in-between his time of saving the world for artistic types in his super secret job—not even he knows what he’s doing from day to day. He continues to be the inspiration for writers around the globe with his inspirational poetry and prose. Good show!

Amy Lovat – is doing critical research on

her next book, a slasher series—I know, big surprise. She has set her sites on the new Oxford crew and since she is familiar with the landscape, (she was last seen on the grass) she hopes to finds some willing victims to become inspiration for the next few chapters…did I say victims…I meant volunteers. Good hunting y’all (pixie wave)

Anna McDermott – Made her fortune

grifting across most of central Europe. She was last seen hanging out at the “Most Interesting Academy,” where she is on staff to instruct people on how to be interesting.

Amanda Redinger – Emerson College

admitted Amanda Redinger to prevent a proposed labor union strike scheduled on campus at about 2:09 pm. Her co-workers were quoted as saying that nothing would be ship shape until Ms. Redinger was admitted to the College. Unknown to them, Ms. Redinger was already admitted to the university on a full scholarship in animal husbandry. Her presence justifies all of the sensitive ponytail men that purposely enrolled in the program to meet art chicks. Ms. Redinger would be in charge of making sure all of their pet’s receive the utmost attention and care while they utilizes

these animals to get their counterparts in bed, not the animals, the co-eds. Upon graduation she would stay on and establish rules of engagement when sexual harassment is encouraged in departmental matters. One of the lucky ladies, now with several promotions under her belt for her subversive work, was quoted as saying…”something that we cannot print here.” Ms. Redinger’s true talent is being able to spin a tall tale and focus in on the details that most corporations and several art schools need in this litigious society. She is once again, saving the day!

Sheeba Shah – Know to close friends

and relatives as Sh Sh. More can be said about this exotic bird, but we would have to kill you, and Sh Sh, wouldn’t want that.

Aggie Stachura – Aggie thought the

whole idea behind temp work was that she didn't have to go to meetings. The truth is bitter indeed. She's trying to convince herself that she's gathering material while learning the sad but useful skill of remaining physically present and minimally alert. She's also perfecting the art of scribbling life lists and haiku while frowning thoughtfully into the middle distance. That PTSD from the morning she brought only one pen to the conference room has been responding well to judicious applications of chocolate and Gossip Girl. (See her alternate bio!)

Milou Stella – Did the smart thing and

went to Oxford to study creative writing. (She wrote this bio, or did she?)

Danielle Williams – Just when you think you know where Danielle is, she disappears. She is the inspiration for the “Where’s Waldo” books as well as “Where in the World is Carmen San Diego.” Chances are she is hiding among the natives in some utopian society spreading her propaganda of goodness and light. She is what the wise men were seeking, now…if they could only find her.

Tim Pears is a 19-year old hip-hop artist from Samoa.

Shockingly enough, Aggie Stachura and Sean McIntyre have spent the bulk of their time post-Oxford actually writing

things and actually getting them published. Contrasted with the rest of us, who mostly just sit around on our asses thinking about relationships and eating waffles, Aggie and Sean are doing very very well for themselves. A little too well. I suspect that Aggie and Sean might be taking amphetamines.

Ruth Crupp is going back to Oxford this summer for more. Active, energetic, and productive, Ruth is single-handedly making the rest of us look bad by comparison. Stop it, Ruth. Stop it right now.

Janet Barr was recently convicted of a felony. Grand Theft Auto! I know, right? It's always the quiet ones.

Since leaving Oxford, Calvin Saniford and David Sgarlata have continued to accrue professional accomplishments much like the ones listed in their previous biographies. Presumably in cahoots with three other suspiciously energetic high achievers, Aggie, Sean, and Ruth, Calvin and David's successes can either be attributed to intellectual giftedness or to compulsive overachievement intended to protect their insecure psyches from collapsing in the face of the void.

Carolina Amoroso is going to get the better of this world, even if it kills her.

Wafik (Fiko) Doss has spent the last several months overthrowing his government, whilst Lorenza Haddad has spent the past eight months in Texas, waiting to see whether or not anyone was going to overthrow hers.

Cilla Henriette

tt - v2 i3 w cover final

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