The Ironic Fantastic #5 by paulobrito

The Ironic Fantastic Edited by Paulo Brito

Editing and design by Paulo Brito Publisher: Gloomy Seahorse Press / dec.2015 ISBN - 978-1-326-49891-7 All copyrights reserved to their respective owners.

The Ironic Fantastic #1 & The Ironic Fantastic #2 can be freely downloaded from www.smashwords.com The Ironic Fantastic #3 can be freely downloaded from www.lulu.com

Dedicated to

Mercie Silva Why? Why not!

This project was inaugurated by the writer Rhys Hughes

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Foreword I am pleased to make this anthology available to all thoughtful and distracted readers. If the basic idea was to just edit texts related to the fantastic, I wanted from the beginning to also publish any text that is fantastic. This anthology is not entirely written in English. It has two works in French not translated. This number is composed of works by already established authors and of works by fantastic, courageous beginners. The spectacular cover drawings (front & back) were made by the amazing Carlos Rocha; my deep gratitude. On page 20 the illustration is by Shiigichan. The illustrations on pages 28 (Aquamaria), 34 (Living in Your Head), 40 (Blackbird) are by Öyster. Adam Sarmento has an illustration on page 48 (What Awaits). The photo on page 36 was provided by Sara Almeida to illustrate her text. The drawing on page 60 was doodled by Mercie while sitting on a beach, looking at the ocean at Foz, Porto; which inspired her poem “Unveiling”. The monkey hanging on the moon, which occupies, provocatively, most of the pages, was kindly provided by Rhys Hughes and is authored by Chris Harrendence. Margarida Brito said that she knows how to draw... so on page 38 and 50! The others images by Paulo Brito. “I used to be a firefighter. We were always fighting, fire and I, in the house and in the street, even in front of our friends. Then I stopped fighting fire and we made up. We embraced, we kissed with tongues and now we’re a good match.” - Rhys Hughes Maybe it isn’t a perfect issue, but sure it is a fun one. carpe diem 5

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Acknowledgements My gratitude to all those who directly and / or indirectly contributed to this anthology. Sara Almeida daughter of a homeless who died on the streets of Lisbon. Boris Glikman is a writer, poet and philosopher from Melbourne, Australia. The biggest influences on his writing are dreams, Kafka and Borges. His stories, poems and non-fiction articles have been published in various online and print publications, as well as being featured on national radio and other radio programs. Harry McCullagh , Age 6 foot, height 200 pounds, weight 57, Bearded Brisbane Australia Doggerelist, Observer of Fictions, Natural Cynic, Recorder of failed histories. Closely related, but not too closely, to “evil” Deke Lee Mercie Pedro e Silva is a full-time English teacher and part-time translator, who writes poetry in her free time. She’s an avid reader with an eclectic taste. She grew up in Toronto, Canada, but currently resides in Viana do Castelo, Portugal. Sissy Pantelis is a fantasy writer; she writes prose and comics. Has worked as a coeditor in French SF magazine GALAXIES. Various articles and interviews by her were published in English and French. Has often collaborated with Hugo awarded online fanzine Mind Meld- SF Signal. Her short stories have been published in French, Greek, Spanish and English in various magazines and anthologies. Short graphic stories written by her were published in British and American comic anthologies. Her published comics include Locked Out ( by American publisher DBC) and two issues of popular South American EURI series( issue #1: REVELATION and issue #2 HAGALAZ) co-written with Hernando Diaz, creator of the series. She is currently working on a few graphic novels(in diverse styles and with various artists) BLUE SPARKLES (art by French artist VURORE aka Aurore Barois) will come out by British comic publisher MARKOSIA in 2015. Fiona Duffin, born in Australia, Fiona has lived in Africa and the Far East, returning to the UK in 1985, where she trained in both design and marketing communications. Currently working as a London-based freelancer, she writes prose poetry and sketches cartoons and line drawing illustrations of people and animals in her spare time. Rhys Hughes is a writer of Fantasy and Magic Realism who often uses comedy 6

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and absurdism to examine philosophical issues. Known for his original ideas, intricate plots and entertaining wordplay. He is one of the most prolific and successful authors in Wales, although his work has rarely been available in his own country. His earliest publications were chess problems and mathematical puzzles for newspapers. His first short story was published in 1992 and since then he has embarked on a project that involves writing exactly one thousand linked ‘items’ of fiction, including novels, to form a gigantic story cycle. Many of these individual items have appeared in magazines, journals and anthologies around the world. His work is currently being translated into French, Spanish, Portuguese, Russian, Serbian and Greek. Carlos Rocha, Born in Angola in 1974, but naturalized as Portuguese. In Olhão he settled, and around the age of fifteen he made his first comics, initially just for pure entertainment, and since then has never stopped. Has exhibited individually and collectively, and worked in regional newspapers and fanzines. The album “Vamos Aprender”, in partnership with the writer Aida Teixeira and edited by Kingpin in 2013 was his first book published. DF Lewis, around 1000 stories published in print from 1986-2000, 12 multauthored anthologies produced 2001-2010 (including Nemonymous), hundreds of real-time reviews issued 2008 to date, now called Dreamcatchers. Marie Ferandji, I’m 23 years old. I’m passionate about people and languages. From my early teens, I started travelling and since then I’ve very much enjoyed meeting different people and discovering different cultures. I am currently working as an Oral English Teacher in a Chinese Vocational College in Wuhan, Hubei Province. Two years ago, I was very lucky to meet Rhys Hughes in Swansea, Wales . It’s actually the love for salsa that brought us together. The texts that you can read in this anthology date back to a time when I was in the grips of some emotional turmoil and when I could find solace, relief and a cathartic effect in writing. I think I was very much interested in writing about feelings, sensations and impressions in a way that would sublime the reality of my experiences. Pedro Oliveira, I guess those who read my poetry-like text may want to know something about me, and honestly, so do I. But not to leave you standing on your wondering knees, I’m Pedro, a Portuguese languages student that is quite fond of literature and music. José Alexandre, I’m 18 and I am currently studying Languages, Literatures and Cultures. I write poetry because it helps me escape from the daily routine and makes me come into my own reality, my own space. Adam Sarmento, hey! My name is Adam, aka Ciga (art of a ciga on facebook, shameless plug). I’m a French and Portuguese dude who’s lived about half is life in each country, right now I’m enjoying the Portuguese ways. I got into art when I was little and it’s the best thing that could’ve happened to me, my art supplies are the love of my life. I’ve been making a living off of my art for a few months, via tattoos and selling some drawings and I’d like to keep on doing that for a big, long while. Ian Towey lives on the South Coast of England. Loves Literature, Art and Mu7

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sic. He studied Literature & Philosophy in London and gained a BA (Hons) degree. Hobbies: Chasing rainbows, sheep and clouds. He loves dancing in moonlit meadows. Older than he would like to be, but young at heart. Nathaniel Tower is a writer, marketer, teacher, runner, coach and juggler. He is the founding editor of the literary magazine Bartleby Snopes. His short fiction has been published in over 200 online and print journals and has been nominated for numerous awards. In 2011, MuseItUp Publishing released his first novel, A Reason to Kill. Several months later, his first novella, Hallways and Handguns, followed. A collection of short fiction titled Nagging Wives, Foolish Husbands was released through Martian Lit during 2014. I’m João Costa and alongside with playing Drums, Drawing is one of the ways I can express who I really am. I usually post what I draw in my facebook art page “Öyster”.

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Table of contents Foreword............................................................................................................. 5 Acknowledgements............................................................................................. 6 Table of contents................................................................................................. 9 When the Tide Comes in, Belinda Puts Out by Rhys Hughes ........................... 11 An Infusion of Stars by Des Lewis ..................................................................... 15 Cantarella by Sissy Pantelis . ............................................................................. 21 About a Black Wizard by Pedro Oliveira ........................................................... 25 Blank Page by José Alexandre . ......................................................................... 27 Un Doux Salaud by Marie Ferandji ................................................................... 29 Writers Cramp by Fiona Duffin ......................................................................... 31 The Corridor by José Alexandre . ...................................................................... 33 A Universal Wish by Boris Glikman . ................................................................. 35 Homeless by Sara Almeida ............................................................................... 37 A Crumbley Piece of Apple Pie by H B McCullagh ............................................ 39 The Belly Orchard by Rhys Hughes ................................................................... 41 The Be(e)ing of a Tyger by Boris Glikman ......................................................... 46 Cannibalisme Sentimental by Marie Ferandji ................................................... 49 Fiona and Puffin by H B McCullagh . ................................................................. 51 Freedom by Mercie Pedro e Silva ..................................................................... 53 I’ve Been Watching You Piss and I Know Everything About You by Nathaniel Tower . ......................................................................................... 55 A Flash by Mercie Pedro e Silva ........................................................................ 57 To Who It May Concern by Nathaniel Tower .................................................... 58 Unveiling by Mercie Pedro e Silva .................................................................... 61 The Moneyed Universe (or Origin of Specie) by Boris Glikman . ...................... 62 The Depth of Micro-Minimalism: A Review of FiCtIoN! by Nathaniel Tower ... 64 L by Ian Towey .................................................................................................. 64

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When the Tide Comes in, Belinda Puts Out by Rhys Hughes

“Why did you wash over me just now?” “I am the sea. I do what I like.” “But you have dragged me out too far for me to swim back. I am going to drown and it’s entirely your fault.” “Yes, I suppose you are, but in fact that was my plan all along. You are needed at the bottom of the ocean, on the seabed, where all the other things that have already been collected are waiting.” “I was strolling on the beach, admiring the sunset and minding my own business, and you deliberately abducted me.” “Indeed. Exciting times are ahead, Belinda, trust me!” “How on earth do you know my name?” “On earth? No, on water, in water, my dear; the best of the four elements, though I admit I am rather biased.” “There are five elements, not four.” “Really? Which one did I forget? Ah, it was aether, was it? The element that exists behind the appearance of reality. I am not sure I believe that such a concept is real, to be perfectly honest.” “You haven’t answered the question about my name.” “There’s really no great mystery to that. You went swimming in me a few years ago and a rogue wave snatched off the top half of your bikini. There was a name tag on that item of clothing and the name was yours. I presume your name is still the same as it was back then?” “Certainly. I haven’t changed it.” “As for myself, I have many names and even when they change I remain the same. I am Ocean, Sea, Deep Blue, Briny Deeps, Watery Expanse, Bathtub for Moons. I surge and lap and slap my waves and am beloved and feared in equal measure by the dwellers of the land.” “Mariners state you are female. Clearly this is not true.” “Female to males; male to females.” “You are whatever a drowning person desires you to be?” “Yes, apart from merciful...” “The dolphins that swim in you may come to my rescue.” “I have instructed them not to.” 11

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“That is extremely mean.” “Yes, Belinda, it is; but it is mean for a good reason. Over the centuries my waves have invaded the land during storms and have dragged objects back into my depths. Undersea currents have gradually nudged these separate items together until they are now finally gathered in one place in the loneliest part of the widest ocean. All these things combine to form a sub-aquatic city, Belinda, a megalopolis of stolen clothes and furniture, of mangled upper world detritus, of lost materials and broken dreams, vehicles and beach parasols, ice cream booths and railings, sea wall bricks and rotting yachts, bottles and buckets, trees, clocks and faceted lenses from collapsed lighthouses.” “You sound proud to be a thief.” “And so I am! But thief is an ugly word. I have requisitioned what I need and soon the project will be completed.” “What project? The city?” “Precisely. Glugville. The finest city that will ever exist. You are the last piece, the final adjustment, the crowning touch.” “Why am I so important?” “The city needs a queen. It has subjects, many of them, but no one to sit on the seashell throne and be bowed to.” “I will be dead and hardly in a fit state to rule anyone.” “It’s a constitutional monarchy down there, Belinda, and it isn’t vital for the Queen to do anything or even be alive.” “What happens when my body decays and dissolves?” “I will select another Queen, or perhaps a King. There are many strollers on the shores of the world, many swimmers waiting to be snatched. I am spoiled for choice. You just happen to be the first.” “What if the citizens of Glugville decide they prefer to live in a republic and thus reject monarchy altogether?” “They are fish and starfish, seahorses and crabs, jellyfish and eels, sharks and whales, squid and anemones. I don’t really believe they care about politics that much. They don’t even seem to really know what a city is. They frequently enter each other’s houses without knocking.” “What is the point of your city if it is not a proper one?” “For my own edification, I suppose.” “How can the sea benefit from a city in its depths? You are vast and your surface area covers most of the globe. Even an enormous city will be like a tiny blemish on the skin to you. It seems useless.” “Not quite, Belinda. For centuries the word ‘civilisation’ has been almost uniquely associated with the existence of cities and I have never had the chance to raise a city of my own. So I have always been fundamentally uncivilised. It’s true that cities have sunk into me and become my property, but I never asked for them and they remain creations of the upper sphere, intruders and refugees from various cataclysms. I have yearned for a city of my own. A sea city. Glugville, a response to the mockeries of men. I know you are a woman, not a man, but 12

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you belong to the same supercilious species.” “Humans have never belittled the sea. On the contrary—” “Then I have mocked myself on their unwitting behalf. It doesn’t matter. I have felt inferior and always there was a need to retaliate, to prove myself no less civilised than they. Hence my city.” “I have now lost sight of land. You are bearing me away rapidly.” “We have a lot of distance to cover.” “What if I drown before we reach the location of Glugville?” “It doesn’t matter. I will still take you there.” “May I have a final request?” “I suppose so, provided there is no trickery involved.” “What do you mean by ‘trickery’?” “If your final request is something like ‘return me to land’ or ‘permit me to evolve gills’ then I shall blithely refuse.” “It is nothing like that, I assure you. It’s a simple favour.” “Very well, Belinda. Ask me.” “You are a man as well as the sea, aren’t you?” “It would appear that way, to you at least, for you are a woman.” “Yes, I am a woman, a real woman.” “What are you suggesting?” “If I am to die, then I see no reason why I can’t spend my final hours in the enjoyment of that which makes me most feminine. I am a passionate woman and I crave physical delight and satisfaction.” “You want me to make love to you? But I am water!” “I regard the term ‘making love’ as dishonest in this context. There is no love involved in the activity I propose. It is purely carnal, as shallow in absolute meaning as that part of your expanse that barely covers shoals and reefs, and yet not to be derided on this account, for lust is an important motivator and its own justification. As for you being water, you are also masculine by definition and thus surely capable of giving me what I crave, otherwise your tone and bearing would be neutral. Will you grant my wish?” “Very well, I see no reason to refuse. I can still carry you along while in the very act of meeting your libidinous needs.” “Indeed you can. I merely need to remove my clothing and now you may enter me with cool lapping tongues of brine.” “Belinda, you astound me. I wasn’t expecting this.” “But you mustn’t stop until I am satisfied. This is an important point. As it happens, I don’t think you will be able to.” “I have more endurance than any lover hitherto conceived!” “Prove it to me, my fluid paramour.” “So I shall. Now I will gently probe the flower of your womanhood and seek entrance into the sweetest of all sea caves. And so I am inside you and I can tell from the expression of your face that—” “What is the matter, dearest ocean? You seem troubled.” 13

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“But it burns me! It burns!” “So it does. And your scream issues from me as steam. But you won’t be able to stop now. You will keep flooding me afresh and I will evaporate all of you, wombful by wombful, until you are gone, until you have transformed into banks of clouds piled up on each other to the zenith of the sky, weeping for your lost innocence as torrential rain on the exposed seabed. And I will walk home through this downpour, back to shore.” “Belinda! Belinda! Belinda!” “You chose the wrong woman to be your queen. You are the element of water but speak like a man. I am the element of fire and look like a woman. In fact, I am the anthropomorphic avatar of all the sunlight that has ever fallen on the beaches of the world, congealed into this form.” “You tricked me after all!” “This is no trick, but passion. Try to enjoy the experience, the dissolving of your very substance. There is no destruction in it, merely temporary change into another state of matter. You will float above the world and rain down again and be whole once more. Of all the victims you might have swept away, it was an incredible coincidence that you selected me, the goddess of sunlight on sand, the embodiment of millions of centuries of bright summers on the shores of this planet, the living focus of burning desire.”

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An Infusion of Stars

by Des Lewis

The stranger wondered if the rest of the hotel’s users thought he was a stranger. The rooms were of a style suitable to the passing trade so in fact all the guests should have been strangers. This particular stranger was no different. One never considers oneself to be a stranger. All the others were strangers, surely. The others were real strangers inasmuch as they were not only strangers to each other but, strangely, to themselves. The stranger was without a name, although he could remember signing the guest register at the reception desk earlier in the day. Now being nameless was not a good sign. Perhaps he was a stranger, after all. Just like the rest of them: sitting solitary in his bedroom: dependant on room service and the entertainment from the TV and the use of en suite facilities and the trouser press. He hadn’t taken advantage of room service as yet but he continued to inspect the tray of free goodies always left by good hotels for weary strangers with which to refresh themselves. A few individualised bags of infusable tea or coffee. Scattered tabs of milk or sugar. Wrapped gingernut biscuits. Strangely, for such a set of freebies, a bone china teapot was set upon the tray: to be used for steeping rather than just a teacup directly open-mouthed for a tea-bag’s dunking. An electric kettle was already full of water. He wondered how long it had been stagnating there. He could see the only source for water was from the sink’s cold tap in the bathroom. Strangely, despite travelling all day with few comfort-stops, he had not yet been forced to use the bathroom’s facilities. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Only true strangers would be unaccustomed to the relative strength of their own bladders. The red glow of an advertising sign just outside his room’s window was relentlessly pulsing. Strangely, the window possessed usable shutters rather than curtains. Strange for England. It felt as if he were in France. He stood up and stared down at the city’s main-street. Despite it being the rush hour, there was very little traffic along it. Only an odd taxi turned up outside the hotel with guests: more strangers, no doubt. A noteworthy couple with smart suitcases, he guessed. He shrugged. He was determined not to slip into being a noteworthy stranger himself. It would be all too easy to become someone else’s stranger rather than a person who simply shuffled about a hotel bedroom at a loose end, listening for others behaving similarly, given the sufficient thinness of the walls 15

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between them. He returned his attention to the tray of freebies. He had already given a cursory glance at the room service menu, but he was always reluctant to use it. It always made him feel self-conscious and slightly awkward. He never knew what to do with the dirty plates after he had eaten. Whether to give a tip or not. Despite having plenty of money, he always resented paying through the nose simply for a waiter to bring the food to his room. ‘Never’, ‘always’: he couldn’t possibly be a stranger to be able to use such words about his general behaviour and feelings. That rather satisfied him. Maybe he would venture downstairs later to see if he could find the hotel’s dining-room. There was no reason, of course, why he would not be able to find it. But there was always a doubt. He then heard the strangers next door shuffling about. Having been sitting on the bed, the strangers next door were probably visiting the en suite bathroom together. The TV next door could not be heard through the wall, so it was probably still switched off. Possibly for fear of accidentally igniting the Porn channel rather than the News one. The former made him feel dirty. ‘Dirty’ reminded him. He needed freshening up in the bathroom. he hoped it would also be full of freebies. But nothing was really free, was it? Room rates always included overheads. When he returned, the trayful of freebies was glowing more readily in the onset of dusk from outside while the advertising pulse continued but at a slower shutter speed. He suddenly saw that the teapot had been moved. Never had the stranger been so frightened before. When the teapot moved not once but twice, you realise that the first time it moved could not have been as imaginary as you had originally imagined, given the evidence of the second time. You have often been in situations with inanimate things moving where there is no obvious cause for the effect. All to do with mirrors, lights, angles, tiredness. Nothing supernatural or psychokinetic. Only you watching. But when it happens out of the blue, you often take a doubletake. Did it really move? Probably not. It would take a ruler to measure any give or take in the situation. But if it moves as a result of you looking at it, even without you consciously willing it to move, it becomes obvious that there are strange happenings abroad. The darkness settled in early, despite the clocks going forward an hour the day before. You wonder if it’s a clotted cloud formation, rather than the leading edge of night’s blanket being used to make your bed, tucking you in as comfortably as possible so that premature sleep might explain any subsequent dreaming. And, surely, you thought, the act of seeing the teapot move on the hotel-table before the dream started would surely make you wonder if you were dreaming that you were awake. The window was now blacker than if you had painted the glass with an opaque gloss stolen from a dead person’s cupboard. Night was never that dark, was it? The light hanging from the ceiling didn’t even swing. It was stock still. 16

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But it was dimming faster than the sun must have done in the last few minutes. Dimming, however, was not a movement as such; dimming was never as strange as an object like a teapot budging of its own volition. The stewed remains within settled into a coagulation of leaves and black space. There were exactly one thousand tealeaves and you wonder who had taken the trouble to count them into the teapot before pouring over the scalding water. It needed other eyes to see what was happening inside the pot, as yours were busy watching events from outside. One single abrupt jolt, and the first movement was complete. You only now needed – with the requisite suspense – to await the second movement … except you were unaware that there was due to be a second movement, especially as you thought you had merely imagined the first one. You decided it was time for bed. You pray a thousand prayers to a God addressed as thou or thy or thee. You must have assessed the passing of time differently from its reality. And if time is misjudged, you were unsure that the time correcting itself might cause objects to move, as if you had moved the teapot during the period of time that had now been blocked or short-circuited so as abruptly to change dusk into night. You were in your hotel bedroom, pulling back the bed covers ready for your body to be finally laid to rest. Steeped in sleep, infused with dream, cosied by darkness, motionlessly reaching out for a silent prayer that you ached to pray but couldn’t. Wedged in by a sodden mass of dead insects which, even beyond a dream’s unreason, were still alive and eager to become your single-minded stew of consciousness – a spout for a thousand thoughts or a thousand thous. Dead … until you moved again. Or the teapot moved again. I sat up beside the teapot. I had placed it there and I’d told myself to let it ‘stand’ for a few minutes. Steep? Infuse? Draw? Brew? No, ‘stand’ was the word I wanted. It was then I noticed the teapot moved again. Only slightly but clearly enough. I was staggered. I stared at it to make sure I was not mistaken, willing it to move back to where it had moved from, in an illogical hope for its previous standing as the status quo. I might then have been able to imagine it had not moved at all. A teapot moving of its own volition was certainly an anxiety that a person like me would find difficult to cope with. It was best I did not believe it at all. “Strainer!” I shouted again, in an attempt to cloud my misperceptions with a recognisable routine rather than to elicit the missing strainer. This was not the first time that the tea strainer had been ‘forgotten’ in the many hotel rooms I frequented. “Stop your whining!” the teapot suddenly said with a righteous gurgle of its innards. “Pardon?” I said automatically. “Just stop your whining. The stew I’ve got inside me today doesn’t need straining. Get on with the pour!” I was more upset by its distasteful reference to ‘stew’ than by the fact the teapot was talking to me at all. This represented more of a certain settling into a 17

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customary mindset of denial, I suspect, when I now look back at the events. I had also forgotten that room service had forgotten the dunking-biscuits. Was there a ghost inside the teapot – a ghost capable of moving it as well as speaking for it? This was not a question that occurred to me at the time. Only since. I put the bed covers over my head, hoping to blot out not only this single segment of time encompassing the teapot incident but also the whole of reality itself now and forever. But the voice persisted: “I’ve got good quality stuff inside today and the longer you leave it the more it will stew.” My head re-appeared over the top of the bedcovers like a bedraggled puppet or worried clown. It was easy to imagine myself as this downbeat figure through lack of any mirror in my room. Only the tiny curved bowl of the teaspoon gave any chance of a reflected image. The spout of the teapot waved in the air like a tiny snake with, I imagined, a certain wild desperation to perform its duty of pouring: its only reason for existence. I hastened to do its business. I can’t now understand what possessed me. I picked up the teapot. At least it could not now move of its own volition without me feeling it wriggling or twitching in my hand. I thought that pouring out tea – a generally tasteful art-form of upper class people like me – would expunge any remnant of uncouthness in the teapot creature that I had earlier considered as out of my control. Civilisation is all to do with control. Taste and good breeding, too. But instead of a golden shaft of healthy infusion, the spout exuded a syrupy blood-like substance into the teacup. I heard myself cackling with uncontrollable delight. I snatched up the teaspoon in haste. But it dropped to the floor. My clownish head wagged from side to side like a funfair target and shouted: “Dunk it!” I had obviously let things stand too long. They’re still standing now: waiting for hindsight to kick in – or waiting for a dream strainer. *** When I met him, I saw straightaway that he was full of a story he wanted to tell. It was as if he existed simply for the benefit of this story. No point in describing him, as that would take away from the story. And he did tell me this story time and time again, when we sat together, draining a bottomless teapot. And before I forget, there is not much point in describing me, either. I was only there to listen. And, well, to drain tea. One story that still sticks in my mind (literally) was one he told of when he was employed as a chauffeur in Paris and stayed in a hotel room with a slowly strobing advertising sign just outside. Well, I assume it was about himself. But whether it was him or not, it was only a story, after all. And it went as follows: I had been without work for several weeks, and was coming to the end of my 18

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money in the last cafe under the last Parisian sky of (what now seemed to be) my last sojourn in the city drinking the last cup of tea that perhaps I would ever drink in France. The French frowned on tea, but I managed to find where they brewed it best. I preferred it to any other sort of drink. So it was with mixed feelings that I accepted a job that entailed driving a car and drinking something other than tea. But I would now be able to stay in Paris a little longer. The man had sat down opposite me at my table as I drained the dregs of my cup on that (what had seemed to be) my last day in Paris. It was like Fate. I was to drive a Princess. Why me? Well, he said it had to be me. I fitted the story. But I must drink alcohol quite a bit of the time, he insisted. That was part of the job. I shrugged. I didn’t mind drinking alcohol so that I could later afford a room in Parisian hotel where they provided tea in the rooms as well as coffee. Drinking tea gave me inspiration, led me to all sorts of creative thought for my next story. So, to cut a long story short, I allowed myself to take to heavier drinking while driving the Princess to fashion shops and to cafes where in fact she drank tea, I noticed. I didn’t much like the company she sometimes kept. I also turned a blind eye to the baggage she carried. I am not one for gossip. Only story-telling. Well, on the big day, I needed to drink several hard drinks before taking the Princess on a trip that, unlike the previous trips, was more of a mystery tour. I can tell you that, even with alcohol in my veins, I am still a very good driver. So when the car I was driving managed to crash in the road tunnel, it was not that I lost control for no reason, but I suddenly saw a little girl carrying a teapot across the road in the tunnel, and I swerved to miss her…” I put my teacup down and stared at him. “A teapot?” I said. “Not really,” he said with a smile, “that was only part of the story.” And I blinked. He was no longer sitting opposite me. I must have been drinking tea with myself. The little girl in the tunnel, perhaps, was the ghost of the Princess; a happy creature that wished she had never met a Prince. But then without such a meeting, of course, she’d not have been a Princess at all or, if that were the case, become even the ghost of a Princess. I poured another cup from the bottomless teapot and then stared into the darkening Parisian sky. A faint circle of stars like a distant UFO passed slowly over the Paris Ritz Hotel and then wheeled behind the clouds.

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Cantarella

by Sissy Pantelis

The first time I saw her, I was flying into a huge moon that was a luminous lantern. It was weird, and yet, it seemed so real. From inside my flying moon-ship, I could see the strange buildings shaped like giant fruits and mushrooms. The gorgeous girls inside the buildings were waiting for me. In my real life I was alone, but in my dreams, women were longing for me and adored me like a Moon Divinity. I kept flying... I was now at the Royal Garden. No buildings here – just all sorts of flying umbrellas all around my ship. Lost among the umbrellas, I thought I would never find my way to the palace. If I were late, the Gargoyle Queen would be furious; I was, after all, her guest of honor. I was growing desperate; then I saw her flying graciously among the umbrellas to join me. “Don’t worry,” she said in her melodious voice that sounded like a Paganini violin concert. “I’m your guide; I’ll take you to the palace.” She glided graciously as though dancing, and my moon ship followed her, obedient, like a little dog. She was breathtakingly beautiful and I could not take my eyes off of her. My heart fluttered in my chest, like a captive bird that she alone could set free. Flying behind her and watching her was an exquisite sensation difficult to put in words. We reached the palace. Smiling, she led me to the main entrance. I asked for her name. “Cantarella,” she answered, in her violin-music-like voice. Wasn’t this the name of that fairy tale heroine in a pumpkin carriage escorted by mice? No, it wasn’t. I thought about it again and I became confused. “Is this not the name of a…a poison?” I felt like a fool, and my question sounded stupid too. She smiled shyly, like a little girl. “Erotic demons are often named after poisons,” she answered. I laughed. From that night on, my Cantarella, my own little succubus would lovingly wait for me at the castle every night. Every time, there was a different ball, its theme more exquisite than the previous one. Among the noblesse of shadows, I and my little sorceress danced, our moves gracious, swift and flow as flying in dreams always is. Then my beloved poison-fairy would take me in her arms and we would spend a passionate night together. Then I met Irina. “You have a girl friend?” My Cantarella did not look very happy when I told 21

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her. I was surprised. “What’s wrong about that, babe? I’ve been alone so long!! And I need someone in real life. You know, I mean, I... er...” She was frowning, and her dark expression so embarrassed me that I was fumbling for words. I took a deep breath. “Look, I am not as strong and independent as you are. I am not a demon; I am only human, and like all those of my species, I’m weak and limited… I cannot be alone in real life. Can you understand this, my little one?” She stared at me intently, as if trying to read my thoughts. Then she nodded reluctantly. “I think I do,” she whispered. She was not over-joyous, but her expression had lightened up a bit. Without another word, she took my hand and we walked into the castle. On that night, the shadow-guests emerged from coffins and entered the ball mounted on fierce wild beasts. They gave me the creeps, but with Canterella beside me, I knew I had nothing to fear. While we danced, she locked her eyes on mine. “I’ll stay with you,” she said. “But I will ask you something in return. You must never pronounce her name when you are with me. You get it? NEVER!!! I don’t want to know anything about her. If you say her name, be it but once, I’ll leave and you won’t see me again.” I nodded – I have to say I was confused. I did not know that dream demons were possessive. “We are not all possessive,” she said and, this time, I knew that she was reading my thoughts. “I am special. I am like... like...” “A spoilt princess,” I gave her a gentle smile. “Never mind, my lovely one. You can afford to be spoilt- you know that I need you; I’m addicted to you, my beloved poison. I’m your slave, my beautiful demon princess...My dreams would be a wild desert without you”. She kissed my lips and we spent the rest of the night making love. No real woman could incite in me such intense sensations. Fear and desire were both so powerful that sometimes, I thought that my head would burst. I loved this. I could not even bear the thought of a passionless dream. With time, Cantarella seemed to have forgotten all about my real girlfriend and she was as cheerful and naughty as ever. One night, the theme of the ball was about pirates; even the palace was transformed into a pirate ship. My little succubus knew how much I loved ships and had prepared this beautiful surprise for me. She was so beautiful in her pirate costume that I thought that I would lose my mind. I took her in my arms and we kissed passionately. “I want you,” I whispered. I was out of breath, my body ablaze with desire. “Not yet,” she said playfully and drew me in the ballroom. My beloved little sorceress, my sweet poisonous night queen… After the dance, the pirates fought with magic spells. My little one deflected all the spells directed against us. As always, the stress and the fear during the battle increased my desire for her to the point that I had to beg her to let me make love to her. She laughed and refused. We kept casting spells and we were an unbeatable team. She had offered me a magic red stone that gave me huge 22

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magic powers. But she was my only true power. When I was with her, I felt so strong that I could have fought the devil himself! But the most powerful spell was the one she had cast on me and I did not want that charm to cease ever, even if this meant that I would lose all the battles in the dream world. When the fight was over, somehow, the palace vanished, and we were in a flying train. By now, I was used to this kind of mysterious transformation, which was very common in the dream world. Sitting comfortably at one of the large wagons of the flying train, we enjoyed the view of all the Dream Cities below us. “I love you,” I whispered in her ear and she kissed my lips. Of a sudden, there was a strange sound. Was it --- a train bell? Had we already reached our destination, was our journey over? Damn it, I thought!! Just when we were feeling so good together! The bell kept ringing and without knowing why, it made me feel bad. I darted a guilty glance at Cantarella, who was now sitting at the leading wagon of a train. Why did I feel guilty? Was it because I preferred ships to trains? “What is this?” Cantarella frowned, she did not look too happy. Something flashed in my mind. “I know what the sound is,” I said without thinking too much. I was just happy that, for once, I was the one who knew what was going on, and I was eager to show off my knowledge. “It’s just the clock! Irina has to wake up early to go to that conference...” I bit my lips and stopped. Too late! Cantarella was staring at me, her expression dark, her lips pursed, her eyes frozen. God, what a fool I had been!!! “I just asked you one thing,” her whisper was like poisonous honey. “It was no big deal! And yet, you cannot do it....” “Cantarella, forgive me!” “No.” “My little one...” “NO. I asked you. NEVER. To say. Her name. You just did.” Her eyes welled with tears. I stood there watching her, weak and powerless and swearing at myself, but what was the point now? She looked at me accusingly. “Your kin always accuse demons for all the wrongs in the world,” she said coldly. “This is not always true, even though we are far from flawless. Know, however, one truth about us: we always keep our word. I warned you. You did not listen and this is not my fault. I will never see you again.” I protested. I cried. I begged her to forgive me, but she ignored me. In a temper tantrum, she cursed me with all sorts of swears that I could not understand as they were in a demon language. Angry as she was, she caused a dream storm that made the dream cities look like psychedelic fireworks, which exploded into my mind, inciting the worst imaginable hallucinations. Finally, Cantarella threw her shoe on my head and vanished. The shoe that hit my head hurt, but her anger was even more painful and it 23

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made my heart ache. I didn’t want her to go, but now it was too late. I had lost her and I was the only one to blame. I took the shoe she had thrown on my face and looked at it stupidly. Sadly, the shoe couldn’t do much to help me. For a long while, I sat motionless on the ground, holding her shoe and feeling devastated. The dream storm was over. Dream Town was as lively as ever, but I did not care. Nothing was the same for me; without my Cantarella, my dreams were like a sugarless cake. How could I get her back? Ever since she is gone, I am unhappy and obsessed with this thought. Every night I hold her shoe, and with all my energy, I try to send her signals to conjure her; I spend hours mentally begging her to come back. I even think of her during the day. Surprisingly, my waking life has also become drab without her. I sometimes forget Irina’s presence and I don’t take as much pleasure in her company as I used to. What do I have to do to get Cantarella back? In the fairy tale, the prince went throughout the city and made all women to try on the shoe that his beloved had lost at the ball, until he had found her. Could I do the same in Dream City? I don’t know, but I am ready to attempt everything to have her back. Yes, maybe going around Dream City asking all girls to put on her shoe will help me see her again. Why not? I’ve nothing more to lose… I’ll do this. I’ll use her shoe. I’ll start tonight; I hope it will not take too long to find her.

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About a Black Wizard

by Pedro Oliveira

My imagination slow dances as her companion, me, loses track of the fast paced words she whispers as the slow paced song echoes wherever she goes. In the valley of the dropped things, she was left to die in the unmemorable reflection of herself, almost as if remembering existing to me was an injection of pain in the vein filled with empty blood and hunger for the idea of me writing. Nothing could crawl out of my fingers after she flew over there and all I can remember is writing a sadly beautiful moon and putting it where the sun doesn’t shine, where alcohol and other ways to inspire myself ran out of ground to follow me. And I lived for some time. I lived for some time, indeed. Now, some moonglass make me see the day brighter than the sound of my watch ticking into tomorrow and I hope “now” stays “now” for much more time than a century, since it stays less than any. Sweet imagination that drew love in the book god read to create the world, raindrop me into the glass of water no one will ever drink and sink into the harmony of the teardrops no one will ever shed. Bed me into the vision of that stranger over there, I’ll cover myself with her eyelids and use what she expects for me as pillow to throw back at you in a pillow fight that might never happen. I’ll share my moonglasses with her when god sweeps the sun out of the sky and the light becomes pretty much the reflection of the river in her eyes. By then, you, my imagination, would have become true.

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intentionally left blank

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Blank Page

by José Alexandre I feel anguished when a blank page seems forever unfulfilled As if the pen was as cracked As my crooked head. The chair no longer feels comfortable As the will to escape coagulates To a deserted body wandering the endeared streets In a quest for words and gates, Hoping something to write awaits. “The very tip of her tear Resembled Andromeda’s most beloved star” And other pretended memories, like so many are, Seemed weak and deranged As the darkness in the page started to blind. Those quixotic creatures, only found in dreams, Mutate into nightmare monsters And dead people screams Just because, irritatingly, they can’t help anymore.

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Un Doux Salaud

by Marie Ferandji

Il y avait même une bougie allumée. Sans aucune prétention, comme si cela allait de soi. Tu l’as soufflée, peut être parce que personne n’y prêtait attention. Tu me caressais le haut de la pommette, la tempe et peut-être un peu l’oreille aussi. Tu me parlais, tu me racontais et tes mains étaient sûres. Tu ouvrais la paume pour que ma main y saute. Tu me faisais signe d’approcher et puis ça te prenait du fond des poumons. Je ne sais plus comment tu m’enlaçais ni ce que tu embrassais en premier mais je me demandais toujours vers qui tu courais comme ça parce que j’étais déjà tout près. – 23 février 2013 C’était terrible. J’avais l’impression que ma peau était une pâte à dérouler. J’avais l’impression que tu n’empoignais jamais assez de chair tandis que je ne bougeais pas. J’avais l’impression que tu me palpais comme on ferait “parler” un fruit ou un légume, ton oreille écrasant mon visage. Que tu me pinçais les seins comme on exprimerait du raisin. Pas assez mûrs … Où que je posasse mon regard, la lumière du jour éclairait la scène et je ne pouvais que le perdre dans les plis du drap. C’était affreux. Je résistais un peu, pour la forme. Le charme de ma velléité déjà consommé. Tu avançais sur un sentier déjà battu, plus besoin de te frayer un chemin, plus besoin d’aller à la rencontre de mes yeux. Les tiens revêtaient un voile vaporeux, le désir simulé derrière la cornée. Tu étais brutal quand tu jouais la passion retrouvée. Complicité feinte et enfantillage paradoxal le temps d’une pause. J’avais l’impression que c’était sale et sans charme et que c’était ainsi que nous voulions prendre notre plaisir. Pour ne pas tomber dans les clichés. 29

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C’était la seule communication possible? J’essaie toujours de lire ton humeur de ces moments octroyés dans l’indélicatesse étudiée de tes gestes, ou dans d’autres, plus doux, que tu as pu avoir. La lutte primale de nos corps entremêlés dessineraient peut-être des mots. Ce qu’on se dit avant ou après ce déchaînement n’est pas important. C’est pour de faux. Les dés sont pipés d’avance. Nous savons bien qu’il n’y aura que ce no-man’s land entre nous, hors du temps et de l’espace. Chacun hors de soi et chacun pour soi. Tu ne juges pas. C’était de la gentillesse? Tu es déchaîné pour deux, tu brûles ma peau par les deux bouts pour me donner la belle illusion d’être désirée un petit peu par amour. Par amour d’une autre, peut-être. Qu’importe, tu joues le jeu, toi, au moins. C’était ta tendresse? Tu me prends à bras le corps. Tu sais que je crève d’être acceptée. Tu prends volontiers ce que tu peux dans tes bras. Le reste, tu ne dis pas que tu ne peux pas. Tu poses des questions. Tu écoutes. Le reste, tu le balaies d’un sourire rogue ou d’un rire sarcastique. Le reste n’existe plus, n’a jamais existé, à peine l’odeur âcre de nos corps dissipé, à peine es-tu, presque sur mes talons – mais dans la direction opposée-, parti de cette chambre, hors du temps et de l’espace. – 30 juin 2013

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Writers Cramp

by Fiona Duffin

Parker pig is a porky poet with a sty in his eye. He lives in a pen house on the nib of a writer’s block. At the top of his pad he likes to dip into his oink well, while listening to his favourite 70s band Mud. Parker recently had words with his penpal Lizzie Page, who lives next door. She was half edited after her split from paragraph, who had taken out a short term booklet in her pad. Parker told her he was glad to see the back of that bookend. Lizzie soon got her shelf together. Below the dotted line lives the Swedish paperback writer Asterisk, who always makes a splash with the latest designer colon. The sails of his Viking stories flew off his window sill last year, causing a buzz when the novel landed full stop on Brian, a bumbling free bee publisher. Although a dash with the ladies, Asterisk, or Asterix as his gaulfriend called him, was a bit too comma, as he lived in a flatpack. It wasn’t a good Ikea and in the end Asterisk folded his ideas away and left writer’s block behind. His stories had become too telling. In the communal kitchen you will find Rubik, a very Hungarian crime novelist who gets flash in the pan ideas whilst working on his bookcase. Rubik’s potato crime books are always an instant smash with young families. He is a seasonal chapter who puts some chilli into each draft, adding spice to his writing. Rubik often puzzles over his storylines whilst chopping sentences into cubes. Rubik writes a good mystery but his stories often get blocked. Sitting stirring up a story inside a cubik rube is the artist known as Maliprop. Taking a book out of her leaf, Maliprop mixes her head in words. Her sketchy writing style always attention draws amongst writing circles. Nonsense, that make ideas to you and I, brainstorm out of her head as she jumps in and out of the muddle making words. Maliprop recently went missing. Her novel got lost in translation. Once a month the latest submission of writers meet at Club Book, their local pub for a pint of Inspiration ale. The busy pub is always packed with limited ideas from the writers block set. Writers’ cramp often sets in when their thoughts are not in a social mood. A writer’s imagination often decides to block out storylines, while drinking a pint of their favourite draft ale. This meeting was different, as we should never judge a book under its cover. Using Rubik’s crime stopping lines of enquiry, Lizzie’s blank page and Parker’s pen, they decided to muddle together and draft in Asterisk to find their friend 31

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Maliprop, as he could read her head, like a book. The anthology of writers scrabbled down to the library. They didn’t have a cluedo what they would find but the shop in the corner of a bookshelf wrote about stinging words, proofreading between Maliprop and Brian when the free bee publisher mixed up a deal with her book. It was no big deal but the writers signed up to the idea that Maliprop had still been published. As they wrote home they noticed a front page story, posted on a paper stand note. It was written in oinks from Parker Pig’s well. Maybe this was a tip from Parker’s pen that all was okay back at the writer’s block? Opening the porky poet’s recycled pulp fiction door they found Maliprop making a headline splash with Brian. They were made up with their fictional kiss and tell story. United once more inside the writer’s block, the friends came to a blank page with this story. The end is a mystery but with a bit of imagination the conclusion of this tale may find you.

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The Corridor

by José Alexandre

Walking through a corridor of females, All with the switch on, Refuse to blow the candles like a fucking moron. Well, I know she is in the Dead End Waiting for her knight. I walk with no sword But, get one I might. Well, I hope you’re waiting Because soon I’ll arrive. I know the clock is ticking, Yes, I’m ready to dive. The room is all dark And the sweet spot holds the light. She is turning into a shark That I’ll have to fight Well, I know you’re waiting I’m almost there Clock’s ticking Leaving don’t you dare! Oops, I found a trap!

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A Universal Wish

by Boris Glikman

It is the middle of a fresh December day. I’m alone in the front yard, building a snowman, when the whole Universe lands beside me. I can see myriads of stars, galaxies, clusters and superclusters whirling inside it. The blackness of its oceans of emptiness contrasts sharply with the whiteness of the snow. The cracked magnifying glass and the frayed tape measure that I always carry with me, being the budding scientist that I am, have awaited this day. I examine the Universe, trying to solve that age-old vexing question whether it is infinite or not. I search for a maker’s label listing the Universe’s specifications: where and by who it was created; dates of manufacture and expiration; gross and net weights; its exact ingredients, but alas, the tag is nowhere to be found. It then occurs to me that, out of all the people in the world, the Universe has chosen to land at my feet. This must surely be, and I don’t think I’m being too presumptuous in arriving at this conclusion, a sign of some significance and a personal message, the meaning of which, while not as yet entirely clear, is undoubtedly an auspicious one, although the method of communication is rather dramatic and not very subtle at that. But then a devastating thought: what if this is the result of a wish made for a Christmas gift a few weeks ago. I can not lie to myself and deny that, in a moment of frivolous avarice, I wished for the entire world. I remember well dreading the punishment I would surely receive from my parents for making the Universe fall from the sky, the evidence of which will be much harder to hide than that broken vase.

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Homeless

by Sara Almeida The paving stones of this welcoming city, hiding tears and nostalgia, once a place of infectious smiles, hopeful looks... former friends, former teammates to offer... Time passed and carried all it possessed and a sudden lull stripped you of your dignity. Exposed, you stayed on the street, surrounded by the world, by nothing. You observed the lives of others and they observed yours as if it were something strange, people who once before claimed to be your friends, now just felt sorry for you, because in fact, true friends they could not be. And only you father with a deep emptiness to offer... Who wants? Who wants? Only your eyes asked, distracted, listening to the companionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s opinion, the conscious recall. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s easy to lose everything in this life, and it hurts to know that while I have a roof that snuggles my dreams, many remain homeless. And the reasons that led many to this decline? It does not matter; the important thing is to recover, to return to dignity, because street life is very hard.

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A Crumbley Piece of Apple Pie by H B McCullagh

A crumbly piece of apple thigh More flaky than a shark A dog pissed upon my tree It’s how I lost my bark With underwear Í bought online That cannot even fit less I embrace the songs of my soul Can I get a witless? My story is so sappy had As vile as good mulled whine Wrote letters to good Guilliette ‘bout all the love ‘cept mine In a square world Where Sunday is the strangest season My life does not lack rhyme Only so much reason

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The Belly Orchard

by Rhys Hughes

I was told at a young age that if I swallowed them, the pips of an apple would remain lodged in my stomach and would germinate there and grow into trees inside me. This warning was designed to discourage the swallowing of apple pips, but in fact it had the opposite effect. It seemed a very practical solution to the obtaining of free food, because if trees really grew inside me, they would be apple trees; and these apple trees would produce apples of their own and the apples would fall from the branches to the pit of my stomach, nourishing me. Thus I made specific efforts to ensure I swallowed all the pips in every apple I was given. I became more interested in the pips than in the fruit itself. I disliked their taste and, despite the tiny size, I found the pips tricky to get down but I persisted for the sake of my future. Because free food made profound economic sense, even before I properly understood anything about how the world worked. As I grew older I realised my stomach was not big enough to contain many trees, but I thought that one might still be accommodated without discomfort. Yet many years passed and none of the seeds succeeded in growing into trees and the only thing that grew at all was my disillusionment. I became a man and went to university, where I was informed that apple pips contain traces of cyanide and should not be ingested in bulk. But I did not entirely cease swallowing them. My rate of consuming pips steadily decreased, of course, but I never wholly abandoned my hopes of letting a tree reach full maturity within my belly. I still dreamed at night that roots and branches were spreading out in my depths. I think that the swallowing of the occasional pip became a superstition for me. What I mean by this is that I no longer believed with my rational mind that a tree would grow inside me, but I found it impossible to shake off a feeling that the next pip might be the miraculous one. At last the time came when I deliberately swallowed no more than a pip once a month and to all intents and purposes I was cured of the absurd delusion that had been implanted in me by kindly but thoughtless adults. I became a very mature and responsible fellow, a graduate. This is not to make the claim that graduates are automatically mature and 41

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responsible. By no means! But the graduation process acted as a catalyst on my attitudes. I changed from a gullible person into one so sceptical in outlook that I scarcely credited the existence of trees at all. On the eve of my final departure from the university, I threw a dinner for my closest colleagues. These were admirable chaps, more sensible than students usually are, less smug too; and the food prepared for us was of a diverse nature, selected to appeal to all tastes. Wine also. My room was not a large one and there was very little space left once we had all taken our places around the table. The window was open to provide air and the red curtains billowed and snapped like the sails of a small ship. Chatter and the scrape of forks filled the chamber. The excellence of the event was marred only slightly. Perkins ate nothing all evening. Even the fine wine he drank very sparingly. He had always been a somewhat quiet person, not melancholic but with a reserve that indicated an inner satisfaction that none of us envied because it had no obvious source. I blinked at him and pointed out that there was little point in coming to a dinner if one did not partake. “I am here for the good company,” he said. This was a pleasant response and it was impossible to chide him with too much vigour, but nonetheless I was compelled to express a certain dismay that the food I had provided was clearly not up to the standards he had expected. He was mortified by my jocose accusation. “That is not the reason at all! The meal is tremendous in every way. I am not partaking simply because I am already full.” “Already full!” I was aghast. “You ate before coming here?” “But I really had no choice.” “Look here, Perkins, how can it be that a man has no choice as to whether he eats or not? The procedure is fully controllable. One opens the mouth, inserts the morsel, chomps on it and swallows.” “Not I,” he answered. And then to my surprise, and to the even greater amazement of the others gathered, he explained that he had an orchard inside him. They were apple trees and at this particular season of the year they were festooned with fruit. Thus he was constantly satiated and never hungry. “And how did you acquire this internal orchard?” “By swallowing a pip,” he said. I gasped. A fellow spirit! Yes, he was a chap who had succeeded where I had failed and so my surprise rapidly turned into awe. I was a little envious, of course, more than a little if truth be told; but greater than envy was my joy that the legend was finally proven to be true. “So those adults who instructed me were not liars after all!” I cried out in relief; and I rose to embrace Perkins, which was an awkward thing to do in view of the fact he remained seated. I flung my arms about him nonetheless and gave 42

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him a mighty squeeze as I guffawed hugely. I felt the prod of branches beneath his skin and one or two twigs broke off with an audible but muted snapping sound. He winced a little. And then, “You appear exceptionally delighted by my curious condition,” he remarked dryly. “I am indeed! Tell me, Perkins, tell all of us, how it is that you managed to cultivate an orchard in your stomach? I tried for many years but success has always eluded me. What is your secret? Is the lining of your belly different in composition from that of normal humans?” He frowned for a minute in serious contemplation. “I think not,” he finally averred, “but it may have something to do with the fact that the first fruit I ate was a miniature apple. It came from a miniature tree, a bonsai. The plants inside me are all very small; but the quantity of fruit they produce is still sufficient to glut me.” I know nearly nothing about the art of bonsai trees, so I did not raise an objection as he proceeded to describe how that first tiny pip grew into the first tree that produced fruit that fell and grew into other trees, until his stomach had at least thirty trees inside it, at a rough guess. “I do not know for certain the precise number,” he said. “Have you never been examined?” “By a doctor, you mean?” He was horrified. “What do they know about botany? And what would a botanist know about stomachs? No, it is best that my secret is revealed only to a handful of close friends such as yourselves. I do not wish to be experimented upon by bunglers!” And we nodded sagely at his words, for many of us had graduated in the sciences and therefore did not trust scientists. I had many questions to ask him. I wanted to know what he did when the trees were not fruiting and whether ordinary food caught on the branches of his internal forest; whether the rustling leaves produced nausea; if the roots tickled or not; and how he never grew tired of apples. “But I do grow tired of them,” he replied; and then with a sigh, “I wanted to join in with this feast, truly I did, so I made no sudden movements all day. As I was walking here at a sedate pace, I was startled by a man who lost control of his bicycle and veered towards me. I jumped.” “Which made the trees inside you shake off all their fruit?” “Yes. My preparations were ruined.” “Another question. Is there is a sun in your belly?” He shook his head and swirled his glass. “Wine is liquid sunshine, so they say, and it does seem to be true that a claret provides all the ultraviolet radiation my trees need in order to photosynthesise.” The elegance and simplicity of this solution thrilled me. We know that a vineyard is a solar reservoir, each grape on its stalk an ellipsoid filled with the juice of the sun, with celestial warmth, with the light kisses of that star around which our world must rotate in endless waltz. 43

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“Perkins, dear fellow, I am touched by your tale and I insist that you take one spoonful of this excellent pudding to symbolically join with us in our feast. A small spoonful will not be unmanageable for you. A token gesture, that is all. I want you to be fully a part of our celebration.” He declined the suggestion with polite firmness, but emboldened by wine and brandy, the assembled company would not permit him to refuse; and after a great deal of raucous but fraternal goading, he assented to a single mouthful of plum pudding. A plum, after all, is not an apple. My friends insist it was this spoonful that caused the regrettable incident that followed, and that the responsibility must be shared equally between us, but I am of the opinion they are endeavouring to protect me; that it was my embrace that caused the damage, that the fault was mine. I believe that I fatally weakened the casing of his belly. Perkins swallowed, clamped his mouth shut, turned red, then purple, then green, rolled his protruding eyes, gripped the edge of the table, opened his jaws again, poked out his tongue, gurgled, tried to rise from his seat and fell onto the table, climbed up on it and turned onto his back. He had scattered dishes and glasses in doing so and I was mildly annoyed by the performance, which I assumed was his exaggerated protest at being made to sample the pudding. So I leaned forward to address some words to him. But I never had a chance to begin. He promptly burst. It was not nearly as messy as you probably imagine... Leaves swirled around the room and the scent of apples was strong. The breeze that had been allowed unimpeded access wafted this aroma around and then diluted it to almost nothing. Miniature squirrels leaped out onto the table. Tiny owls took flight and brushed our noses. Having your nose wiped by the wing of an owl is not something that one accepts without arched eyebrows, even when the nose requires it. I sneezed and I was not the only one. Nobody said, “Bless you.” Where Perkins had sat there was now an orchard in his place. Because it was smaller in size than orchards usually are, we all had the impression that we were standing far away from it, on the brow of an arid hill, looking down on an idealised vista, a fertile valley in a barren land. “It is what he would have wanted,” I heard myself saying. Pathetically, we avoided each other’s eyes and none of us spoke another word. Too guilty to continue eating, my guests sloped off one by one, waving a solemn farewell and leaving me alone with the tiny orchard. I could not bear to live with the thing, nor did I wish to destroy it. I simply went to bed; and the following morning I left my room forever and caught a train to my new life. Guilt might have remained with me until the end of my days, were it not for another strange incident that occurred a decade or so later when I was hiking in the mountains. I do not feel it is sensible to reveal which range I was exploring. All I can state is that it happened in a country famous for the beauty of its women, which 44

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means it might be in any country on Earth, for beautiful women are everywhere, even when they themselves insist they are not. I had stopped to rest under a gnarled tree and while eating my sandwiches I heard a voice issuing from inside the trunk. I soon learned the tree was hollow and that it contained a genuine living woman. Her voice told me her story, how the tree had swallowed her one day and how she lived there now, and how she made babies and needed a man every so often to enter the tree too in order to ensure the babies kept coming, and would I be interested? I had to think deeply about this. I decided that what the tree had done was less justifiable than what I had done and my conscience stopped bothering me. The tree opened to let me in. If a man can swallow a pip and grow a tree inside him in order to procure fruit, why should trees not occasionally swallow women in order to obtain babies? It seems fair. I stayed with the woman in the tree one night. Each time a child is born to her, a magnificent stork comes along to claim it, perching briefly on the highest branches before carrying it off to a new mother. But let us not be too fanciful. A stork is not strong enough for that. It is a phoenix.

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The Be(e)ing of a Tyger by Boris Glikman Prose Version The identical coloration of tigers and bees is no random coincidence without any significance to it. The real reason for this pun of evolution is actually quite astounding, almost beyond belief. The simple truth is that there never has existed an animal that the world knows as “tiger”. The true nature of this creature is revealed if you are brave enough to give it a good shake. Once you have done so, you would witness an incredible transformation taking place: the tiger will begin crumbling into pieces, until there is nothing left of it, not even a piece of hide and in its place, thousands upon thousands of bees will appear, as if out of nowhere, buzzing angrily and flying off in all directions. For you see, a tiger is not a real animal. Rather it is a great collection of Africanised honeybees, also known as killer bees, that have formed themselves into the shape of a tiger. They use this particular configuration to satisfy their great hunger for fresh meat. All the characteristics of a tiger can be easily explained by this state of affairs: the tiger’s roar is actually the collective humming of countless bees; the colour of its stripes comes from the hue of bees’ bodies; its sharp teeth and claws are composed of bees’ stings and its ferocity is due to the notoriously aggressive nature of the killer bees.

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Verse Version Tyger, tyger burning bright In the forests of the night. Yet look closer, you will see all is not what seems to be. Bees and tiger the same colour a coincidence? Surely that makes little sense! Eeny, meeny, miny, moe Catch the tiger by the toe Shake him hard and make him hiss. This reveals heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s made of bees. Once you stir him you will find bees are gone, naught left behind. In their hunger for fresh meat, bees are practicing deceit. Alas, the tiger we adore is but nothing but a roar.

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Cannibalisme Sentimental by Marie Ferandji

C’est comme si tu t’acharnais à baiser un mort. Tu as, le souffle pris dans l’odeur de sa peau, cette chair chérie pétrie contre ta bouche et tes mains cherchent encore. Tu t’es férocement entortillée contre sa poitrine et les paupières tordues, tes doigts vaporeux le lacèrent en vain. Vous vous tenez tous les deux étranglés et c’est exquis. N’est-ce pas ? Sous l’épiderme, les os d’airain te comprime à chaud, et ses reins furieux sont douloureux. Le crâne sous vide, un air champêtre et de musc dans tes tempes, Tes poumons élèvent un fémissement poisseux: tout ton corps se déchire de langoureuses convulsions De tes stigmates aveugles sèchent des pleurs sucrées. Tu as la carcasse lourde épinglée à cet autre corps étranger Tandis que ton regard se dilue dans la lumière. Un poison acide inverse le cours de ton sang Il est tendre de corrosion et tu t’abandonnes : poupée de chiffon Il humecte sa langue sur tes lèvres pourpres, Morsure à la jugulaire. De raideurs cadavériques, tes membres reposent tranquilles et anguleux. Pourtant les yeux tournés vers l’intérieur, Tu le cherches encore et crois Rêvé nos deux âmes enlacées quand il pare ton cou, tout grelottant et rompu, de son haleine rubis, Exhalant presque un mot d’amour Ou revenant de sa décharge, À court d’arguments: Une liqueur de cerise fendue dans sa gorge, Dégoulinant et suatant de la sève d’Eve 49

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Fiona and Puffin by H B McCullagh

Fiona Duffin met a Puffin While up in Camden town The Puffin was eating a razá’s kebab Said ‘red I haven’t seen you around’ Fiona Duffin looked askance And told the Puffin ‘back off mate’ “ Im meeting friends and the Bell and Book, I don’t want to end up late” The Puffin was insistent In fact he got much bolder And he jumped up off the ground And settled on her shoulder Fiona Duffin and her Puffin Made a dash to the nearest station Fiona breathed with effort The Puffin with elation The station master looked at them And exclaimed “oh my word!!” Fiona Duffin without a sound flipped the man the Bird

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Freedom

by Mercie Pedro e Silva Freedom, Flying, Gliding, Walking about on air! Air, Humid, Dry, Breathing of pollution! Pollution, Factories, Sickness, Dying of all humanity! Humanity, Precious, Special, Supposedly free creatures!

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I’ve Been Watching You Piss and I Know Everything About You by Nathaniel Tower

I’ve been watching you piss and I know everything about you. Your pissing stance is a portal into your soul. We all know how hard it is to judge a book by its cover, but you sure can judge it by the way it takes a piss. I know everything about you--your fears, your insecurities, your regrets. But it goes deeper than that. I know how much money you make, whether or not you’ve had sex this month, the number of times you eat cheese while watching Real Housewives of something-or-other. I don’t need to psychoanalyze you or talk to you in an intimate setting or any of that other bullshit. Ten seconds in the bathroom, and I know more than your mother, sister, brother, best friend, mistress, wife, fiancée. You don’t believe me, but that’s okay. You think I’m a creep, and that’s fine too. But before you judge me, let’s hear the facts. Here’s what I know: Guy standing so close to the toilet your khaki pants are touching the peestained porcelain: You have a small penis. You are self-conscious, but not just about your small penis. You think people honestly care about everything you do, but you are not a germaphobe. Guy leaning against the wall and grunting: You have a small penis. You have so much built-up tension you are about to explode. You want everyone to know about your problems because you think you will get sympathy, but you always say everything is okay when asked what’s wrong. Guy with your hands on your hips: You have a small penis. You are a lazy sonof-a-bitch who can’t even be bothered with the tiniest of tasks. You will never get a raise. Your wife is sleeping with someone else, but you keep telling yourself those used condoms are from your son. Guy with your hands behind your head: You have a small penis. It’s even smaller than the guy with his hands on his hips. Your wife is sleeping with that guy. You think you’re tough shit because your boss complimented you one time thirteen years ago. Guy resting your arm on the divider between the urinals like we’re best buds: You have a small penis. You have no real friends. You crave companionship so much that you use a private act like pissing to try to meet people. If I became your friend, you would smother me. 55

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Guy standing stiff as a board with your feet together: You have a small penis. You have no personality. You’ve never made anyone laugh, but you laugh at all of your own jokes. You put insomniacs to sleep with your dull conversational skills. Guy staring at the ceiling: You have a small penis. You have a deep-seated fear of homosexuals and of being called a homosexual because you caught a glimpse of another man’s penis. You are secretly in love with your best friend, but she only dates guys with tattoos. Guy with your legs spread out so far your shoe is touching mine: You have a small penis. You are so self-important that you have no regard for anyone else’s personal space. You think you are on the fast-track to success, but you’ll be fired within a year. Guy standing far back like a fucking sniper: You have a small penis. Everything about you is fake. Your dick looks big because you are tugging on it. You constantly put on false airs to convince people to like you. You exaggerate about your profession. You are the type to call yourself a “client acquisition specialist” when you sell staplers or a “doctor” when you’re just a fucking dentist. Guy waiting for a stall even though there’s an open urinal between two other pissers: You have a small penis. You are so ashamed of everything in your life that you are always hiding. Even your mother thinks you’re a failure, but she frequently reassures you that your day will come. You think you’re hiding something from the world? You’re transparent as ghost shit. When I watch you piss, I know your life story better than you do. I could write your biography after one minute in the bathroom with you. You’re fucking worried about Facebook privacy? You just gave me your social security number while you flushed the toilet. You’re goddamn lucky I didn’t watch you take a shit.

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A Flash

by Mercie Pedro e Silva Days go by, And so do years. What remains Is all the tears. Reality escapes us, And dreams fool us. Yonder, someone thinks, Why the fuss? A world of beauty, What has it become? A world of terror, To the old and the young. And still, I lie here, Dreaming to excess, Of our lives, Which we still possess! And so time flows On a very rapid current, Leaving behind the residues, Of dreams that werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t!

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To Who It May Concern

by Nathaniel Tower

See what I did there? That’s right, Mr./Mrs. Ambiguously-Gendered Pronoun. You’re not necessary. No one will be confused or lost if you never show your fucking superfluous ‘m’ again. Office assistants who don’t give a shit about the letters they receive from people who are too fucking lazy to figure out who to address them to will still be able to run said letters through the shredder. And what the hell does “To Whom It May Concern” really mean anyway? Sounds like just a more polite way of saying “I don’t give a fuck who reads this” or “This is so fucking unimportant that it doesn’t matter who reads it.” Notice how both of those alternatives use your much more important cousin? Like I said, we don’t need you. We’ve known for years that you were full of shit, but we were too afraid that we’d sound stupid if we stopped using you. The only people who use you anymore are arrogant and pretentious pricks like hipsters, teachers, uppity writers, and old people who hum a little too long on that final “m.” Just listen to their sticky old voices say “whommmmmm” as their dry lips try to pry open to deliver the next word. It’s fucking disgusting, and it embodies the essence of what you’ve become... Did you know that approximately 50% of uses of whom are incorrect anyway? It’s almost as bad as those dumbasses who say “I” when they need a “me.” Who are all these dumbasses? Beats the fuck out of me. They’re probably pieces of shit you paid to try to keep your name alive. You’re like Toad the Wet Sprocket coming out with a new album in 2014 and pretending to still be relevant. Get this: WE DON’T CARE! (even though “Walk on the Ocean” was one of the best songs back in 1991). 58

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Sometimes I think you are just out to sabotage Who. Just who do you think you are anyway? Let me answer that for you. You think you’re the shit. You think you’re some kind of sign of intelligence. Well, I’ve got news for you. Your quote/ unquote intelligence is really just redirection. You want people to say “Oh shit, he just said ‘whom’. He’s really fucking smart. I can’t keep up with this rocket scientist.” Whom is nothing but an intimidation method. No one likes being intimidated. We’d all be better off with you gone from our evolving language forever. There are plenty of people who are with me, and the people who aren’t will be rendered completely useless just like you. Oh, and you can take that little bitch “which” with you as well. We don’t need that shit cluttering up our language either.

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Unveiling

by Mercie Pedro e Silva What are we but a mere shadow Of our own existence, Like a soul lost in the blue Of an eternity. A tear must fall From the highest tower, For its echo to be heard, The answer for all mankind! The contemplation seen Through imperfect structures, But is this not The true essence of its beauty? Equality is not palpable, It is the untouchable Of our true being, Seen through our inner pupils. The breeze must continue, The secrets ever present, The unveiling attained By that soft caress.

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The Moneyed Universe (or Origin of Specie) by Boris Glikman

The idealistic amongst us used to believe that Nature was the final reserve of purity and innocence; that mankind would do very well by returning back to the ways of the natural world. Of course, this was before our first observation of a butterfly, with gold coins for wings, fluttering about. Initially, we refused to believe what we were seeing, but the evidence grew before our eyes, until it became futile trying to deny it. Flowers started to replace their petals with rubies, diamonds and emeralds; instead of scales, fish now had doubloons covering their bodies. Rather than having worthless leaves made out of unprocessed material, trees replaced them with bill notes of world’s leading currencies. And instead of leaves changing according to the seasons, the trees now changed the colour and shape of their “leaves” according to the financial season and the stock market. So at a particular time of the year, when US currency was strongest, the leaves assumed the appearance of a greenback. At other times, when the euro or the yen was stronger, the leaves became identical to those other currencies. The final blow, the coup de grace, was the Sun arising one morning and revealing its new face to be a 22 carat (92% gold, 8% copper) sovereign that was worth, by current exchange rate, about 200 pounds in 19th century Britain. Looking back, it now seems inevitable that things turned out this way; that rather than man taking on nature’s ways, it would be nature taking on man’s ways; that the materialism and avarice so prevalent in the human world would infuse and contaminate the natural world and the heavens too. It was only to be expected that all the living creatures on Earth and all the stars in the sky would also want to get a piece of the booming economy. Consequently animals and plants evolved bodies composed of precious metals and gems, and stars transformed themselves from being worthless spheres of plasma into valuable hard currency. This was a type of pollution no environmentalist could fight against. Not only was it adopted voluntarily, more than that, it was a spiritual pollution that 62

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infected the very soul of the natural world. All natural sciences now became branches of economics. Instead of studying the physical characteristics of the universe, astronomers treated it as one giant stock market and determined its total monetary value to be 12599435797842 039745203740238430483023843084 dollars and 17 cents. Chemists used the post-Keynesian econometric approach to explain how molecules and elements interacted. Biologists found that the best way to predict animal behaviour was to use neoclassical macroeconomic methods, and model all creatures as independent agents that seek to maximise utility and profit. And so, as we look back at those momentous changes that have rocked our world, we realise that the ultimate truth of the universe has finally been revealed to us all: not only is Time Money, but Spacetime and Nature are Money too.

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The Depth of Micro-Minimalism: A Review of FiCtIoN! by Nathaniel Tower

Leopardo Alington Blumsingtundale’s latest collection of fiction establishes him as the greatest literary pioneer of the last century. His twenty-seven page tome features twenty-one stories of pure brilliance, each capturing the essence of what language can do. Originally released independently via hand-bound index cards, the collection, FiCtIoN!, is now scheduled for rerelease through Penguin Books, and it’s reportedly been translated into 452 languages. FiCtIoN! is the launch of a new era, the era of micro-minimalism, an era which has already been mastered at its dawning, leaving a wake of fiction writers likely unwilling to venture into the territory. The quintessential work of FiCtIoN! is the third story, “undernEath.” Blumsingtundale manages to weave a tale about heartbreak, lust, and adult angst into the story’s single word, “undernEath,” which appears three-fourths of the way down the page, justified almost to the right, in an obscure 11.25-point typeset that is reportedly a hybrid between Comic Sans and New Century Gothic invented by the author himself. When I first picked up my review copy, I turned straightaway to this story, knowing what a masterpiece it was. Although Blumsingtundale has been writing for years, long a prolific writer in so-called online literary magazines, “undernEath” was the story that launched his career when it first appeared as a free downloadable PDF on his blog fifteen months ago. Touted widely as the “most brilliant story of our generation, the one before it, and the one to come,” the story caught the attention of every important literary scholar in thirty-seven countries. A drastic departure from Blumsingtundale’s previous explorations of more traditional fiction, it represents the adaptation of artists that many are unwilling to embrace. But this was my first experience with the text in physical form, and the medium enhanced my reading pleasure at least ten-fold. As I scanned through the white space on the page, searching for the story, tears began streaming down my face as I realized the true genius of Blumsingtundale. This is a story that must be read, reread, re-reread and re-reread again. Each reading unfolds something new, and eventually it will click for any reader with a soul (although there will always be more layers). When I finally reached the story’s single word, I was so overwhelmed that I could barely finish scanning to the bottom of the 64

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page. The placement of the word is just crippling. Had he placed it an inch above or an inch below or an inch further to the right or left, or even a quarter inch for that matter, the story would’ve lost most of its flair, not that it’s a piece of panache. No, this story transcends the mere placement of the word, which only Blumsingtundale would have the revolutionary foresight to achieve. “undernEath” has been anthologized in nearly every serious collection of fiction and poetry released during the last year. As Dr. Alfred Allenton, a renowned literary scholar and author of the foreword of the new digital edition of FiCtIoN!, says, “Blumsingtundale not only does the unimaginable with his language. He also does the imaginable in a way no one’s imagined it before.” Of the twenty-one stories in the collection, twenty of them run a single page, most consisting of three words or fewer. The antepenultimate story of the collection, “Fuselage for Future Friendish Fiends,” spans six pages, each page containing the letters of either “fuselage” or “fiends” scattered around the white space in ways only Blumsingtundale could imagine. Although I found it quite impressive from the first read, I am sure there are thousands of meanings and combinations of the letters that I have yet to envision. The stories of FiCtIoN! are short, but they are grand. They are both vivid and sparse, fully immersing any reader who fully immerses himself. Blumsingtundale is a master of diction and placement. He has turned literature back into an art form rather than simply a regurgitation of plot and character. Blumsingtundale’s longest story by word count, “On the top of the page, left-justified, in a small font that most people can’t name, unnumbered and untitled, except for this lengthy description,” features seven words (other than the aforementioned “title” of the piece that may or may not actually be a title). Unpredictably, Blumsingtundale left-justifies the seven words in a small font that I can’t name (even after extensive research). By this point in the collection, we expect the unexpected from Blumsingtundale, so this really punches us in the gut, because it’s exactly what we should expect from the non-title, which makes us not expect it anymore because we don’t expect to see what we expect. Sheer genius. Descriptions of Blumsingtundale’s work, although often simple to employ, can do no justice. A reader must digest the word/words of his stories in a quiet setting. While it might be easy to dismiss some of his writings as kitch, Blumsingtundale is no hack. He is the real deal, and he’s made the past fifteen hundred years of writing invalid. If a reader has to choose just one book in a lifetime, it’s this one. The themes are timeless, of course, but that’s not what makes this special. It’s the words he hasn’t written that are really admirable, and any good reader will appreciate everything Blumsingtundale has or hasn’t done on each page. I had the privilege of meeting Leopardo Alington Blumsingtundale just a few days ago. I told him I’d read his collection at least three dozen times. Then I asked for his autograph. Luckily, I had my copy of the book, and I offered it to him for his signature. He refused, asking where in the book I expected he would sign. 65

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I almost asked if he would sign in the blank space of “undernEath,” but then I remembered the space isn’t blank at all. It’s filled with a thousand words I will never fully understand. But I will certainly keep trying, as any good reader should.

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by Ian Towey I’m speaking now, ‘Mr Y has an appointment with the mystery boy, and it is wise not to be late. But he won’t be, he won’t be. You can never be late for anything. Body and head buzzing with the latest chemicals, he falls beaming and twitchy what feels like sideways out of the Fire Exit of the clinic and runs up a hill of terraced. The shops and houses with tiny gardens of brittle grass, half-bricks and bicycle bits, empty half-size bargain Vodka bottles (those blinding white labels) and various cans of a lethal %. ‘Mr y is a bloated sparrow of a mover, with an overcoat so heavy of cloth and objects it has rounded his shoulders, and stooped him. But he is tall enough, and with a curly mop the colour of sunshine faded. He wears the unwashed garments of the preoccupied and eager, and there is a waft about him, somewhat oily and vague, but he attracts no flies and he is not an unpleasant sniff. Yes, he is something to see, but about him is a static which grates on the teeth, and, if you are partial this way, dimples the skin with the cold and the tiny bumps. He cocks an ear upon completion of his tiny (this running up a hill!) moment, and smiles a little. ‘It is a hot one today. Yes, yes, the next thing. The hopeless ecstasy of being alive and (you think) able to think when the sun is roasting nice upon you... and it is a rare old time to be about the town, the trees all skinny and bare, and cold at the bark, the narrow roads of Funtown smelly with the recent of peoples, vehicles, sirens static and muck. The air is electric with a thousand and more invisible messages- all this stuff, flying about- the pictures, the news, the latest crude jokes and gossip and assorted gyrations of a glitzy, pornographic nature. It is was and will be always the way of it. ‘Strange or not, there is a tenseness about Funtown, an edgy quiet like a moment before a moment, the absence of gulls (are we by the sea we are), the odd light in a window, the bleat of little folk muted, perhaps asleep, but more likely content with their galaxy of screen So many screens now, it’s a hard one fixing upon one-to-suit-your-moment. It is true enough to tell that the town has become strange to itself, and to venture around in it a people, if the people be a wise type, has to, as the steps progress, jot a route taken, and if they got there they were lucky, and if they didn’t, then perhaps their luck increased. Rules of order have blown away, chased off beyond the curve. ‘You could dance a pig in the twilight of the square, and get away with it. 67

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‘You could dance a pig in the twilight of the square, and get away with it. ‘The wind shouts, the air scratches vicious, and there is it seems a din of some sort, forever dancing in the ear. ‘And it is wise not to be late! ‘Onward to the task, Mr y! ‘He clutches his elbows and continues- his eyes on the reliable feet, on the scurry. ‘The buildings of pastel colours surround him, on these hills with the shops tangled up and flaking and muted pink- that shocking colour- and he has a bit of a repulsed dizzy as he spins about. Agh, life at times is a sewage on the eyes, and a scrape on the think. But on other days, not. Why? Why, oh why Mr. Y? Ha-ha! He lifts a finger, points it up at the diminishing twilight, and then on he goes, smiling a rare one. But all this, for the type he is- it is a giggle and a roll, a whistle and a chirrup. Or rather, it could quite possibly and would have been. ‘Mr. Y drifts where he should not and he does what impulse demands. ‘Anything is possible, and does anything make sense? ‘You tell me... ‘ Yes, I can hear you!’

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