Mash Stories Magazine Vol. 1 Issue 2

A Quarterly Fiction Magazine by

MashStories.com

Mashing Randomness into Stories

Issue No 2 2014 Quarter 2

Become the author of your life A discussion on integrity

Dentist Democracy Andromeda

Tune in to listen to all shortlisted stories.

What is Bitcoin?

By Brian Crain, Founder of Epicenter Bitcoin Bitcoin is a decentralized, global digital currency. If you don’t know what that means, no problem. It takes a while to wrap your head around it. But once you have done, you might just join those who believe that Bitcoin is the most important innovation since the internet.

It’s also a global thing and sending money to some remote corner of Africa is just as easy, cheap and fast as sending it to the person sitting right next to you (as long as there is internet). With Bitcoin, you can be your own bank and you take control of your own money.

Bitcoin is money, so you can use it in the same way. You can buy a pizza, furniture, your coffee or even a space flight with Virgin Galactic using Bitcoin. The number of businesses that accept it, ranging from small local stores to major e-commerce sites, is growing rapidly. But what makes people really excited about Bitcoin is something else.

It’s a revolution that’s breaking up the outdated, rusty and corrupt world of banking and replacing it with something that is open, decentralized, efficient, impartial and that knows no borders. And you can become part of it too.

Bitcoin is not issued or controlled by a government.

There is no central company, committee or authority that sets up arbitrary rules or abuses the system for their own profit. No banks or credit card companies take a cut from your transactions. Instead, control is with the individual. When you send bitcoin, it’s always person-toperson, so no one can tell you what to do and what not to do.

Why not buy some bitcoins (if you’re in the US visit

Coinbase.com, if not, Localbitcoins.com), see what you can buy with bitcoins on BitPremier, find a local Bitcoin meetup group, and of course, don’t forget to donate a bit to Mash Stories.

Visit EpicenterBitcoin.com for more information

EDITOR’S NOTE IN 500 WORDS

T

he Mash Stories writing competition is truly underway. In the last three months we’ve seen another flurry of great submissions: the keywords this time around – Andromeda, democracy, dentist – certainly didn’t put people off!

so, you’ll have seen the Breaking Bad-inspired article. Well, cooking up a short story is just as complicated, just as fine an art. To continue with the cooking analogy, I find it’s like making a fine stock: you start with certain ingredients, you chop them up and bring them together, then let them simmer for a while – and your final result should be a delicious, concentrated reduction.

One thing I’m finding fascinating about the Mash concept is how it forces you to question your every sentence. You really get to understand not just what is important to your story, but also what is important to you. The way you are forced to remove so many phrases that you were proud of, so that you can round off the story adequately in 500 words. The way you have to shift things around, deleting one thing here so that you can add something more crucial in another place. Most of all, the word limit makes you realize just how sparing you can be with language and still get your point across – you realise how little you actually need.

And that’s what this competition is like. In attempting to write for Mash, I’ve found that the genius of the competition is this: the exercises you go through as an author to respond to the challenge make you a better writer. First of all, you write, and you maybe leave it a while before going back to your story. Then you edit, because you’ve had a little time to think about it. So you improve your editing skills, and then you churn out a better story. This version, because it’s such an improvement on your last, is more difficult for you to edit. So you have to become an even better writer to make sure that the second, third or fourth edit is finally satisfactory. Put simply, with Mash Stories, you teach yourself something new at every step, in every competition.

This doesn’t mean that a 500-word short story has to be linguistically boring, though. The satisfaction of finding the perfect word to replace a whole sentence is huge. That vital adverb can speak volumes; the rule of “show, don’t tell” has never been more applicable, or necessary.

This quarter, another of our judges presented their inspiration piece. Jennifer Harvey’s The Technician Has Eyes of Deepest Blue is dreamy, introspective and beautifully written. You can read the winning and shortlisted stories from 2014’s second competition in this Mash Magazine (as well as Jennifer’s story) and online.

Hopefully you’ve been reading the Mash blog. If

As ever, to find out more about Mash Stories, to vote for the shortlisted stories, to enter the current competition, or to find out how you can help us out, please visit our website – MashStories.com.

Cheryl Whittaker

Chief Editor and Judge at Mash Stories

3

The loneliness of the short story writer: why Mash Stories believes in feedback Anyone who has ever entered a writing competition will know the feeling.

and find nothing wrong. You read it and discuss it and discover that you would not change a thing. It is exactly the way you want it to be.

The strange mix of elation and trepidation that overwhelms you as you hit enter and send your story out into the world.

You have two choices then. You can pop your story in a drawer and forget about it, or you can start the whole process all over again, with no guarantee the results will be any different this time round.

For many writers, stories are precious things. They exist only because their imagination has set them free, yet they are never independent things. A piece of the writer always remains within them.

All of this takes a lot of determination, a lot of self-belief and, as I said earlier, it takes guts.

As such, they are intimate objects, personal objects, things worthy of protection.

Here at Mash Stories, we understand these frustrations only too well.

Hitting that send button takes guts.

As writers we have all been through the submission process. The rejections slips are piled high on our desks too.

Because you’re sending a piece of yourself out into the world to be scrutinised and judged, you are making yourself vulnerable, and it takes a strong constitution not to be unnerved by that.

But we also understand that it doesn’t have to be this way.

While there are many positive aspects to entering writing competitions, there is, undoubtedly, one very big downside.

Feedback, even if it is only a few words of encouragement, can be incorporated into the judging process.

Invariably you will enter and you will not win.

Worse still, you will probably never know how far your precious story came during the judging process. Was it eliminated in the first round? Did some readers like it?

Did I just miss out on the shortlist?

Why not?

Who knows?

It has been fascinating to see the ingenious ways writers have responded to the three random words - as our shortlist shows.

In the 6 months that Mash Stories has been up and running we have received hundreds of stories, some well-crafted, some less so.

It can seem, at times, as if your story has been sucked into a black hole.

If we can say anything about the writers who submit to us then it is this: you have powerful imaginations, and this is something we believe should be acknowledged.

All you can do is dust yourself down and try to figure out what it is that needs fine tuning.

Perhaps, if you’re lucky, you have a trusted group of readers who can help you, who can point out the things that aren’t working and suggest solutions.

Since we started offering free feedback last quarter, very few writers have declined our offer.

On the face of it this may seem daunting. How can you respond to hundreds of stories? Impossible, surely?

Sometimes though, you can go back to a rejected story

4

It certainly requires a degree of dedication and organisation, this is true, but, as we are learning, it is not impossible.

We have found it helps to consider a few specific things when reading a submission. Call it a checklist, if you will.

• • • • •

Plot Character Language General Theme Author’s Potential

With these simple, objective criteria you can pretty much get enough sense of a story to evaluate its merits or its faults.

Beyond that, of course, comes the subjective part.

Every reader has their own personal taste when it comes to stories. Some prefer character led tales, others a wellpaced plot.

Some prefer rich, poetic, textured language. Others like their prose to be short and snappy and taut.

The more stories you read and evaluate however, the more one thing becomes clear.

A good writer will create a well-structured story that hits you with the very first sentence and keeps you hooked all the way to the end.

Our aim here at Mash Stories is to demystify the selection process and make it as transparent as possible. We want our writers to know why their story was selected or why it failed to make the grade.

We also want to get our readers involved in choosing a winner by voting for their favourites on our shortlist.

After all, our opinions are just that – the opinions of our judges - and objective checklists can only take you so far.

Hopefully our reading process and voting structure will provide our writers with two things: useful feedback and an insight into the impact of their story upon readers.

Writing, after all, is a solitary business and we here at Mash Stories understand that a little encouragement now and then can make all the difference.

5

The Technician Has Eyes Of Deepest Blue The technician has eyes of deepest blue.

I notice them as she leans over me. Feel her brush against my cheek, the crimson flush rising on the surface of my skin.

Towards a radio blaring in some corner of the room. Fervent voices raised in argument.

“Just a tiny prick, okay?” she says.

“In a healthy democracy there would be space for all opinions to be considered.”

I nod “Uh-huh” but I am already lost, remembering a deeper blue I saw once.

And I nod.

“You’ll see stars soon” she smiles.

“Uh-huh. Uh-huh.”

At least I think that’s what she says.

“What a peculiar thing for a dentist to say”, the last thought I have.

Even though I understand now, that those voices are so tiny in the dark, are so easily lost amid the blue, where it is deepest.

Because I fall then, into the blue. Spiralling down towards the centre of something.

She leans towards me, and there is something there, some hint of something. Concern?

And there are stars.

“Mr Andrews? Hello there!”

In the deep blue, as it turns to black, I catch sight of them as I spin in the centre of a pinwheel.

“Cassiopeia” I say to her.

She laughs “It’ll take a while for the anaesthetic to wear off.”

Mythical names I have long forgotten, names I can never recall at will, suddenly known, all their strangeness lost.

And if I could reach out towards her, if I could touch her, I would.

Cassiopeia. Circinus. Pegasus. Andromeda.

Galaxies and constellations in a universe that is infinite.

But she steps aside and seems to disintegrate into the white, white light of the room.

And I had not known it was possible to feel it. To feel the expansion into … well, into what exactly? Infinity?

Which spins a little still, and makes my head throb.

It spins. Or so it feels. Generating a force that pushes everything outwards into the blue.

In the corner the radio plays on. A happy tune that dances towards the stars.

And I float on with it.

Then upwards into a dazzle of white, the colours splintering in a spectrum flash.

This story is written by one of the members of the MASH jury, Jennifer Harvey, for the second MASH competition as a sample story. The keywords for this competition were: Andromeda, democracy, dentist.

“Mr Andrews? Mr Andrews?”

“Uh-huh…. Uh-huh…”

She pulls me up into the light towards a garble of voices and chattering and sound.

6

Writer’s World on the

Contents 3

13

4

14

6

15

8

16

9

17

EDITOR’S NOTE IN 500 WORDS

The loneliness of the short story writer Why Mash Stories believes in feedback

The Technician HasEyes Of Deepest Blue

Mash Competition’s winning story The Missing Links by Toirdealbhach Lionáird

First Runner Up Colonial Dentistry by Bryan Lawver

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Second Runner Up The Cleansing by Dylan Gonzalez

11

Roots by Alyson Hilbourne

12

(Un)happy Things by Ellie Strong

Power by Ros Collins

Web

Planet eBook

The Appointment by Susan Bianculli

Siege by Sean Fagan

The Dentist’s Chair by Michael E A Lyons

The home of high-quality and free classic literature, Planet eBook offers a comprehensive list of classics that are free to download, read and share. Get to it! www.planetebook.com/freeebooks.asp

SourceBottle PR

Happy Anniversary by Mike Billeter

18

The Perfect Surname by Nor’dzin Pamo

19

My Big Fat Mythical Greek Wedding by Bill Bibo Jr

20

INTEGRITY: Become the author of your life

Would you like to be quoted as a source in the media? Then create an account with the SourceBottle website to have publicity opportunities emailed to you.

SourceBottle connects expert sources with journalists for free.

So how does it work? Simple.

Subscribe to be a source, start receiving emails by experts in search of a story, and respond to them online. Good luck! www.sourcebottle.com

Published by IMODERNA Publishing Limited, England.

Designed by Liviu Iancu.

All rights reserved by Mash Stories © March 2014.

7

The Missing Links “I’ll do it myself.”

ravenously across the table but she drew back her hands like a snake would its tongue after depositing the venom.

The customary tut followed. He was used to her tutting but since her last visit to the dentist, her tuts had a clackity ring to them. There wouldn’t be time to get used to the change. He watched as a clumsy hand gripped and regripped the finicky clasp, a perceptible shake evident in her hands. They were unused to this new position at the back of her neck and it didn’t help that he’d shortened the chain; another link removed. He had her now and he knew it. She didn’t yet, but she would.

“Now, now, Henry. I’m thirsty.” Hoarse by now, she craved a drink. The waiter had vanished.

Henry sat back in his seat, a little chastened but prepared to wait it out. It was just then that he noticed the pearls.

The shiny dots of perfection enhanced an ageing neckline. She was such a lady. He began to reply before a large trumpeting voice from behind them drowned out his words.

It took until just after the third attempt before he was summoned into action once more. Mini mountain ranges of wrinkles protruded and rivers of veins bulged as the chain squeezed tight. With a delicate knowing catch and release, he let go of the flawless pearls and there they hung around her neck, an ornate, sparkling Andromeda.

Her eye caught his. The thinnest of smiles reached her mouth but her eyes were dull and opaque.

“Whadya mean people should have a choice? There’s too much damn democracy in this state if you ask me!”

Henry turned back again to address his date, who had started to cough. A whimper and then a splutter. A gasp and then a couple more. He hastily mimed the drinking sign to the waiter and then stopped with a gasp. Angela stared across at him, with a glaring intent, like a light had come on behind her eyes.

“Will you manage tonight?” Without me, she might have said.

“Sure I will, Angela.”

“Angela. Your face! It’s beetroot red! You’re positively purple!”

With an acquiescent nod, his mother swished across the carpet, her painted toes that smouldering crimson tone that leaves take on before they wilt in autumn into an airless nothingness.

Her hands were shaking in supplication around her neck.

The pearls! He scrambled across to her and grabbed the string of beads but his fingers couldn’t find the release catch. Angela was spluttering now, her eyes bulging to the point of popping out of her skull. She gasped and tutted her last.

*** Settling into her seat at the restaurant, she shooed away the waiter. She was perspiring, had been since she left the apartment. The tightness around her neck felt like a noose. Had she put on weight? Her date reached

Toirdealbhach Lionáird tolionaird@gmail.com Toirdealbhach Ó Lionáird is the deputy principal at an all-Irish language second level school in south west Ireland. In between classes and sometimes during, he writes short stories, poetry and gets involved in amateur dramatics. He is also developing an idea for a play and has begun a novel for teenagers. http://teaandpeach.wordpress.com/

8

Colonial Dentistry

I

t was called an Andromeda-class ship, but the name was symbolic more than anything. The only colonies we had were still within range of our own familiar star, but I think it was meant to reinforce that there would be others, and perhaps they would go beyond what was even conceivable when we launched.

Command structures would give way to democracy, selftaught surgeons would yield to trained doctors, and we would need teachers and clerks and police. And me, the logic went.

I was skeptical, to say the least. I had all of my rudimentary tools, but anything serious would have to wait until the rest of my equipment arrived. I think the idea was to get me established first, to get people used to the idea that their community was something real, something permanent. Also, the first children had just been born, so mundane but necessary professions had been prioritized. It seemed strange even to us to have a rocket full of psychologists, nutritionists and so on, but we had to be prepared. This was historic, and we wanted to make sure that the first generation of humans born off-world, the first generation of Martians, was well taken care of. Knowing that didn’t make things feel any less absurd, but we knew the logic was sound.

Our first stop was, naturally, Luna. It was the first extraterrestrial community, though it was closer to an Antarctic research outpost than the Martian or asteroid-bound communities. Even the newer space stations felt more hospitable. But being older and fussier than the rest, Luna needed more care. The trip was eventful for the mechanics and technicians, who didn’t stop working the whole three days we were there. I did a few cleanings, which the colonists seemed to indulge in mostly for the novelty. The food they have out there doesn’t contain much sugar, and the strange things that space does to bones (including teeth) were beyond what I could fix in a few days.

Honestly I was little more than a passenger at this point. Unlike the mechanics, I would not be coming home. The idea was for me to pick the community (most likely Martian) that suited me best and needed me most, and set up practice there. I was just one small part of the Extraterrestrial Homestead Initiative. A miniscule part, really. But if we were going to make a real attempt at colonization we would need to turn bands of astronauts living in tin cans into something resembling cities back home.

None of this prepared us for the actual experience of spaceflight. We knew what we were doing, we knew that it was important, but we didn’t know how it would feel to see your entire world, the only planet you had ever even considered habitable, shrinking to the size of your palm. To paraphrase one of the first men to leave the Earth, they should have sent a poet. But what they had instead was a dentist.

Bryan Lawver bryan.lawver@gmail.com Bryan Lawver writes copy by day and weirder things by night. He is currently exploring a love-hate relationship with Boston, where he has lived for the last three years. He enjoys running, frequenting independent movie theaters, and other excuses not to work. You can find his contact info and some non-fiction pieces at www.bryanlawver.com.

9

The Cleansing T

he entire set-up, with the chains and the rock, reminded Dr. Jefferies of the myth of Andromeda, although assuming this was anything but coincidental was giving the plebeians too much credit. He doubted even one in the mass up there knew their Chronos from their Cicero.

union members weren’t listening.

They had kept moving down the chain: every time they cut off the top, a new top freshly revealed.

Now Dr. Jefferies was the one in the pit. He was a dentist, for Christ’s sake. Sure, he had a vacation home in Cabo and a Lexus, but he worked hard to get here, harder than any of them. And who the hell was going to clean their teeth now?

More than the heat or the hunger pains, it sickened Dr. Jefferies that he once counted himself among them. How low an estimation of himself he had! The stupidity was apparent on their faces, leering down over the guardrail, each one as blank as the next.

He couldn’t help noting the similarity between their open mouths and those of the dead fish at his feet.

Dr. Jefferies tugged on the chain, but as the masons were as yet to be cleansed, it remained firmly set in the rock. A murmur rose in the crowd. Alligator snouts were now sticking from the waters’ edge. He looked up at the construction workers and waiters and cab drivers. You all just wait, he thought. Enjoy your cavities!

When the fervour had begun, he got caught up in the romanticism of it all, a hearkening back to the idealism of his college days, when he had marched with placards and shouted slogans until his voice grew hoarse. This new movement talked about reclaiming democracy, salting the leeches who sucked society dry. Dr. Jefferies had talked of the same things twenty years earlier, before school and the practice had sucked up his remaining time and commitment. Their rhetoric had reignited his passion. He felt there were plenty perched in the financial district that could use a good uprooting.

At first he made a single donation to a local chapter, a moderate amount but not enough – he wanted to get right inside the gaping maw of this movement and make his mark. He cut back at the practice and was soon volunteering his spare time alongside other professionals – engineers and journalists and marketing strategists – each with their own special skill set and all with a common goal. When the time had come, when they had riled up the public to unstoppable proportions, the cleansing had begun.

Time forbidding, he had been there for many of them – bankers, CEOs, businessmen.

dylan.gonzalez@outlook.com

Dylan Gonzalez lives in Toronto. He is a writer and amateur filmmaker, and has a BA in Professional Writing. He spends a disproportionate amount of his time reading books. When not reading or writing, he enjoys watching bad movies, exploring the city and annoying his cat, Frankie.

But the cleansing had continued. The lawyers had been next. OK, so they wouldn’t exactly be missed.

Then a few engineers had been cleansed, even one who played a prominent part in the movement. Dr. Jefferies had spoken out about this – they weren’t that well off – but the mechanics and bakers and

10

Roots M

iriam’s mother keened. The cry hovered in the air like a bird of prey.

She had known something wasn’t right. Miriam’s behaviour had been peculiar: restless and agitated. But her mother was shocked to find the note on Miriam’s pillow.

“Can’t stand this bourgeois existence any longer. Gone to find myself.”

he too was gaunter and restless. The hair round his ears was greyer and his eyes had bags under them.

Miriam’s mother confided in her parents.

“She needs a good hiding,” Miriam’s grandfather said.

“Young people today don’t know how lucky they are. My generation fought for freedom and democracy and they just waste it.”

Miriam’s grandmother rolled her eyes.

Miriam’s mother held the note, frozen for a moment, disbelieving, as if doing nothing would negate it. She and her husband worked hard, he as a dentist and she as the practice receptionist. They had given Miriam everything she had ever wanted. Why was she treating them like this?

“Now look what you’ve done! Got him on his high horse.

I’m sure she’ll come back when she’s ready. You were the same at her age. Remember? All flower power, long skirts and beads. You called yourself Andromeda for a while and hung out with that long-haired chap who called himself Orion.”

The police were not interested.

Miriam’s mother blushed at the memory while Miriam’s father looked at her more appreciatively and licked his lips.

“Eighteen? Well, she can do as she wishes, but we can add her details to the computer. Bring us in a photo.”

“She’ll be back,” Miriam’s father said. “She likes her comfort too much.”

Miriam’s mother wanted to believe him, but the weeks passed and Miriam didn’t reappear. She didn’t sleep. She worked on autopilot, pasting a smile on her face as she greeted patients, prepared bills, and ordered supplies.

She found it hard to concentrate and often stared out of the window until jolted back into reality by someone’s polite cough. She picked at food and lost weight, her skirts resting on her hips and rings loose on her fingers.

As winter approached she worried Miriam was living in a squat or yurt somewhere.

“If she’s unhappy, she’ll come home,” her father said, but

“Andromeda,” he mumbled.

Christmas was quiet. Miriam’s mother prepared the turkey and trimmings but barely ate. Her father stared at the television screen, his eyes glazed.

One evening, just before New Year, there was a knock at the door.

Her heart thumping and fearing the worst, Miriam’s mother went to open it.

“Miriam!” She held out her arms.

“I’ve come home. I’ve decided to apply for university.”

“That’s wonderful,” her mother said.

“What’s wrong?”

Miriam clutched the side of her mouth.

Shortlisted Story

Alyson Hilbourne

“Toothache,” she muttered. “Need Dad to look at it.”

Alyson Hilbourne currently lives in Yokohama, Japan where she works as a teaching assistant. She writes short stories and travel articles. She also loves travelling, diving and skiing. She belongs to the online writing group “Writers Abroad” and can be found on Twitter.

She was ushered through to the surgery, where her father put on a mask and gown.

ados123@gmail.com

11

“I’ve got it,” he said after a few moments.

“Seems to be a problem with your bourgeois roots… Nothing we can’t fix.”

(Un)happy Things I

remember watching one of those makeover shows that she loved, although I don’t know why.

There was an extremely tanned dentist discussing how disgusting a woman’s teeth were in the most blatant way possible but, for some reason, I couldn’t switch the channel over.

is a democracy, Miss Isabelle.” I stood up and threw her over my shoulder, causing her to giggle uncontrollably.

“I’m going to call her Andromeda,” a precocious little voice said from the doorway.

I placed her on her bed amongst a small army of cuddly toys and carefully took Andromeda away before placing her in her hamster wheel. I told Izzy that we should keep her in the study so that she didn’t wake Izzy up in the middle of the night but she refused. She said she wanted her exactly where she could see her.

I turned my head to see Izzy bounding towards me, cradling the brown hamster I had bought her earlier that day. She jumped on to the sofa and I instinctively wrapped my arm around her small body.

“We’re doing Greek mythology in school and I think that Andromeda had the coolest name.”

“You should be in bed,” I said.

“But I’m not tired,” said Izzy, constantly moving her hands so that Andromeda could run across them.

I’d never understood people’s fascinations with hamsters; they never seemed cute to me, yet Izzy had always wanted one and I was so desperate to make her happy during those initial weeks. Looking back I’m not sure if I was indulging myself or her the most.

“I don’t care,” I said. “You’ve got school tomorrow.”

“Well, me and Andromeda took a vote and decided to stay up longer.

It’s two against one, dad.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “You’re fooling yourself if you think this

“What’s a democracy?” She asked as I walked up the stairs.

“A question for another day.”

“But I can’t sleep,” Izzy pleaded, her innocent eyes boring in to mine.

“I know, love,” I replied, pulling the duvet up around her and kissing her forehead. “Just think of happy things.” I switched on the lamp next to her bed, which instantly emitted a lilac light that made the whole room look like it was lost in the moments just before the sun sets.

As I closed the door behind me I had to squeeze my eyes shut to stop the tears from flowing. How could she do this to us? To her only child?

I knew how much I loved Izzy and the idea that there could be something worth more than that love to tempt me away from her was so alien that I couldn’t comprehend it.

Whatever happened next, I was certain that Izzy would never go through life thinking that she was anything other than loved.

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Shortlisted Story

Ellie Strong elinor.rees@btinternet.com Ellie Rees currently lives in South Wales and has enjoyed writing from a young age, attempting to write her first novel aged 9 only to discover that, surprisingly, three pages doesn’t make a book.

She has written a full-length fantasy fiction novel that is as yet unpublished but hopes to one day see her work on the shelves of her favourite book shop. Read more about her and her work here: http://ellierees.weebly.com/

Power A

ndromeda stared at her bloodstained t-shirt in disbelief. The most exciting thing she had planned for the day was a dental appointment for a long-overdue check-up. How the hell had this happened? The other women in the room were in various stages of shock and she needed to take control.

A few of the women began to sob whilst others were stilled into silence.

Biting her bottom lip, Andromeda edged towards the dead body of the man whom, until now, she’d only thought of in nondescript terms, if at all. He’d been her dentist for years and there hadn’t been a hint. She averted her head whilst she fumbled in his pockets, hoping for a set of keys. Bile surged into her mouth and her throat stung as she swallowed it down.

Andromeda raised her head and looked around. Eyes wide with terror were fixed on her, waiting to see what she would do.

Her brain clicked backwards. Had she missed something? The receptionist had smiled at her with unusual sympathy but Andromeda thought nothing of it. Now she wondered. The last thing she’d expected was to enter the treatment room and have a blanket thrown over her head. The injection through her jeans into her buttocks knocked her out immediately and when she came round she was in a room with ten other women. It was apparent the only thing they had in common was an appointment with Mr Roberts, their dentist.

The women raised their hands and Andromeda smiled at the man whom she decided was completely mad.

“Good afternoon ladies,” he had said in a syrupy tone.

“I have gathered you together to test my theories about power and democracy.”

Mr Roberts reached down into the sports bag at his feet and removed a small revolver. The women gasped in unison.

“One person will be shot today. You will all give a presentation outlining why you should live and then we will all vote for the person to take the bullet.”

“Who will be the one to start us off? Andromeda, I’ve known you the longest – are you happy to entertain us first?”

“Mr Roberts, I think we all understand the meaning of democracy. In the true sense of the word it should include you and if I could have a show of hands…”

“Well, now, are you going to prove your belief in democracy? We have unanimously voted for you to be the unlucky one.” Andromeda’s heart was beating so fast she wondered if she was in danger of hyperventilating.

Mr Roberts gave a small bow of admiration and with a hand that was completely steady he put the muzzle in his mouth and pulled the trigger. In the confined space the sound was deafening.

Gathering her thoughts Andromeda retrieved the keys and prised the gun, feeling a rush of power.

“Long live democracy,” she shouted, waving the gun.

The new ripple of fear that ricocheted round the room was surprisingly satisfying.

Shortlisted Story

Ros Collins ros.collins@talktalk.net Ros Collins is a retired school teacher. She lives with her husband in the seaside town of Felixstowe, Suffolk. Walks by the sea provide the perfect stimulus for new creative projects. Her hobbies are writing, tennis and travelling.

13

The Appointment A

ndromeda paused in her work to sit up straight for a moment. Her lower back ached because the Ambassador of the planet Felicity’s democracy had been in the dentist’s chair for the last half hour getting a careful cleaning of his teeth and fillings.

busy. So we thought we’d try you here.” Helan’s eyes sought hers, and he grimaced as he saw her being restrained. She absurdly felt grateful to the man who held her. It made her feel less guilty.

“Ooh, oo ant oo awk?” Helan said.

Helan opened one purple-irised eye.

The Feliciter smiled grimly. “Yes. Is now a bad time?”

“Aw hu aww ight?” he asked.

The Ambassador clicked his tongue behind his teeth.

A laser burst out of one of his fillings, killing the man who stood over him. Having the advantage of surprise, Helan shot all the Democratists in a matter of split seconds. Andromeda screamed as the man holding her dropped to the floor.

She smiled sadly under her facemask. He’d seemed so nice when she’d been doing his intake information; it was a shame about what going to happen to him.

“Yes, I am, thanks for asking,” she replied, wriggling on the stool to find a more comfortable position without letting go of the instruments in his mouth.

The Ambassador removed the dental equipment from his mouth.

“En ill uh eniss um?”

“Actually, yes. This is a bad time,” he said, rising.

“The dentist is working on a root canal in the other room,” she said. “It won’t be long now. And I’m not quite finished yet, anyway.”

Helan looked at her. “Andromeda, cancel the rest of my appointment, please. I would like to come back tomorrow to finish up, and get this filling repaired as well. Can you fit me in?”

Satisfied, he closed his eyes again.

In truth, she was finished, but returned to poking around in his mouth. She was just delaying. She knew Dentist Macomber was not going to come, because others were coming instead. The Democratists, a new political party on Felicity, had come earlier to the office and bribed Macomber to allow them to take Helan hostage so their demands could be met back home. As the hygienist, she’d been told that if she wanted to keep her job she had better keep her mouth shut and allow it to happen.

Andromeda could only nod dumbly as the Ambassador stepped with unconcern over the bodies on his way out.

Shortlisted Story

Susan Bianculli

As she was remembering, a hand covered her mouth as different hands took over her tools. She inhaled sharply, and then realized the Democratists were here.

pseudodragon123@gmail.com

“Hello, Ambassador,” said a Felicity man beside him.

Susan Bianculli, a happily married mother of two living in Georgia, has loved to read all her life. As a graduate of Emerson College with a Minor in Writing, she is finally making a foray to the other side of the book cover. She hopes, through her stories, to share and inspire in young readers the same love of reading that she had at their age, and still has now.

Helan’s eyes snapped open. He tried to get up, but hands held him down as the speaker pressed the instruments into the Ambassador’s mouth. He winced.

So did she.

“We’ve been trying to get an appointment to see you for a while now, but your secretary always says you’re

14

Siege

A

small layer of faded, pink paint falls gently from tired walls in a room cast in a patina of grey dust. He approaches the window and wearily kneels down. He slowly looks through frayed curtains.

smoke lingers from the rifle barrel. The man in the room rises – not before checking for movement on the street one more time. The sun finally sinks into the hushed void of night.

Outside, the sun against cerulean brilliance, illuminates the fractured street. He dare not look at the immovable body prostrate on the bed behind him. Upon one of her silent ivory fingers is a gold ring.

Now he would sleep like huddled animal, in corner, existing, struggling to find clean breath, but not here.

He never releases his grip on his rifle even in the troubled depths of his sleep. During the night a feral cat, wild-eyed and ragged, pours itself into the house through a broken window. It quickly leaves, not first without waking him. Even predatory animals know, instinctually, if a place will eat them.

A lone dog, emaciated but determined, its ribs in bold relief, scavenges the street - the only pedestrian. He loads his gun with sharp bullets, when finished he sits motionless, like a forgotten statue. Beneath, amongst concrete shards - blood stains old and new mock the plain grey hues of splintered pavement. Democracy has long abandoned this place.

Without thinking he rises to check for food from a fridge that was empty a long time ago. Some habits are hard to change. Upon the fridge is a picture painted with childish hands. Bright red crayon depicts the outlines of a man, a woman, a child and a cat. In the background the sun beams – happier times. He looks away, out onto the derelict garden, where the turgid, round moon suffuses the unkempt lawn with a delicate silver wash. Hard to believe he was once a content family man, was once a dentist.

As the moon further ascends, the cat silently returns, slinking across the luminous garden. He recognises the cat – it Andromeda, his own cat. However, Andromeda doesn’t recognise him and quickly leaves to forage into the darkness of night. Before settling down again to sleep, he goes upstairs to check there is no movement on the street. He loads his rifle, puts on the safety, and then falls asleep.

And there he sits, immovable. The sun, beginning its slow, protracted fall - casts elongated shadows that slowly claw across the narrow street.

The clocks in the house are dead so time passes to its own slow beat. In the distance a man in uniform appears. Like a persistent apparition he slowly moves, closer. The soldier stays close to the shadows, moving precisely, cautiously.

A thunderous crack reverberates – then the thud of body falling, like cow slaughtered. The job done. Blue

Shortlisted Story

Sean Fagan seanboyo@yahoo.com Sean is a biologist who is also passionate about writing. Poems and articles form the bulk of his writings. As an incorrigible lover of nature, Sean’s idea of bliss is usually some form of outdoor activity. He is currently compiling a collection of 20 poems for publication and is writing articles for outdoor magazines and his blog.

15

The Dentist’s Chair J

ane closed her book and settled back into her deck chair. It was a pitch black night and starting to become chilly. She switched off her torch and pulled her gloves on, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. In the distance she could hear the sound of a barking dog and the rumble of traffic. She knew she would have to get up early in the morning—for the last day of work experience at the dental practice in town. The dentist was a friend of her mother.

“You could be a dental nurse or even a dentist,” her mother had said. “You like science and dentists earn lots of money.”

Reluctantly, she had agreed, just as she had agreed to do biology A-level, even though she hated it.

“There are lots of opportunities in medicine,” her mother said.

But Jane had other ideas. She wanted to be an astronomer and had insisted on doing physics and maths as well.

The arguments with her mother would continue but at the moment she had only one aim: to find the Andromeda galaxy. Her book, a constellation guide, said it was ‘visible to the naked eye on a clear, dark, moonless night.’ Tonight was just such a night and it didn’t happen very often, so she was determined to find Andromeda. Pegasus was easy enough—it was a big square of bright stars—but how could anyone imagine that it looked like a horse? And a horse with wings at that! But there it was, with a sort of triangle of stars attached to the bottom right hand corner and a

line of three stars sticking up from the top left hand corner—that was Andromeda, just three stars— whoever dreamed up those names? She knew that they were characters from Greek legends.

Was it Plato…? No, he wasn’t much of a scientist; he believed in the spontaneous generation of frogs.

Democritus…? No, he invented democracy, didn’t he? Aristotle… yes, it was him. His star chart was used for hundreds of years and he named the constellations after mythological characters. ‘But they don’t look anything like a horse and a beautiful young princess,’ Jane thought. ‘More like a dentist’s chair, with a footrest and a tall back.’

Then, finally, she saw what she had been looking for. It was much fainter and larger than she’d been expecting, just an oval smudge of light, really. But she knew it was made up of billions of stars, spinning round like a slow motion Catherine wheel, and so far away that you could hardly see them.

“Jane! Come in now. You’ve got to get up in the morning for work experience.”

Her mother was calling into the night from the back door.

Tomorrow, Jane would arrive bleary-eyed at the dentist’s surgery.

She would be there for one more day and it would soon be over, but her journey through the universe was only just beginning.

16

Shortlisted Story

Michael E A Lyons mealyons@aol.com Michael Lyons writes fiction, nonfiction, and occasionally, poetry.

He lives on the south coast of England in a small cottage with a large garden. When not writing, he teaches mathematics and his leisure activities include astronomy, running and compiling his family tree.

Happy Anniversary H

e’s sitting in one of the chairs when I arrive. It takes me two seconds to realize this—one second longer than it should have. He knows I’m aware of his presence as soon as I know I’m aware of his presence.

As if to prove this, he leans forward, and half of his face sticks out around the chair’s high back. It’s the good half.

“We had orders, Steven,” I say. “If the target had escaped, an entire city would have been destroyed. I couldn’t save you and complete the mission. You would have done the same in my situation.”

“Hey there, Jimbo,” he says. My name is not Jim. It’s not James, Jimmy, or Jimbo. But he calls me Jimbo nonetheless. “It’s been a while.”

“Well I guess we’ll never know, will we?” Steven says.

“But one thing I do know is that I’ve lost everything. And that’s why I’m going to take everything from you. Not today. Not tomorrow. But some day. So go on living this fake little life you’ve built. Pretend you’re some sort of dentist. We both know what you really are.”

“It’s been five years, Steven,” I say. Five years to the day.

An anniversary I never planned to celebrate.

He turns to leave, but I know he’ll be back. I should shoot him. My gun’s sitting right there in my work bag.

“Did you think one of these low-grade security systems would keep me from getting into your office?” he asks, pointing to the numbered keypad on the wall. “At least you stepped things up at home. Went with the Andromeda Maximum Home Security System, huh? A tougher nut to crack. Good choice, Jimbo.”

Problem is, shooting your brother is easier said than done.

I say nothing.

“Not that I couldn’t have gotten into your house,” he continues. “I think we both know that. And I think we both know I woulda had no problem walking right up the stairs to your precious daughter’s room, tossing her yipyap puppy out the window, and giving her a good look at what her daddy did to me before throwing her out too.”

Steven stands up fully, and for the first time in five years, I see the damage that was done. Not that I could have forgotten. I see his face in my dreams regularly.

Not nightly anymore, but still more than I like. The scars have neither gotten worse nor better. They simply are what they are. My eyes flicker away, only for a moment.

But it’s a noticeable moment.

Shortlisted Story

Mike Billeter mike.billeter@gmail.com Mike Billeter is a writer living in South Dakota. He’s worked as a marketing copywriter for six years and is in the process of publishing his first children’s story, Samuel Sporter, The Bravest Reporter: Meets The Mysterious Mummy. Along with his beautiful wife, Lindsie (and their temperamental Yorkie, Jaeda), Mike recently finished walking across America, traveling 3,600+ miles entirely on foot. He is in the process of writing a book recounting the incredible life lessons learned from that adventure.

“DON’T YOU DARE LOOK AWAY!” Steven says, his voice rising to a whining shriek. Bitter hatred seeps into the cracks between each syllable. A hint of insanity dances around the edges of each sound. The gun trembling in his hand glints in the fluorescent lighting.

“You did this to me,” Steven says, “You left me there, screaming in agony as I burned. You walked away… abandoned me. All in the name of democracy.”

17

The Perfect Surname ‘Smith, Jones, Davies, Hughes …’ he thought to himself, strolling down the High Street.

‘These are obviously too ordinary. Tardis, Enterprise, Defiant, Serenity … these are too me and not sufficiently her.’

Gilbert Ramsbottom could still not quite believe that he was getting married. The wrong side of forty and the most boring, nondescript person in the known universe—in his opinion—and he was getting married.

How had that happened? Gazing into the mouth of a patient is not the most obvious way to meet the woman you are going to marry, but for a dentist called Gilbert there were not many options.

‘Rivendell, Mordor, Baggins, Took …’

Shortlisted Story

Nor’dzin Pamo nordzin@gmail.com

Nor’dzin Pamo lives in Wales, UK with her husband and two grown-up sons. She is the author of two books: Relaxing into Meditation and Spacious Passion. You can contact her via her blog: http://ngakma-nordzin.blogspot.com

“Perfect. Let’s go to that place in the arcade.”

Valerie had absolutely refused to become a Ramsbottom.

He could not blame her—the name had always blighted his social status—and he was quite happy to lose it as well. One of the advantages of living in a country where democracy and freedom of choice still had some meaning was that they could decide to choose their own surname. It was a simple procedure to adopt a new one.

But what name to choose?

‘Pegasus, Andromeda, Cassiopeia, Ursa …’

They always agreed. Everything was always so easy.

Arm in arm, Gilbert and Valerie ordered their meal at the little café and as they sat at a table, Gilbert noticed that Valerie was looking excited. She had something to tell him. He ignored the little voice inside that said ‘she is going to break up with you.’ Her excitement was happyexcitement, not anxious-excitement.

“I’ve found the perfect surname for us,” she exclaimed, unable to contain herself any longer.

And there she was, waiting for him.

“Oh, wonderful. Well done. What is it?”

‘Rose, Lily, Forget-me-not, Love-in-a-mist …’

“Hello, Darling.” She plonked a fat wet kiss on his mouth and he felt himself colour. “How is my gorgeous boy today?”

Would he ever get used to this? To be kissed by a buxom belle with come-to-bed eyes and curves in all the right places was beyond his wildest dreams. How did she find him attractive—a balding, skinny dentist, with a tendency to wear brown? He had decided that it was best not to question it, but to embrace it and enjoy the ride.

“Where shall we go to eat?”

“I quite fancy a burger today, if that is okay with you,” Gilbert replied.

18

“Dearheart.”

“Pardon?”

“Dearheart. It’s from a Terry Pratchett book. Isn’t it perfect?”

Well no, not really. It was too obvious, too clichéd, and likely to cause as much ridicule as ‘Ramsbottom’. Gilbert gazed into Valerie’s eyes. She gazed back like a child offering a gift. Her look was open and artless—she truly felt that ‘Dearheart’ was a wonderful surname to secure the union of their love. He melted into her eyes, and knew he could deny her nothing.

He heard himself say, “Yes, my love, it is indeed perfect.”

My Big Fat Mythical Greek Wedding After a long day of turning various monsters, villains, demi-gods to stone, all Perseus wanted was to remove his sandals, sit back, and maybe sneak in a nap before dinner.

“This isn’t a democracy! I wanted you to do it!”

Once, Andromeda’s beauty had angered the gods.

Perseus rescued her and then claimed her as his prize.

Now the rolls of her flesh flowed like the angry sea, a sea Perseus wanted no part of. Many days he wished he hadn’t turned Phineus, her original betrothed, into stone. Phineus now stood in the courtyard holding the bag with the Gorgon’s head. If he could reverse the spell, Perseus would have gladly given Andromeda back to him.

“That was some good flying today,” he said, patting Pegasus on the nose. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

The winged steed nodded in agreement.

“Perseus, is that you?” a shrill voice called from within the palace. A terrible shiver crawled down his back.

Pegasus snorted.

His dreams of a quieter life were interrupted by their son Mestor running into the palace, his hand covering his mouth and dripping blood.

“Easy, boy. You get to stay out here. I’m the one that married her,” Perseus said softly to his steed.

“Son, what’s wrong?” Perseus said.

“Perseus, get in here. Now.”

“He probably ran into one of those damn statues you have all over the place. It’s no wonder no one comes to our parties,” Andromeda said.

“Yes, dear.”

Taking down the oiled sack that held the Medusa’s head he placed it in the outstretched arms of a nearby statue. A small hole caught on a stone finger and two drops of the Gorgon’s blood fell to the earth. Instantly two serpents formed and slithered off into the brush.

Perseus stepped casually over them.

Mestor nodded and let Perseus look at his mouth.

“A tooth is loose. I have to take him to Kevinicus, the dentist.”

Perseus grabbed the boy and carried him out to Pegasus.

In seconds they were airborne. As the palace receded in the distance Perseus reached into a bag and drew out a large piece of candy.

Once inside the palace Perseus looked for a place to hide. But Andromeda was waiting for him. Her servants stepped back out of the way as she rolled her less than maidenly figure off the litter.

“Thanks, Mestor.”

“Where have you been all day?”

Mestor wiped the berry juice from his mouth and popped the entire piece of candy in.

“I was…”

“No problem, dad.”

“Off chasing monsters again?”

“Well… there was this one…”

Shortlisted Story

“I swear, at the slightest word of a demon you go flying off to gods know where. Can’t you stay home one day?

The neighbours are beginning to talk.”

Bill Bibo Jr bbibo50@gmail.com

“Well, there are quite a lot of…”

Bill lives with his wife in Madison, WI. Late at night he writes about intelligent mummies, incompetent zombies, and other things that scare him in the hope that someday they no longer will. billbibojr.blogspot.com

“Did you forget you were supposed to clean out the stables today? Shit just doesn’t fly away, you know.”

“Dear, we have servants to do that…”

19

INTEGRITY: Become the author of your life How often do you find yourself procrastinating? Or not feeling like doing something that you should be doing?

Or even afraid to embark on particular tasks?

According to Remco Vrielink, Trainer and Coach at Creative Consciousness, these are the ‘viruses’ in our system. And there is only one way to deal with them: wipe your system clean.

“Real integrity is doing the right thing, knowing that nobody’s going to know whether you did it or not.” Oprah Winfrey I recently attended an extremely inspirational talk at the Quantified Self meeting in Berlin. The speaker, Remco Vrielink, touched on a problem that many people suffer from chronically but cannot even name, unable to pinpoint what they’re doing wrong. And even when they do, the words diminish the gravity of the problem. The topic Remco talked about was phrased in many different ways: time management, getting organised, work–life balance, productivity, keeping promises and so on. But Remco pushed away all these over-used clichés, and presented a fresh perspective to the problem. He named the solution “integrity”.

Practice your integrity and then your life will change.

I was sceptical at first. I didn’t know what exactly they meant by “integrity”, and I didn’t understand how it could work. So I didn’t pay much attention to it. But a year later I had a big goal in mind, something which I really wanted to achieve. My goal was to qualify as a professional personal development trainer. But I had no idea how I was going to get there because I had zero background in training, teaching, presenting or public speaking. Besides, I was terrified of public speaking.

If you’re asking yourself how changing the name of a problem can help to solve it, just keep on reading, and you’ll understand how the weight of one word can do away with the majority of mayhem in your life.

That’s when I thought, let’s see if this integrity thing really works, let’s put it to the test. I knew the worldrenowned life coach, writer and speaker Anthony Robbins had also mentioned it, so I decided to give it a

SE: Hi, Remco. Thanks for joining us at Mash. Can you please tell us a bit about yourself an g history?

Remco: In October 2011 I took a training course with Creative Consciousness called Master I – A New State of Consciousness. The training focused heavily on integrity and asserted that integrity could help you to achieve

go.

S.E.: Sounds exciting! Before we dive into your journey, can you explain to us how integrity is defined in this context?

your goals.

The definition of integrity is:

20

promises? What happens if you miss a day or two and all your promises start to accumulate?

To do what I said I would do by when I said I would do it.

Ok, so this is how it works: each promise has a deadline – always specify this deadline when you make a promise.

So basically, to go through with all your commitments and promises.

For example, when I promise to call you tomorrow at 17:00 and I don’t do that, then that is the end of that promise. The promise has been ‘completed’, and the result is negative. That promise does not continue to linger around. You should now decide whether to recommit to it or not, e.g. I commit to call you a day later.

The definition didn’t seem difficult; I thought, I can do that. When I looked into it further, I also learned that there is some philosophy, some principle behind it, and I began to study it at Creative Consciousness.

Integrity is based on the idea that you need to build it like a muscle. The higher your level of integrity, the more likely you are to achieve success.

This should prevent your promises from accumulating, because each promise is given a particular time span.

Keeping every promise you make is the key to a successful life.

One thing to remember is that “bigger” promises consume more time. So it’s a good idea to have a good look at your agenda to see if you’re able to fulfil that promise. To make sure that promises do not accumulate, or clash with other commitments, you’ve got to schedule it carefully.

To explain the principle behind integrity, I found the following analogy useful: imagine that you are a system, a computer. Your body and brain are the hardware and your mind and subconscious are the software. Your software consists of different programs. Working on your integrity is like creating a new program, or a new app in your system. This program, called integrity, runs consistently, is open at all times, and it says: I do what I promise.

And in time, you will find that you have more time than you think. You’ll see how much of your time is “wasted” on small and unnecessary things. As your integrity score increases, you’ll start working thousands of times more efficiently and effectively, because you won’t have all the trivial stuff bogging you down on a daily basis.

Imagine if this program was always open in your system. It would be such a powerful basis on which to achieve any goal you set, right?

If you don’t do what you promise, that immediately weakens your program; it’s like a virus.

S.E.: But how do we create this new program?

S.E. How about keeping the list of promises realistic? How do we know how many promises to make per day?

Simple. You make promises and commitments, and simply fulfil them. These commitments can be made to you and to others; they don’t differ in value – they are all promises.

Keeping the list of promises realistic comes with experience. In the beginning it is not so easy to foresee how long something will take you, so you might overstretch yourself. In time, you’ll get more and more precise at predicting how long something will take you.

After a couple of weeks you’ll have a good idea of what you are capable of achieving and in what sort of time span. And with more time, the opposite effect will begin to kick in: you’ll think something will take you an hour, but you’ll be able to fulfill that promise in 30 minutes.

The more you fulfil your promises, the higher your level of integrity; therefore, the more powerful the program becomes. It goes like this: I promised, I did. I promised, I did. I promised, I did. That is how you build a new neural highway which becomes a program.

The stronger your integrity program, the more support you will receive with the next promise you make.

Because something in you knows that you are a person who always does what they say.

With regards to the number of promises, it’s a choice that everyone has to make for themselves. A good

S.E.: What happens when you can’t keep your

21

friend of mine from Holland prefers the mornings, for example. He gets up at 06:00, works on a personal project for about 2 hours (script writing), and then goes to work. So when he arrives at the office, he already has some quality hours in his pocket; he prioritizes things that really matter to him.

track to what degree you fulfilled your commitments and calculate the percentage. That is your level of integrity.

You can also track your commitments per week, but I recommend doing it on a daily basis. It is easier to track and quantify this way. I was monitoring almost every day except for weekends, vacations and training days.

I recommend to anyone that first they serve their main commitments in life before anything else. In the end, integrity is about making time while your mind says there is none. Start with commitments and promises that you are really passionate about, and attend to them first before turning to the ones that matter to you less. If you achieve 100% with all kinds of things at the end of the day, but didn’t spend any time on your biggest passion

You should also schedule enough rest and vacation time to have a balance. Integrity is not just about execution and doing.

S.E.: And how did your integrity levels vary at the beginning, and over time?

It wasn’t so coherent at the beginning. Some days my integrity was around 40%, and other days it was 80%.

But I noticed that, after some weeks, my level began to increase steadily.

or goal, then what’s the point?

Integrity works best when you set a goal that matters to you. You should make a plan with smaller commitments to get there and then simply fulfil each and every one of them.

As your “integrity muscle” gains strength, it becomes easier to fulfil your promises.

Even when you have a 9–5 job, you can create the time.

It is up to us to decide what we spend our time on. It depends on how badly you want to achieve your goal.

S.E. I had never thought that exercising one’s integrity would be possible. Is there anything else we can gain from this exercise?

S.E.: So, how should we go about this? Where should

Yes, there is. For example, when my level of integrity was high, I realised that I could achieve more with less effort. I had more energy, sharper focus and a pleasant sense of clarity.

we start?

What I did – and still do – is this: every morning, I make my morning coffee, and sit down to write down 5 to 10 commitments, depending on how much time they require.

I highly recommend that you test this yourself and see what you are capable of achieving when you up your level of integrity. You’ll discover just what becomes possible if you always do what you promise.

I also realized that what you take on should be about 20% outside of your comfort zone to really grow and build the muscle. So you have to challenge yourself a little bit. Not too much, not too little, just a sufficient amount to grow.

S.E: Thank you, Remco. Your approach has genuinely been an eye-opener for me. I hope that Mashers will also give it a go and use this technique to advance their careers and maintain a better balance of different aspects of their lives. Because writing is mostly a solitary occupation, it’s very easy for us to spend excessive amounts of time in front of our computers, or lost deep in books. I would also like to point out that if Mashers need further assistance, they can contact you via email. We’ll certainly keep in touch with you. Bye for now!

What is important here is to fulfil your promises, no matter what. I sometimes didn’t feel like it, or it was a difficult promise to fulfil. Nevertheless, I just did it, because I said I would; my goal was to have 100% integrity and fulfilment at the end of the day.

At the end of the day, you should sit down again, and

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