Issue #2. September 1st. 2013.
1 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
This magazine and its design is copyrighted to s
2013
All attributed work is copyrighted to the original owners. All non-attributed work is the intellectual property of jayde.ashe publications.
2 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Welcome back, Paperbook people, welcome to the September Issue of The Paperbook Collective. By now you all know that The Paperbook Collective is a virtual magazine, showcasing creative talent from around the globe. This issue features an incredible variety of poetry, prose, photography and art, sent in by creative people just like you. Today is the first day of Spring in Australia, so what better excuse to abandon all your obligations, pour yourself a glass of something decadent, sit back and flick through the pages of The Paperbook Collective. It’s a Sunday. Pour some whisky into your coffee. I won’t tell anyone. The magazine, the alcohol and the changing seasons will trigger the creative spirit within you, I guarantee it. Within these pages you will find the inspiration to finish an old project or try something new. And once you’re done, package it up and email it off to me, so you too can be featured in the pages of The Paperbook Collective. Happy September everyone. Read a paper book.
3 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Welcome Note - jayde.ashe 3
Heart of Darkness - Tempest 6 The Virus - Kira Woodsbury 7 Duality - scottishmomous Doing the Math - Mark Paxson 10 Travels and Tribulations (part one) - jayde.ashe 11 So this is growing up? - Abi Newman 12 Where would you most like to visit? - Andrew Hardacre 14 Braille - Emmyl Gant 16 Melting - AR Neal 17 Babies on Planes - Anna Maria Caballero 18 Bookshelf Shame - Michelle Furnace 20
Conjured - CJ Kartchner 22 Anniversary - Princess del Oso 23 To the Child in Me - The Missus V. 23 Botanical Watercolour Photography - jayde.ashe 24 Questions - AnElephantCant 26 It Starts - Mark Paxson 27 To the Old, Ugly Dog - Andrew Geary 28 Friends - Joshua Cunniffe 28 4 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Disk Flight - John Arthur Robinson 29 Ten - Penegrin Shaw 30 Silence Screams - Kira Woodsbury 32 Dusk/Own It/Obsolete - Princess del Oso 32 No Baby, No Sympathy - Ellise Ramos 33 For the People - scottishmomous 33 Untitled - Leya 34 A Davidic Psalm (part two) - Eric Keys 36 Blood God - Tempest 38 Where do Dreams Go? - AnElephantCant 39 On the Monsoon Trail - Anuradha Gupta 40 The Nameless Girl - Lavanya 42 The Koala - jaydeashe 44 The Waking - Shruti Fatehpuria 45 Indian Natural Wildlife Habitat - Bhuwan Chand 46 Brothers - Sage Doyle 46
New Moon Rising - jayde.ashe 49 Contributors - 50 Submissions Issue Three - 53
5 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. Book Review by Tempest. When I first mentioned to Jayde Ashe that I had named my art collective for this famous work, yet had never read it, I barely had time to put my drink down before she returned with a tiny, very dogeared copy of the book, complete with pencil scrawled notes and observations. I had seen references to this seminal work before in popular culture, the most well-known being Francis Ford Coppolas’s “Apocalypse Now”. I had also seen a loose modern adaption of it for the console game Far Cry 2, with the final level being a suicide mission into the “Heart of Darkness”. Needless to say, I was very interested to find out how this novel would relate to my own artistic journey. I found myself filled with a nervous sense of foreboding from the outset, mesmerised by its classical and evocative writing. Although its text is dated, (the novel was written in 1899) it still remains relevant and accessible. “and this also,” said Marlow suddenly, “has been one of the dark places of the earth.” Following the story of Marlow, a sailor and company agent, dispatched to the far reaches of colonial Africa in a search for the enigmatic and mysterious Mr Kurtz, Conrad uses magnificent verbal imagery and metaphors to draw the unsuspecting reader into an uncompromising and illuminating journey into the “Heart of Darkness”. The book itself is based around Joseph Conrad’s own similar journey into the Belgian Congo as a captain of a steamboat working the ivory trade from the interior of the continent. Although intentionally vague in regards to the landmarks and settlements, it only added to the suspense of the piece and its raw critique on racism and aggressive imperialism. As his characters travel through the physical stages of the story and further from civilisation, a deeper voyage is taking place, delving into the hidden depths of the subconscious and the limitless unknown.
“the river- seemed to beckon with a dishonouring flourish before the sunlit face of the land, a treacherous appeal to the lurking death, to the hidden evil, to the profound darkness of its heart.” Conrad’s refreshingly straightforward descriptive language walks hand in hand with an ambiguous sense of the vivid and malevolent nature of a world untouched, pulsing with life and a profound spiritual emptiness. In today’s world, it was a startling reminder of the endless wild that once bewitched and destroyed the hearts of men, and our refusal to acknowledge its capacity for savagery and despair, the unfathomable evil that lurks within. The distinction between light and dark is prevalent throughout the book, as Conrad cuts deeper into the machinations and rituals of our united society, our civilisation, and its contrast in the unknowable, suffocating nature of the darkness, both all around us, and within. Just by the proximity of such an absolute, we are forced to question ourselves, that which drives, defines, and frightens us.
“The horror! the horror!” Both poignant and visceral, I found it totally captivating, to the point where I actually finished the book in a single sitting (I haven’t done that since I first read “Fight Club” by Chuck Palahniuk.) As for what it meant for “Art of Darkness”, its main driving purpose was and still is a journey of self-discovery into my own darkness, a kind of strange affirmation of my own individual freedom, not unlike the characters I had recently come to know.
6 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
The Virus. Kira Woodsbury. “I was created to do this job! I’m powerful and destructive! My parents are going to be so proud of me! I can do this! I was created to do this job!” I’d hoped that my inner pep talk would pump me up with confidence, no such luck. I was still shaking in my boots. Don’t look at me that way. I know…I know…a virus who is scared to infect. Who’d have thought that was even possible? Well, I’m here to tell you that it is very possible! My big bro, Trojan Horse, has his picture in the Virus Hall of Fame. Can you say, “PRESSURE!” My family has absurdly high expectations for my infection potential. I’d rather just surf the web hanging out with the spider bots, but NOOOOOO, I’m expected to infect some stupid document for my initiation. There has to be some law against this form of viral manipulation. I mean a virus has to have some kind of rights, you know? To make matters worse the document they have chosen is actually a friend of mine. We met on the web in a cyber café about 6 months ago. It was sort of love at first sight. She is a sweet talker, that’s for sure. And boy does she have some sexy words on her page, if you know what I mean! I know what you’re thinking — it’s a Romeo and Juliet scenario. And technically you would be right. A virus and a document should be foes, not friends. But we simply couldn’t fight our feelings, so we didn’t. And now, “I” Day has arrived and of all the documents in the world, they had to choose my document as the target. I don’t want to infect my beautiful love, but I don’t want to disappoint my family either. Today, I rue the day that I was created. I didn’t choose to be virus, I just am. And I didn’t meant to fall in love with a document, I just did. My sister keeps turning her sad eyes upon me as if she knows my secret. Or maybe she’s remembering her own “I” Day? Of course that was a long time ago. These days she is a baby virus factory — popping them out faster than we can raise them. I briefly wonder if I can trust her with my secret. Before I can decide, my mother walks into the room looking for me. She says the three words that will change my life forever: “It is time.” 7 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Duality
scottishmomous.
My quiet self likes Music most And pots of tea My other self,
And buttered toast. She likes to curl up
The one that’s loud
With a book
Is garrulous
And chocolate
And far too proud
And take a look At worlds created
Of little things
By another,
That folk delight in,
On the pages
Her entertainment
Writ by author.
Is, to quiet, frightening.
She loves to play Around with words Quiet tries Archaic ones To loud ignore And ones absurd. She loves to giggle At her thoughts
For really She is quite a bore.
And loves to love. She loves that lots.
8 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
They both reside
The quiet thus
Within my heart.
Embraced humanity
I’ve tried, but
To rescue fear,
They won’t come apart.
Imminent insanity.
The quiet one Shakes her head, at times With embarrassment At the loud one’s signs Of being found out
Henceforth, They must co-exist To save myself From the abyss.
As a fraud. Too loud then Pleading to her God To quell the stupid Voice that fears, Resists all closeness Except those dear And shuns The world – While laughing. Quiet one Just sighs.
9 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Doing the Math. Mark Paxson. I suppose we could have done a little math to see whether our relationship was equal, but in all likelihood, we wouldn’t have been able to even agree on the numbers that fit the equation. I would have started with 2. The number of affairs she had. She would have suggested 1. The number of my drunk driving arrests. Add 7. The number of times she slapped me. Add 5. For the times I called her a bitch. Subtract 3. I lied to her parents to cover her ass. Subtract 4. How many years she worked to put me through law school. Fine. Add $100,000. My salary three years later. No, subtract $50,000. The value of my student debt that sat and sat for years. Add 2. The number of children. To that she might agree. Add 6. The loads of laundry I did every Sunday and subtract 3, the number of days it took her to do the same amount. Add 5. The number of lunches she packed for me each week. When we were still young and in love. And another 3 to 5 for the dinners each week. That number can vary you know. Yes, but let’s subtract 5. For your charge cards. Fine, subtract 55 for the cost of your weekly round of golf. Add 35,000 for the jazzed up red mustang I bought you for your 30th birthday. Add 40,000 for the hefty chunk of my inheritance that finally paid off the balance on your damn loans. Fine. How about this? Add to my side and subtract from yours, 5,723. The number of days and nights your coldness left me unhappy and miserable. Her response. I get infinity. I was never happy. We both added 3. The number of hours we cried. Or should we have subtracted that.
10 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
.
.
I will never forget the day I flew out of Perth airport into Bangkok. My hands were shaking and sweating so much I could barely finish packing, I checked, re-checked and checked again my tickets, (and more importantly my travel insurance). I dressed myself in clothes that I thought everyone would travel though Asia in – thick, heavy cargo pants, two baggy layered singlets, a cloth belt holding up my (too big) pants, and flimsy slip on shoes. This teamed well with my oversized backpack, which I had no hope in hell of carrying, or lifting, or actually staying upright while holding. My poor mother copped an earful on the way to the airport, due to the fact that my best friend’s mother told me two hours before my flight was due to depart that you need to check in three hours in advance. “Mum, shit, can’t you drive faster? Shit, I’m DEFINITELY going to miss this flight. Oh my god, this is the worst day of my life. I’m going to miss this flight, I won’t be able to book another one, oh my god this is going to be so embarrassing. MUM CAN YOU PLEASE OVERTAKE THAT CAR!! Oh my god why am I even going, this is ridiculous”. We arrived in time. Mum, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry. Your driving is fine. After check in and a truly awful airport coffee, I was bravely making my way towards that frightening looking gate that says DEPARTURES and Tax Free Shopping Zone. It is a scary looking doorway that is nothing more than a giant mouth; swallowing you whole in the safety of your home city, chewing you up for a while somewhere over the Atlantic, then spitting you out in a foreign country where no one speaks your language and you don’t know how to catch a taxi. I have no idea how the last glimpse of my face must have looked to my family, but I’m sure it was similar to the look on a five-year-olds face when you drop them at the school gate for the first time. My flight was uneventful, except that every time I looked at that annoying little screen above the seats, the picture of Australia under our simulated plane got smaller and smaller, and the picture of Asia got bigger and bigger. Luckily, the flight I paid such an exorbitant amount of money for came with free liquor. Hello gin and tonic, my old friend. Thank you for travelling with me. After a short gin induced nap, we landed. I had arrived on foreign soil. I nervously followed the rest of the far more well-attuned travellers to the baggage claim, which in an airport as big as Bangkok’s, was no mere walk in the park. Soon after arriving at the luggage carousel, the first part of my guise of relaxed casual traveller came unstuck. My enormous backpack came past on the luggage train, and I could not lift it. I mean, I absolutely could not pick it up. I ended up doing this embarrassing little half jog while being dragged along by the mother of all backpacks, knocking innocent bystanders out of the way, until I managed to drag the thing off onto the ground. Anyway, so I eventually got myself and my baggage outside, where the second part of my guise of relaxed casualness came unstuck. Remember my well thought out attire, of practical travelling clothes with a twist of trendy flair? Well, turns out no one in their right mind would ever put that on in a country where the average humidity is up around 90%. In about the first 3.4 seconds after I hit the rawness of un-air-conditioned Bangkok, my entire outfit was sticking to my body in the kind of sweat you should only be able to achieve in a sauna. Attractive. And comfortable, to say the very least. It took a nerve of steel, or most accurately, a non-existent savings account, to prevent me from walking straight back into the airport to check the flights home. The next day I woke bright and early in my hostel bedroom, (which the taxi driver had finally managed to find), and I was feeling confident and prepared to greet my first Bangkok morning. I opened my mammoth backpack to pick a more climate friendly outfit. I threw some clothes on the floor. And a few more clothes. And then a heap more clothes emerged from the side pocket of my bag which I had assumed was empty. Shit, did I really pack this many clothes? Did I really think I was going to have a need for a raincoat, my ugg boots, four going-out dresses and six miniskirts? And did I really and honestly pack TWO towels? Forget me being able to lift this bag; I’m surprised the plane was able to achieve maximum altitude. Having sorted through enough clothes to last me two years in any number of compromising situations, I settled on the inevitable cargo shorts. And let me tell you, just because there is half a foot less of material covering your legs, these bad boys are just not made for the humid countries. As unsuitably attired as I was, I nevertheless ventured outside into my first day in Bangkok. Determined to take some photos, check out some cool markets, and maybe meet some other interesting tourists, my stride was jaunty and my hopes were high. Half an hour later, I was lying back on the floor of my hotel room in nothing but my underwear with the aircon on full. I guess humidity is something you have to adjust to slowly.
11 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
So this is growing up? Abi Newman. So this is growing up? The unwanted feelings of desire to escape To run Memories of emptiness Memories of innocence Now clouded by a determination to sacrifice everything. Every emotion, Every limb, Every last piece of who you are For the opportunity to call yourself one part of the invisible whole. Rapid thoughts of having a full life A prominence An importance in the world Become a mystical illusion A true testament to allowing yourself To TELLING yourself To disappear into the reflective lake of discontentment And ignore the truth you hold inside 12 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
We are told ‘that is you’ The reflection in the mirror The person, the face, the sum of money or power The vacuous smile chained to a desk The innocent hopeless romantic whose heart doesn’t beat the same as the rest. We are all part of this magnificent light This beauty We are not just our reflection We are the descendants of the earth and of the sky We are all children of the flowers. So, what are these words? Merely shapes and sounds on paper My mortal attempt to intertwine with you With everything With the Universe
13 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
My answer lies in fiction. Or maybe not. The Cemetery of Lost Books has appealed to my imagination ever since I first read Carlos Luis Zafon’s novel, The Shadow of the Wind. This is described as a labyrinthine library of obscure and forgotten titles that have long gone out of print. It may in fact be our house. From basement storeroom to the top of the house, books are everywhere. Tall, rosewood bookcases, a replica Victorian revolving bookcase made for me by a late colleague, bookcases in pine and oak, they all hold treasures of past and present. When I travel, the first place I seek out is the bookshops. Not the modern, glossy, coffee-serving, antiseptic-clean stores. No, I like the smell of old binding, musty paper, foxed edges and aged scribblings. A dedication perhaps. Some notes in the margin. Something to date it by and add provenance. My oldest book is dated 1841. Written in German. Badly foxed. Handwritten annotations in beautiful old script that I can barely decipher. I paid DM50 for it about 35 years ago in an antiquarian bookshop in Düsseldorf. I treasure also popular works such as The Genitalia of the Tortricidae, which when opened contained a letter from the late John Bradley to a Dr. Horton; on headed notepaper of The Commonwealth Institute of Entomology. [Perhaps I should explain, Tortricidae are micro moths and many require genital dissection for identification. The subtitle of this work is: An account of the morphology of the male clasping organs and the corresponding organs of the female. Wonderfully entertaining.] I frequently pick up and open The Birds of Hong Kong. Mundane? This small ‘field identification and field note book’ by G. A. C. Herklots bears the text: Written and illustrated during 43 months’ internment at Stanley. Geoffrey Herklots put his time to good use when the Japanese seized Hong Kong in WW II. Dated November 1946, this is a work that encapsulates for me the ingenuity and fortitude of man. My copy of Shanghai Birds: Birds Recorded From Or Known To Occur in the Shanghai Area by A. de C Sowerby, published in 1943, contains a picture of de Sowerby, signed by the man himself with the reverse also bearing his handwriting. This describes where the photo was taken in 1911 and describing an expedition he led. It is signed Arthur de C. Sowerby, 18/4/47.Finally, may I highlight A Country Parish by A. W. Boyd. I went through a phase of collecting first editions of the Collins New Naturalist series. I frequently became a little carried away bidding on e Bay. This copy is signed by the author. The book is a delightful account of the natural history of an English parish. It was published in 1951. I doubt if many copies survive. Some of the NN series had very short print runs. It surely belongs in The Cemetery of Lost Books. Books transcend boundaries. Wherever you go there are bookshops. One of the better legacies of the British colonial days is the existence in many countries of bookstores and markets, so familiar you could be in Hay on Wye, not Karachi. But in Karachi I was two years ago. For security reasons I was holed up in the company’s ‘safe house’ for the weekend. I had given my security detail the weekend off. I was more unnerved by his Kalashnikov than anything else. I learned from a colleague that just five minutes walk from my hiding place was an open air book market, held each Sunday morning. With a little persuasion the Brigadier gave me permission to cross the treacherous park provided I had somebody with me. My good friend Khurram duly agreed and off we went. And to illustrate that books are books the world over, here are some memories of my morning at the book market. I find it comforting that the books on sale include “Good to Great” and “A Brief History of Time”. How do you say it’s a small world in Urdu?
14 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Photographs by Andrew Hardacre.
15 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Braille.
Emmyl Gant.
He remembers her hands Reading his back like Braille. He can still feel kisses Across his shoulders Down his spine Gently mapping his back With her lips as if she knew.
He hears footsteps on the ceiling In the dark hours When his mind wanders And sleep eludes him. He can still see her eyes When he would not answer. 16 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Melting AR Neal
17 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Babies on Planes. Anna Maria. When I am on a plane and I hear a baby begin to cry, I think: cry, cry, cry.
Cry slower and louder. Cry longer.
Cry while your mother walks you around so that the entire plane can hear you cry.
Stop crying, whimper softly, make us think you are done, then bawl.
When the flight attendant offers help that is not help –
Can I bring some water?
–
answer back with a wail.
Shriek. Howl the flight attendant away.
18 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Make your mother give up, display her shabby grin and press deep into her seat.
Cry right into my ear. Cry right into the immigration line.
Cry right into the wait for the bags that are not there and they don’t come and still they do not come.
Let me hear you screech into the airport curb and whimper in your car.
When you are gone, keep the ringing faint, but keep it real, keep it long.
Scream baby, baby.
Rack up my airplane baby miles for the airplane baby day when my baby decides to cry.
19 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Bookshelf Shame: A Growing Epidemic Michelle Furnace.
20 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
21 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Conjured by Sarah Beth Durst. Book Review by CJ Kartchner. “You push too far, too fast, you’ll break her.” Malcolm said.
Eve raised her head to look at Malcolm. Just Malcolm. She didn’t want to look at Lou. “I’m already broken,” she said. “And this girl is already dead.”
I am going to step out on a limb here, and say that Conjured is one of, if not the best, stand alone paranormal novel that I have read this year. This tale follows Eve, a teenager who suffers from memory loss, who has been placed in the hands of a special sector of the Witness Protection Program. She can’t remember who she is, where she is from, or why she needs protection in the first place. What Eve does know is that she went through a series of surgeries to mask her true face, she dreams of circus acts and decrepit carnival tents, and more than anything else, she knows that her past is the key to saving herself, and everyone she has come to care for.
Durst has spun Eve’s story into a web of terror, suspense, and even a little romance. You know, for you emotional spiders out there. We follow Eve step for step through her story. When she passes out, and then suddenly awakes while doing a mundane activity two weeks later with no recollection of what has gone on in that time span, Durst gives us no little hints either. If Eve forgets, we forget too. The twists and turns in this novel are unexpected and impossible to see coming.
If you are a fan of suspense/thriller novels, and are looking to make the jump into paranormal/fantasy, this sir, is your bridge. I would take it if I were you.
22 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Anniversary. Princess del Oso.
A milestone is achieved An acknowledgment is agreed A time for celebration Taking time away from toil To admire the years’ speed With love time goes by quickly A date with friends A premature launch Whisky and Led Zeppelin A lethal combination A stairway is proposed But never taken Hangovers and apologies The date is reset Errands and obligations Chores and necessities Finally an opportunity breaks And we blaze a trail west A familiar place Good food and libation To signify the accomplishment Glasses raised in commemoration A look in the eyes Familiar yet still intriguing Promises kept Promises newly made Filtered sun on skin A teardrop on cheek Love is confirmed Love is renewed
23 |
The
Paperbook
To the child in me. The Missus V. Go run little child Run to your heart’s content And never slow down
Never ever slow down.
Do not be afraid little one
the flowers beckon, touch it the grass awaits, feel it
and the sun will always, always be your guide Be that child little one
the child you've always wanted to be. Smile, laugh and shine
the way you were meant to be. Listen closely little one
the wind calls your name
Go run with all your might Go run with all your mightiest might
Never ever slow down, don't you ever slow down.
Collective.September
Issue.2013
24 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
25 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
AnElephantCant claim to be intelligent He can’t answer life’s great philosophical questions Like how does the Phoenix Know what he’ll be next And does garlic really aid the digestion
If a fly is called a fly because she flies Why isn’t AnElephant described as a stroll Is a Lion telling the truth Why does a mouth have a roof When a snowman melts what happens to his soul
Are there faeries at the bottom of the garden In space how do they know which way is up Does the moon really beam Does ice actually cream Why does a flying saucer not have a flying cup
Does each mother have the world’s most beautiful baby Must each bride have something borrowed and blue Can a city really sleep Is AnElephant like a sheep Who knows he will never find another you
Did Pinocchio grow up to be James Wood Will cockroaches survive a nuclear fight If this is true Between AnElephant and you It seems that they are the ones who are getting it right
Does the Sanity Clause apply throughout Lapland Is there really a Heaven above And what does it take To correct this mistake And stop old fools from continually falling in love
26 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
It starts with a woman. Her voice still thick with the rhythms of the old country. Her dark hair wrapped in a bun, yet wisps of gray leak out. Where she was once young and giggled like a school girl, she now has glasses that perch on her nose and when she laughs, it is thick with decades of life’s experience. It starts with a boy at the counter. The whites of his eyes bright enough to light a darkened room. In his hand, he nervously rolls coins that collect the sweat from his palm. In the quiet of the store, the metallic clink of the coins echoes and fades. He jitters from foot to foot and asks quietly, “May I have a Coke?” His bright eyes glance up. Quick and shy, like the boy. It starts with a car at the curb. A blue Torino. The dual exhaust pipes emit puffs of white smoke. The engine rumbles quietly, a prowling lion about to pounce. The window is rolled down. An arm hangs out and down the door. A cigarette between thumb and forefinger. A tendril of smoke searches for escape. It starts with a cloudless sky. Brilliant blue that blinds without the brightness of the sun. The hot, still air presses and presses some more. It starts with a man chuckling. With a woman screaming. With the keening of a siren. With… It ends with the warbles and rhythms of sirens forming a wall of shrill terror. It ends with the scream cut short, a needle suddenly lifted from a spinning disc. It ends with the chuckling turned to terror, a gurgling and retching. It ends with a sudden cloud that covers the sun. The blue darkens, the shadows cast on the concrete world diffuse and dim. It ends with a cigarette butt cast to the ground and crushed under the toe of a pointed boot. A car door slammed shut. A sprint. A shout. The toe of the boot splattered with red. The engine roars and the lion pounces through one red light. And another. It ends with a bottle falling end over end to the floor where it shatters. The cold, caramelcolored, caffeinated sugar water flows freely. A puddle forms, melding with hot red that oozes forward like lava. Coins bounce on the linoleum and then settle. Bright eyes go dim. It ends with a woman. Her glasses askew. Her hand to her mouth, covering the whispered words of her native tongue. 27 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Friends. Joshua Cunniffe.
The years have given You warts, that is why Nobody wants to touch Your head. You sneer At the surrounding Shadows and whimper From underneath the bed. I recall the times when you used to bite at things Real and begged For my hand窶馬ow to be unseen Is the great gift.
28 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
To be launched, full of trajectory, high, to spin . . . to float . . . to fly in grace and simplicity. To maintain, in the gradual decline, centre . . . balance . . . line until the resting in the grass.
29 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Ten. b Penegrin Shaw.
30 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
31 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
your silence screams "I don't care about you!" louder than any insult could injure me the kind of uneasy quiet where heartbeats thunder in desperate eardrums awaiting the merest whisper my thoughts stagnate in the deaf vacuum left by the solitude after the storm of you I walk alone suffocated in the desolate desert the dry ground cracked bled dry by absent sound your jaded heart ignores my rivulets of tears begging you for just one word spoken in this void your silence screams‌ 32 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
NO BABY, NO SYMPATHY. Ellise Ramos.
33 |
The
Paperbook
Empty echoes in Hallowed halls, Glittering grime On ancient walls, Fettered to grandiosity, Chained by resonating Fine words, promises. C o l l e c t iPurveying ve.Septe mber Issue.2013 Falsity.
Daylight is fading
We feast upon autumn sun
And sleep through winter
Leya.
34 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
35 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
A Davidic Psalm (part 2). Eric Keys. I found myself back on your wretched world with no way home. You don't know - you can't know - the torture I went through to escape you. Things have to happen to a human to become like me. Horrible things. I was lucky as they killed my body outright from the start. Some poor souls go through conversion bodily. I've been told it is many times worse. Why? I suppose The Patrons enjoy the quaintness of the human body and must linger over it. Why did they send me here when I had fought so hard and endured so much to escape? I suppose it is because they loved me. They loved me like they love you. And I hate you. And I will never stop hating you in a million years. I will seek out everything you call good and I will defile it. I will show no mercy, no love, no compassion. I will hurt you because I can. When they first sent me back here I thrashed about and lashed out at random for a few hundred years. But now I have found a project. I will find certain people. I will find the ones that epitomize some ideal you have - innocence, compassion, joy... And I will rob them of it. My first victim is such a sweet little thing. She is a young lady who lives in a small town and is consumed with her small ambitions. She has married the youth pastor of her church. When I first laid eyes on her she was none of those things. She was just out of the womb. But her future was no blank slate. I had noticed the confluence of events and people around her and I knew that - barring disaster - she would grow up to be a particularly reprehensible sample of your species - The Small Town Pastor's Wife. 36 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
I could already smell the hypocrisy, the saccharine sweetness, the small-time ambition and the greed. She is your seedy underbelly and yet you treat her like an exemplar. So I began planting my seeds. I inserted myself into her thoughts. I was a very vivid, imaginary friend. I led her into minor evil - just enough to keep myself interested and to help her realize how empty so much of your human life is. Plus, I needed to be a familiar voice. You see, I planned to come to her later in life. The seeds would have been planted, your horrible society would have watered them, but I would do the reaping. I did risk getting caught now and again. What fun would there be in never taking risks? For example, the poor little thing was forced by her parents to sit through an apologetics class. Her teacher claimed he had never lost an argument with an atheist because atheism is so intellectually bankrupt. I could not hold back. I took control of her mouth and spun wild and intricate rejoinders to his every statement. I built up a case for ultimate despair and let loose on him relentlessly. He did win the argument, by brute force. After a few of his feeble replies he ended the class - with him getting the last word, of course. After he went home I visited him and whispered sweet blasphemies in his ear until he could take it no longer. I enjoyed so much watching him put the gun to his head and pull the trigger. I thought about exerting a small force on his hand to disrupt his aim just enough to turn him into a paralytic instead of a dead man so that I could continue torturing him, but I knew he would bore me quickly so I let him dispatch himself. But Sweet Danni.... What wonderful tortures I have in store for her.
37 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Blood God. Tempest. Savagery ingrained, a history of bloodshed, born to kill. Lusting for a death far from home, wielding misunderstanding and rage. Thrall of an ancient one, fear of the blood drunk god. Pilot your brothers into the night. No dreams in the darkness, no heroes can survive. Its name is dread, gloried in scarlet ash, adorned in the dead.
38 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
39 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
On The Monsoon Trail. Anuradha Gupta.
40 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
41 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
The Nameless Girl. Lavanya.
I heard the thunderclouds roaring in their rage, My demons unleashed, in battles their emotions engage.
I remember meeting her, when she had just turned sixteen. Was it ever a sweet sixteen? Maybe once, before… Some boy from school, she had a tendre for
Near the ruins of the of the haunted mansion,
Had kissed her.
Where nobody ever goes;
His name is inconsequential,
Lived a girl unheard, unseen, unknown.
Was it Rahul or Rahim? She was a sight to behold.
I can’t recall her name; she used to live in the City of Joy.
All alight from within,
Her name may have been Felicity, her brilliant smile a call for gaiety
He was her first love.
She could never comprehend in her touching naïveté,
Her lips dewy, with a pearly sheen.
The concept of atrocity, the perception of brutality.
She looked like an angel her wings slowly unfurling.
Ignorance is bliss, indeed.
A woman-child, an ethereal light.
Her face wore a shy grin
Was this her fault? She was such a lovely soul,
I heard a rumour, about a year later.
I envied her once.
The zamindar’s son wanted a concubine.
Yet I can’t remember her name..
His wife, the poor lady, could not produce An heir, the much desired son.
Is it any wonder?
So she stood by silently, shamed and suffering;
(We never do remember what shames us,
While her husband searched high and low,
Shows a mirror to the flaws)
For a fair maiden to show, and breed the devil’s spawn.
And my own world then torn asunder! I do remember her eyes, lit with passion, With hopes and dreams,
Oh! It was so cold that winter, so very very cold.. Persephone had gone back to Hades
With wit and love, and a blazing fire
Her mother despondent, desolate
A fire of her own, her beautiful soul.
No one dared disturb her, nobody so bold.
42 |
The
Paperbook
C o l l e c t i v eAnd . Sitewas pt mber so e cold.
Issue.2013
Her parents had a toddler to look after,
Are words ever enough?
They didn’t think too much on the barter.
“Don’t fret, I’m much better.
Her price was two grand.
I’ve stopped paying for the sins of others.”
(She was sought after, in high demand)
“Your parents, how are they?” I ventured
Without any cares, she was sold.
And met a cold infernal stare.
A commodity, no less no more.
“Let bygones be bygones, Di. We’re orphans, anyway.
In exchange for food and timber.
I must go, his guardians will be waiting.” She said pointedly.
She was marked for life,
“Wait. What is his name?”
Her name a slur, her dreams a haze, a blur.
“It’s Lucius, not Lucifer” she said With a quirk of lips. I looked away, embarrassed.
I can’t remember her name, She lost all innocence, They lost all shame.
I chanced upon her at a function, sixteen years later.
Still can’t recall her name.
She is famous now and everybody knows her name.
I met her once more,
She is a beacon; her courage, an open flame .
Almost a lifetime after.
And everybody knows her name.
She was sitting on the rocky shore.
How did I ever forget?
Twisting a blade of grass,
She is Aparajita.
On her lap a little cherub,
Undefeated, unbeaten, unconquered.
His face twisted with laughter. Was this the devil’s spawn?
The thunderclouds are gathering;
She told me she was in college.
Once more, the sky is on fire
Studying the fine arts.
With lightning and the purifying rain.
“Is it yours?” asked I, looking at her lap.
There are no tears to hide now,
“No, Didi. Not anymore.
A smile on my face for evermore.
My time with him is up,” she said.
43 |
“What happened? I heard…” I trailed away.
I am Damini.
A/n- Didi/di - older sister
I did not know what to say.
But what’s in a name?
Damini - lightning (also an appellation/embodiment of Goddess Durga),
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Zamindar - landowner, who rents land to peasants, an aristocrat.
The dry heat of Perth hit Tom in the face as soon as he stepped out of the airport. He felt his breath coming in short bursts as his lungs tried desperately to adapt to the lack of humidity in the air. He had been living in Asia for the past few years, drifting day to day in the slow, dreamy humidity that was part of life there. He had flown down to Perth to visit his distant family, looking forward to catching up with his brother and meeting his two nephews. He had stopped in the airport gift shop in Bangkok, picking out the few toys and games for them that he could afford with his last few baht. He looked around now for a taxi, ignoring the glances and sniggers of the people around him as they took in his torn and dusty pants, his broken thongs and the faded bandana that held back his matted hair. *** ‘You’re looking pretty rough mate.’ His brother David said while embracing him. Tom quietly took in the impeccable tailoring on David’s custom made Hugo Boss suit, tailoring not performed at the local place in Bangkok for the cost of a few dollars. Tom thought back to when the two brothers would wrestle in the dirt, kicking around a footy in bare feet and stopping only when it got too dark to see the ball. Back then they couldn’t have cared less about their clothes; singlet and shorts were tossed on in the morning and only discarded when they had been torn to shreds. Obviously those times had passed; Tom watching in mortification as his brother subtly dusted off the parts of his suit that Tom had touched. *** As they pulled into David’s driveway and waited for the automated gates to open, Tom gazed in awe at the sprawling mansion tucked away in an exclusive corner of Dalkeith. It was a far cry from the apartment complex that the boys had grown up in, in Claremont. It seemed that while Tom had been travelling the globe, volunteering in Cambodian orphanages, drinking beer on Thai beaches and hiking though the jungles of Vietnam, his brother had been doing very well for himself. *** ‘I bought a few gifts for the kids’ Tom offered, trying to smile at the two little brats which were peeking out at him from behind their mothers legs. The mention of presents had them running out, their nervous amusement at this strange man momentarily pushed aside. ‘Here you go fellas, I bought some for each of you. Sorry they’re not wrapped, I didn’t have time.. ’ Tom trailed off, squatting down in front of the eagerly awaiting pair and pulling the gift shop bags from his backpack. ‘I hope they’re not squashed, there’s not much room in this old thing.’ He patted his ragged pack gently, looking on in pleasure as his nephews tore the cheap paper bags off the toys. Naked disappointment flooded their faces as they took in the plastic games and the small stuffed koala bears. They looked up at their parents in disgust before sniggering loudly to each other. ‘Come on you two, say thank you to Uncle Tom for the nice presents.’ Their mother prompted, shooting a bemused glance at her husband before shepherding the twins inside. *** Tom watched his brother attempt to avoid his stare, before giving in with a sheepish grin. ‘Sorry, Tom, mate, ungrateful little bastards they are. That’s really thoughtful of you to get them presents. They do get a bit spoiled by their mother.. well, you know how women are. Come on mate, let’s get you inside and we’ll have a beer, whaddaya say?’ ‘Yep, sounds good mate. Lead the way.’ Tom said as he slowly bent down to grab his backpack. He sighed heavily as he picked up and dusted off a small stuffed koala, wiping the dirt from the beaded eyes. He thought of his last $20 he had wasted on the cheap gifts, shaking his head at his own frivolity. He tucked the little koala into the side pocket of his backpack before slowly following his brother inside.
44 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
The Waking. Shruti Fatehpuria.
45 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Indian Natural Wildlife Habitat : It’s a catch-22 kind of situation. Part II. Bhuwan Chand. Continuing from the last issue, in the series of ‘Must See Places’, before they vanish from the face of the earth, here is not one but two tourist destinations in India which are under serious threat of extinction because of global warming. Lakshadweep (Arabian Sea) and
Andaman & Nicobar Islands (Bay of Bengal-Andaman Sea, India)
What Makes it Special?
These Islands of India, along with neighbouring Maldives, are feared to be the first land on Earth to get submerged in rising water levels of the sea due to global warming. Lakshadweep is an archipelago of twelve atolls, three reefs and five submerged banks, with a total of about thirty-nine islands and islets. Andaman and Nicobar consists of 572 islands in the territory having an area of 7,950 km2. Of these, about 34 are permanently inhabited. The Andaman’s are separated from the Nicobar group by a channel called the Ten Degree Channel which is 150 km wide.
46 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
The Looming Danger
Increase in temperature due to climate change, bleaching of coral reefs and oil spills are some of the major threats in this region.
The Potential Loss
These islands in India are famed for their coral reefs, Hawksbill Turtles, tropical colourful fishes, Blue-lined Snappers and Clark’s Anemone, giant clams and molluscs.
The Lakshadweep Archipelago forms a terrestrial eco-region together with the Maldives and the Chagos with over 600 species of marine fishes, 78 species of corals, 82 species of seaweed, 52 species of crabs, 2 s pecies of lobsters, 48 species of gastropods, 12 species of bivalves and 101 species of birds.
It is one of the four coral reef regions in India and is a major attraction for the tourist.
Pitti Island is an important breeding place for sea turtles, and for a number of pelagic birds such as the Brown Noddy (Anous stolidus), Lesser Crested Tern (Sterna bengalensis) and the Greater Crested Tern (Sterna bergii). The island has been declared a bird sanctuary.
Andaman & Nicobar Islands are blessed with a unique tropical rainforest canopy, made of a mixed flora with elements from Indian, Myanmarese and Malaysian floral strains. So far about 2,200 different varieties of plants have been recorded there. This tropical rain forest, despite its isolation from adjacent land masses, is surprisingly rich with a diversity of animal life. About 50 varieties of forest mammals are found to occur in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. Some are endemic, including the Andaman Wild Boar. Rodents are the largest group with 26 species, followed by 14 species of bat. Saltwater crocodile is also found in abundance.
The State animal of Andaman is the Dugong, also known as the sea cow, which can be found in Little Andaman. About 270 species of birds are found in the territory, the majority to the Nicobar island group.
The islands' many caves are nesting grounds for the Edible-Nest Swiftlet, whose nests are prized in China for bird's nest soup.
The territory is home to about 225 species of butterflies and moths, including some of the larger and most spectacular of the world. Ten species are endemic to these Islands.
Mount Harriet National Park is one of the richest areas of butterfly and moth diversity on these Islands.
The islands are well known for prized shellfish, especially from the genera Turbo, Trochus, Murex and Nautilus.
Edible-Nest Swiftlet
47 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Here I am betrothed to scorn in the wisest fashion
but that’s the path I take
of that golden form, molded and embridled
made alone by my own choices pushing for solitude
yet colder than I’ve ever known I am the man who echoes
over camaraderie as I was justified
all the voices of those brothers the belligerence of those days before we knew any better
to sooner fight those brothers down than to have them walk by my side all the while knowing
and I am the man who desecrates my voice, poisoned and entwined left aside to decay
it is a mistake I am the man who makes mistakes and muses about their significance
like the corpse of my once body
without changing the path I am on
I abuse it and poke it with a bloodied stick
because faults make me human
and it squirms from the nerves
and redemption only reminds me of this
of my regrets so I am betrothed to scorn
though I would rather live without regrets
while I find amusement
than exist betrothed to scorn
in my own torment
I torture myself
because that’s the way I am
in order to grow cold
a man tidied and clothed
as I choose to be alone
with a brazen soul
mocking the voices
without the shroud
and shunning the shroud
48 of | T he Paperbook my brothers
C o l l e c t i v of e .my S ebrothers ptember
Issue.2013
New Moon Rising by Anuradha Gupta. Book Review by jaydeashe. I was ecstatic the day my copy of New Moon Rising arrived in my mail box. It had a long and arduous journey from England to Australia, but luckily was none the worse for wear. I made myself a cup of tea and settled in with this beautiful little book, flicking back and forth between pages. Self-published by a friend of The Paperbook Collective, Anuradha Gupta, this little book is packed full of delightful poetry and adorable pictures. From the beautiful dedication in the beginning, For my daughters Kavya and Avni, who are my poetry and my world. I knew it was going to be special. The book is broken down into five sections: Seasons, Spaces, Shadows, unSpoken, and self. Each section is unique and enchanting in its own way. The illustrations on each page make it a lovely book to flick through; one that is very easy to pick up at a moment’s notice to take five from reality as you delve into its pages. The back of the book contains a very informative section on the Indian cultural aspects of the poem, which as Gupta suggests if you are less acquainted with the sub-continent, may be lost on you. I personally found the notes very helpful, a simple little introduction to a culture that I am not overly familiar with. The beauty of this book will make it the perfect addition to your coffee table or bookshelf. Visit the Contributors section of this magazine (p. 51) to find the link to Anuradha’s blog, visit it and find the link to this gorgeous little gem. Put some poetry into your life.
49 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Abi Newman ~ So this is growing up? ‘This is for the dreamers. The ones who dance to the music in their hearts. For the people who want to set sail and find that deeper connection away from all the confusion. I want to give people somewhere they can read a line of someone else's words, and see themselves in them.’ You can see more of Abi’s poetry on her blog ~ Words By Numbers Andrew Geary ~ To the Old, Ugly Dog. ‘I am 20 years old and a student Moorpark College. I enjoy the works of W.B. Yeats, Countee Cullen, Sylvia Plath, Hermann Hesse and Oscar Wilde.’ You can see more of Andrew’s work on his blog ~ The Cutting Edge of Poetry Andrew Hardacre ~ Where would you most like to visit in the world? ‘I aim to devote more time to photography and writing. I have a strong interest in natural history but my photography is broadly based. I read voraciously.’ You can see more of Andrew’s photography on his blog ~ All Downhill From Here AnElephant Cant ~ Questions & Where do Dreams Go? ‘I am an artist/writer/poet combination whose blogs reflect an approach to life that celebrates nature and takes a tongue-in-cheek view of most issues. So you get rhymes and doodles, photographs and comments. Irreverent and irrelevant. Occasionally funny, sometimes serious, mostly pointless.' You can see more of AnElephantCant’s poetry on his blog ~ anelephantcant Phil Burns ~ Sketch Accompanying Questions & Where do Dreams Go? AnElephantCant and Phil Burns are long-time friends and former colleagues, who have done everything from IT systems to children's stories together! Anna Maria Caballero ~ Babies on Planes. I currently live in Bogotá, Colombia with my husband and eight-month-old son. During my son’s naps, I created a blog where I share my poems and love of literature. You can check out Anna’s blog at ~ The Drugstore Notebook Anuradha Gupta ~ On The Monsoon Trail ‘I was born and grew up in India. I moved away some years ago, and after brief stints in the U.S. and Czech Republic have settled down in London. This is definitely my home now. I am a travel writer, poet and storyteller.’ You can see more of Anuradha’s beautiful writing on her blog ~ All About Hinduism Or visit her Facebook page ~ New Moon Rising AR Neal ~ Melting. ‘AR Neal lives in multiple dimensions, and you can find her in any one of them at any given time. She is the Cave Mistress at The Scribe's Cave (see below). She writes book reviews and other things for Flash Fiction Chronicles. She puts out pieces of flash fiction at her regular blog. She lives to serve a house full of four-legged and two-legged creatures (known as dogs, cats, a soon-to-be-on-hisown son and a very artistic husband). She reads more than she sleeps.’ Visit The Scribe’s Cave or check out AR Neal’s flash fiction on her blog ~ One Starving Activist Bhuwan Chand ~ Indian Natural Wildlife Habitat - part two. ‘I live for books, the day I’d stop reading would be the day I’d stop living. They guide me to live a happy & contented life, keep focus on big picture, keep walking in this journey of life purposefully, steadily towards the final destination. I am so fortunate to have people around me, who share my passion for books.’ To read more of Bhuwan’s book quotes, visit his blog ~ Whatever It’s Worth
50 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
CJ Kartchner ~ Book Review ‘Conjured’. ‘I am from a small town in Utah, and just graduated with my Bachelor's Degree in History/English. Now, I am finding I have so much more time than I know what to do with! That's when I turned to blogging. I love to read, and had the opportunity to be exposed to so many different types of literature while in school that I wouldn't have normally picked up off of the shelf, like Tolstoy and Thoreau.’ To read more of CJ’s book reviews head over to her blog ~ The Book Boozer Ellise Ramos ~ No Baby, No Sympathy. ‘I am a (forever) 22 year-old English graduate, who lives in an apartment with yellow walls, with a nameless cat as ally. While my undercover job is a writer, my full-time job is administrative in capacity, as administrative as working with magicians can get, that is.’ Check out Ellise’s work on her blog ~ Spontaneous Ditties Emmyl Gant - Braille. ‘I write mostly free verse poetry, but sometimes I sketch scenes. I write in both French and English. Everything I write touches on our human condition; how we live and feel our lives, how we experience our humanity, and fight the loneliness of being. And of course love. I often use nature in its different aspects to express beauty and complex human emotions. You can read more of Emmyl’s writing on her blog ~ unbuttoned or undone Eric Keys ~ A Davidic Psalm - part two. ‘I am a real-time unstructured data stream initially instantiated in the suburbs of a college town on the East Coast. In my spare time I exist, subsist and persist. I have been known to desist but I rarely cease. Recently I relocated to a house hidden by dense trees at the end of a dead-end dirt road on unincorporated land in the southern United States because, well, this is creepier than my previous location.’ You can read more of Eric’s writing on his self-titled blog ~ erickeys Or email him at eric.keys@live.com John Arthur Robinson ~ Disk Flight. ‘I have worked for over 30 years as an editor/course developer for Ohio University’s distancelearning program. Every weekday on my photo-blog, I post one of my own photos with a humorous title and “pun-ny” caption. I have published a book of humorous fictional letters: More Later: Lyle’s Letters from the University (available at Amazon.com).’ You can see John’s hilarious photo’s and writing on his blog ~ The Daily Graff Joshua Cunniffe ~ Friends. ‘I am a twenty one year old creative writing student studying in Perth, Western Australia at Curtin University. I’m a published author that enjoys travelling, spending time with friends and family and writing at my computer with a cup of coffee. I support the Fremantle Dockers in the Australian Football League.’ Kira Woodsbury ~ The Virus & Silence Screams. ‘I have found that the most effective form of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy for my personal battle is to use my pen as my sword. It is through writing that I’ve found a semblance of peace from the attacks of my “chaos critters” (addiction jitters – temptations). When I feel like temptation is going to overwhelm me, I unsheathe my pen wielding it as a sword to fight against the temptation with the power of my words.’ You can follow Kira’s journey and read more of her poetry on her blog ~ My Pen, My Sword Lavanya ~ The Nameless Girl. Who am I? / I’m me / all the time / Within reason, with a rhyme / And that’s enough for me / this is what I wannabe. / With Love, / Me. You can read more of Lavanya’s poetry on her blog ~ lespoesietlespensees Or follow her on Twitter @EstrellaAcharya Leya ~ Untitled. ‘I have had some experience of life - a great deal of it so far has been dedicated to travelling, and travel experiences. Maybe I’m a Buddhist. I still avoid treading on ants.’ You can see more of Leya’s photography on her self-titled blog ~ Leya
51 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Mark Paxson ~ Doing the Math & It Starts. ‘I am an attorney in California, filling my time with writing fiction – short stories and novels. I’ve published two novels – One Night in Bridgeport and Weed Therapy -- and two collections of short stories – The Marfa Lights and Shady Acres.’ Check out more of Mark’s writing on his blog ~ King Midget’s Ramblings Michelle Furnace ~ Bookshelf Shame. ‘I am a creative writer/reader by choice, an actor by passion, and a post-production aficionado by trade. Oh, and sometimes I speaks French. I live and work (write and read) in Los Angeles.’ You can read more of Michelle’s writing on her blog ~ girl with thoughts, beware Penegrin Shaw ~ Ten. ‘I am a writer of sci-fi and horror, influenced by Stephen King and Clive Barker. I write of dystopia, alt worlds, near future technology, doggers, vampire royals and sinister children. I am putting a collection of short stories together for self publication this year and am writing my first sci-fi novel.’ You can read more of Penegrin’s writing on his blog ~ Ribcage PrincessdelOso ~ Anniversary, Dusk, Own It & Obsolete. ‘I currently reside in the Cascadia mountain range in the Pacific Northwest United States. I live with a wonderful man whom I've been with for ten years. We live on his family's property. We have a sweet kitty by the name of Ginger. I am an English Lit Major, graduating from the University of New Mexico with a Bachelor's Degree. I started blogging as a way to improve my writing, to write/journal more, and to just see what the blogging world was all about.’ You can read more of Princess del Oso’s work on her blog ~ perceptive pot, clueless kettle Sage Doyle ~ Brothers. ‘I write poetry, short fiction, and literary/mainstream novels, and I’m currently seeking an agent. My blog features “The Journal of Wall Grimm” which is the story of a man in his early twenties struggling to make his way through life.’ Check out more of Sage’s work on his blog ~ SageDoyle scottishmomous ~ Duality & For the People. ‘All whom I have loved and do love; all who have and do love me; God's love and my love for Him; all these define me. I hope I have something to share from the definition of me.’ You can see more of scottishmomous’ poetry on her blog ~ scottishmomous Shruti Fatepuria ~ The Waking. ‘I’m a brooder, a thinker, and a doer. I love to think of things that are not and I love to do things that I can’t. I live in an alternate universe. My words are my world as they are a shade of my pen. I believe we are all figments of imagination as we march this arena of life. Things are not what they seem; people are not what we think. Yes, I often live in my dream.I am a misfit software engineer who left a job in the corporate world so that I could give wings to my dreams and fly on my words.’ Check out Shruti’s blog ~ A Shade of Pen Tempest - Heart of Darkness Book Review & Blood God. ‘I am one third of an art collective called Art Of Darkness. We are three artists from the Southwest of Western Australia. We first met over a decade ago as students, before eventually parting ways. Drawn back together by our love of art and a mutual admiration for each other’s work, we joined forces to take our creativity to new heights. Although we cover different styles and mediums, there is an underlying connection that binds it all together. We are Art of Darkness.’ Check out Art of Darkness & Tempest’s work on their Facebook page ~ Art Of Darkness The Missus V. ~ To the Child in Me. ‘I am the Missus V, a third-world blogging mama. I am not a serious writer but I express my thoughts and share my experiences through my blog Fascinations of a Vanilla Housewife because I need to let them out so as not to dwell on the lingering thought of jumping into my washing machine and hide forever.’ Visit The Missus V. at her blog ~ Fascinations of a Vanilla Housewife
52 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013
Submissions: issue three. Do you think your work belongs in The Paperbook Collective? Would you like to be involved in a creative project that spans the globe? Submit your work now to jayde.ashe@hotmail.com Submissions for issue three close 20th September, 2013. Submissions must be in the form of a Word Document, without specialised formatting. Click on the link below to download the Submission Form.
Submission Form_The Paperbook Collective You must include the following details to be eligible for consideration : Name. Published name/pseudonym. 50 word bio. Blog Link. Country. Submission piece. Head online to The Paperbook Blog and subscribe via email for weekly updates. Check out the Facebook page at The Paperbook Collective Follow me on Twitter @JaydeAshe
53 |
The
Paperbook
Collective.September
Issue.2013