CQ International Magazine

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The CQ Annual awards the winning short stories of 2016 Edition 3 Issue 2

Creative Quartely - February 2017

CQ

This is usually where the legal bit is, but to hell with that.

If you are so anally retentive you want to read the small print about the contents not necessarily being the same as the editors viewpoint, that the copyright for ALL the articles and images herein remain that of the contributors and featured writers/artist etc. etc. and better etc. then go ahead and read them. Take your time, blow your frock up. You can find them on the CQ International website. (or at the font of almost every magazine on the planet.

They are all pretty much the same –cover my arse against all the stupid, arrogant, greedy, selfish and spiteful twats whose lives are void, and so pathetically empty they have nothing better to do than agitate and piss-off the hard working, sharing and loving folk of this planet).

On the other hand, if you are an intelligent, thoughtful human being, just turn the pages, read and enjoy CQ Magazine. Oh, don’t forget to tell your friends.

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Contact us CQinternational@mail.com

There is so much going on in this edition of CQ Magazine it is amazingly exciting.

Firstly, we have four absolutely wonderful short stories from the winners of the 2nd CQ Short Story Challenge, ‘Taxi and Red Umbrella.’

Next, we announce the lucky ones of 2016, the chosen few who are the recipients of the CQ Annual Awards. These awards are given to the originators of stories, music or works of art deemed to be innovative, stimulating, thought provoking or exciting.

Also somewhere within these pages are the articles from CQ’s regular contributors, Kazz’s book review, Josh

LaMore & Dorothy Berry-Lound.

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CQ Magazine Short Story Challenge

Winners This was the image given for CQ Magazine’s 2nd Short Story Challenge. Nothing more. Just a simple painting to stimulate the muse of all the writers.

The response was remarkable, with a mind boggling, extraordinarily varied range of tales.

After our reading panel had pursued each story and given CQ Magazine their input and observations the final selections were made.

This was the most difficult judging to date. For the first time CQ Magazine has awarded four, rather than the standard three, writers for their works.

These entertaining and thought provoking stories start here and continue on the following pages.

We hope you will take your time and read each individual story, as they are all so vary different in style, content and context.

CQ has included a short biography of each writer and links to their webpages where you can find their books and other works.

Bill Engleson is a Canadian author and retired child protection social worker. He was born in Powell River, BC, raised in Nanaimo, and spent his first year of life trapped aboard his parents leaky fishboat. He resided in New Westminster for most of his adult years, retiring to Denman Island in 2004.

He writes long fiction, flash fiction, essays, poetry, letters to the editor, and, of late, book reviews for the Ormsby Review, a new online journal about B.C history and literature.

He has been writing most of his life. His first couple of efforts, poetic in nature, were printed in his mid-teens (quite a long time ago) in the, now, sadly defunct Nanaimo Daily Free Press.

He self-published his first novel, Like a Child to Home in 2013. Silver Bow Publishing released his second book, a collection of humorous literary

essays titled Confessions of an Inadvertently Gentrifying Soul, in October, 2016.

Additionally, he has had flash stories published in the recent Centum Press anthologies, One Hundred Voices Volumes One and Two. He is working furiously, in between moments of sloth, on several new projects, including a prequel to his first novel entitled Drawn Towards the Sun, a mystery, Bloodhound Days, and a collection of home-grown, satirically tinged essays, DIRA Diary: Tall Tales of Democracy in Traction.

His website/blog is www.engleson.ca The following story was awarded first place by our judging panel.

It is written in an off-beat style which makes it a compelling read, right to the last sentence.

Enjoy.

A Tumbling of Tender Rain NOW I had waited for the longest time. Longer than I had ever waited before, for anyone, for anything. I thought I was being very bighearted, giving her enough rope with which to hang herself.

That’s harsh, I know. Love isn’t a garrotte. When one is in love, the body shivers, shines, seeks a deep pool of warmth to immerse itself in, to drift more completely into a tributary of trust.

I didn’t really know what that might mean, giving someone enough rope to show up and be themselves. And really, there is no rope. There is only the slenderest of threads, a fragile cord.

Binding it all together for as long as it holds.

I had waited for the longest time, as if in a blind, waiting with supreme patience. Camera at the ready, longing for that perfect moment, aching for an image so powerful, so puissant, as the French say, that the significance of the shot would forever burn in their eyes.

THEN “Have you ever been to High Falls?” she had asked.

“No,” I had answered.

“Have you even heard of it?” she pursued my regrettable limitations.

“No,” I admitted, like a Samaritan who had failed to render timely assistance.

“I’m on my way there now,” she advised.

“To do what?” I wonder, and say.

“Hmm,” she smiles like child on a swing, “I sing. Semiprofessional.”

“So you have a job in this place, High Falls? A gig, right?”

“No, not there. But you’re right, I have a gig…I’ll be appearing at a little Jazz club in New York. In two days. The Purple Potato.

You know it?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. In two days? I would like to hear you sing…I’ll be back in the Big Apple later this week,” I say. “I’ll check you out.” And then, “I mean, your singing.”

“I’m pretty good,” she beams.

“So,” I’m still a little curious, “This place, High Falls. What’s there?”

“Ah. Well, Helen Morgan. Ring a bell?”

I am at a loss, I admit. “Who is she?”

“Was. Torch singer back in the twenties. Broadway, Hollywood…

She was big. Tragic, but big.”

“So High Falls was her home town?” I ask.

“No, she lived there for a time. Had a bit of a farm. A place to hide away. To dry out.”

“A drunk, then?” I am quick to be judgemental. Unkind, too, I guess. I am put in my place.

“No,” she is firm, “Tragic… and human…a little weak.”

“So what about her? About this Helen Morgan?”

“People tell me I channel her,” she says.

“Her singing?” I seek clarification.

“Yes. That. Not her voice…she had a higher tone…they did then…have a higher pitch. And recording music back then was not as…well done as it can be now. When they compare her to

me, it’s more, I think, our similar styles.”

“But not…”

“No, I hardly drink at all…”

And then my flight is called.

The moment is filed away.

NOW There is still daylight. A yellowing ochre tinge splashes on the street. The rain endures without interruption. It is surely another drizzly, New York day. Wet trash clinging to the fissured street has a noxious bouquet almost all of its own. It is, ironically, a smell not dissimilar to the toxic reeks I have inhaled in many other places in the world, zones of sorrow and carnage where my camera and I have chronicled almost every imaginable atrocity; the sickening stench is a devils mix of rotting flesh, poisonous food, smoked air, foul water and sewage rising, ever rising from a cities bowels.

Perhaps my judgement is suspect. I wonder about that as I prowl in the shadows, seeking the best angle, a sentry without assigned duty, a custodian of my own peccadillos.

I can’t believe I skipped my flight. I am usually reliable but Kabul will not notice my delay. Today. Tomorrow. There is always a later plane. Wars are open twenty four seven. There is no shortage. And sometimes, in this age of twenty four hour news, it may be that we have seen enough images of war.

This is heresy I speak.

But I know I am superfluous.

I wait in the shadows.

Poised.

THEN Three days later, I was at loose ends. I grabbed a cab and asked the cabbie if he knew of a place called The Purple Potato. He didn’t, but his dispatcher did. I was dropped off in less than twenty minutes. As I walked down the steps into the club, a voice, her voice, echoed out into the stairwell.

It was huskier than I imagined.

“Someday he'll come along the man I love, and he'll be big and strong the man I love and when he comes my way…”

Of course I fell I love. All the ingredients were there, and then some. I had few expectations. Our one exchange had been brief.

I lived for the next assignment. I briefly wondered what she lived for. Her music, of course.

I found a table against the rear wall. I ordered my drink and I waited and I listened.

After her set, she found me.

“You are an adventurous man,” she said, sipping a cocktail with a slice of pineapple draped over the lip of the glass. She was dressed more formally than I would have expected, something black approximating a gown.

“A pleasurable adventure, I assure you…You are good. That one song was a Billie Holliday classic, right?”

“The Man I Love? Yes. The Gershwin’s wrote it but many have laid claim to it. It belongs to Billie, though…but not quite.”

“Great song. Did you make it over to…that place?”

“High Falls. Yes, I did. Nothing magical happened. No Helen Morgan moments. But I was glad I went. So, will you be here long?”

“I have a few days. And then I’m away.”

“Then let’s make the most of our brief time,” she said.

NOW Brief?

It was brief.

Cold, sharp, strident.

But I could not disengage.

The images sear your soul.

Your brain finds no relief.

Fragments of flesh flap from the walls like old flypaper.

The images you cannot escape.

And then, unexpectedly, you stumble upon a salvation of a sort.

I see what I am doing.

When you cannot let go of a thing you know will destroy you, you are swallowed up by its contaminants.

“I play,” she said. “I like to play. But life is serious.”

The day is disappearing in the yellow rain. I am disappearing into the yellow rain. The images will fade.

“I have…other interests,” she said. “You need them to make it in this business,” she added.

I am no novice. This is not unexpected. But this time I cannot let go.

THEN She knew I was leaving on my latest assignment. I said I would say goodbye at the Club. She said, “Now. Here will do.”

I went anyways.

It did not go well.

“You don’t listen well, do you?” she scorned.

“I guess not,” I said.

“Look, baby, it was fun. That’s all it was. Fun. This isn’t fun.

This is…sad.”

What is the expression…your tail between your legs? It captures the humiliation and the discomfort quite well.

NOW He exits the cab. He appears younger than I expected. Taller.

Clutching her umbrella, red, bright, leaning to orange, her arms encircle his neck, pull him in to her, his fingers meet at her backbone, and pull her towards him.

Shot captured.

Again.

Every angle I can muster.

Preserve the image.

Tell the tale.

Be the correspondent, detached yet intimate, omniscient, inside the skin of the story, but beyond its silken reach.

Forever beyond her reach.

END

Life in the War Zone‌ The modern day civilised world we know is little more than a fragile moment balancing on a knife-edge between the evils of avarice and the struggle for dominant authoritarian supremacy.

Caught in the maelstrom between the warring factions are the innocent lives of civilians and children, the unsuspecting conscripts and misguided volunteers on all sides.

Conditioned, indoctrinated and convinced, by those who have only power and ultimate wealth to gain, are those whose personal stories are revealed within the pages of this book.

Life in the War Zone takes a serious, no holds barred look at the devastation and trauma of life in the battlefields of the Ukraine, Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq, Bosnia, Serbia, Croatia, Israel, Palestine, Libya, Lebanon and El Salvador.

This may well be the book they would rather you did not read.

UK https://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=searchalias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=978-1542338707 USA https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=searchalias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=978-1542338707 eBooks (direct from the author) http://paulznewpostbox.wixsite.com/paul-white

JOINT 2nd

I was born and grew up in and near Akron, Ohio and became a primary teacher. I met and married my husband, a citizen of India, in Akron.

We had a son and a daughter and moved to Greensboro, North Carolina when my husband took a job. Our children are now grown and are living in the U.S. In 2000, my husband and I moved to Pune, India where we still live.

In the last two years, I’ve been blogging and writing flash fiction stories on my blog, “Musings on Life & Experience” at https:// patriciaruthsusan.wordpress.com/ and connecting them to several different sites online. Two flash fiction group blogs I write for at present are “Addicted to Purple” hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields at

https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ and “Sunday Photo Fiction” hosted by Al Forbes at https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/ I’ve begun to write longer short stories for story challenges which I hope to have published in literary magazines. -– P.S. Joshi

Memories of Miranda I’d

come to downtown Chicago to have lunch with an old buddy

at the Giltbar on W. Kinzie Street. It was a windy, rainy day in April so I took an Uber. When it pulled over to the curb, I swung open the door and stepped out opening my umbrella.

Just then, a woman came slamming into me. Flinging her arms around my neck, she pressed her soft, warm lips against mine.

Enveloped in a cloud of perfume, I could barely hear the loud swearing of the Uber driver who was getting wet shutting my door.

I must have looked startled as she whispered, “Just pretend you know me. I’m being followed.”

No argument from me. I already felt I did know her. I took a better look at my new friend. Attraction didn’t end with the perfume.

She was gorgeous, the type of beautiful creature you dream about dating but it ends there. And she was clinging to me, Bill Danby, not James Bond.

Then the moment ended. She backed away and looked around. I thought, Well, it was good for a while. It wasn’t until then her statement, “I’m being followed,” registered.

A brain alarm went off.

“I think they’re gone now,” she said, straightening her raincoat.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t but I’ll give you my number. Call me.” She scribbled info on a notepad, tore out the page, and handed it to me. Then she floated away. I just stood there with her address clutched in my damp hand.

She was interested, and the small piece of paper proved it.

Interested—I had a chance. Would she—I looked at the paper— Miranda, be there if I called?

Even though I live on West Lakeview, one of the quieter Chicago streets, I rolled and tossed through the night. My brain kept replaying “the meeting”. I went into work Thursday morning after drinking a lot of coffee. My first stop was the men’s room.

That evening I got up courage to call.

The note—what did I do with the note? Then I remembered. I’d thrown my damp wrinkled jacket from yesterday over the back of a kitchen chair. Thank goodness I hadn’t had time to take it to the drycleaners. I thrust my hand into the right pocket. There it was, crinkled but legible.

I took my cell phone, pressed in the number, hit Save, pressed in Miranda, Save, then Call.

It rang once, twice, three…a voice answered, “Hello.”

It wasn’t Miranda’s voice. Now what? “Hello, is Miranda there?”

There was a silence. I held my breath.

“Yes, just a moment.”

I started breathing.

“Hello, who is this?” It was Miranda’s golden voice.

“This is Bill Danby, the guy with the red umbrella you ran into on W. Kinzie yesterday. You said I could call.” Why couldn’t I ever say something clever?

Oh, hi. I’m glad you called.

I swallowed, hard. My next words came out in a rush. “Would

you like to go out Saturday night for a comedy show at Second City, then dinner?

It gave her a couple days. She could back out if she changed her mind.

Then a miracle happened. “Okay,” she said. Where do you want to eat?”

“How about Giltbar? We met outside there yesterday.”

“Oh, I love the place. Yes. Sounds like fun.”

I tried to be calm like JB. “Great. I’ll get an Uber and pick you up at 7:15 pm. The show starts at 8 pm. What’s your address?

She sounded overjoyed. “Well, I live in a large condo at 600 N. Lakeshore. Just tell the man at the desk in the lobby Miranda Lawrence is expecting you. He’ll call me, let me talk to you, verify it, then give you the apartment number and you can come up. Well, guess I’ll see you then.

Oh, I almost forgot. My sister, Gloria, who answered the phone, wants to know where you work. I’m a fulltime writer. Gloria thinks my work is great. She thinks I’m too fragile to work outside.”

How like a little child she sounded. Another alarm bell? Shut up, Bill, you’re going nuts.

“I work at Leo Burnett, the ad agency downtown in the Loop.”

I would have loved to answer, I’m a secret agent, but don’t tell anyone. I’m working on a top secret case.

“Okay, see you on Saturday.

We disconnected and I just sat for a moment convincing myself I hadn’t dreamed this conversation.

And yet, something wasn’t right. I didn’t know what but soon found out.

Saturday evening I took the stairs down after calling for an Uber

on the app. At the front door I met a friend.

“Hi, Bill. How the heck you doing? It was my neighbor in the building, Jack, a detective with the Chicago Police, and a darn nice guy. “Where you going all dressed up?

“Hi. I’m meeting someone for a date. How about that?”

“Good goin.” He grinned.”Have a great time. See you later.” He started for the stairs and I went outside to wait for the Uber.

When we reached the building on W. Lakeshore, I told the driver to wait. Everything went as described by Miranda.

Gloria answered the door. Not as beautiful as Miranda, she radiated hate. I felt like bacteria under a microscope. She hardly spoke.

“Miranda, your date.”

I was relieved when Miranda glided into the room. “Hi, Bill.”

She looked like a dream in a yellow dress ending above her knees and matching shoes.

The evening was perfect except she asked me if I noticed someone following us. I told her I hadn’t and she seemed reassured.

Damn alarm again. I was getting suspicious against my will.

Back at her door she threw her arms around me and pressed close. Her perfume enveloped me again. “What is that perfume?” I whispered.

“Chanel No. 5.” She whispered back. Then she pressed her lips against mine and time stood still.

The thrill ended when she finally drew away and said in a soft voice, “The Uber’s waiting for you and I better go in. Call me.”

No sooner had I settled in the Uber than I got a call. It was from Miranda’s number. Great!

Except the voice on the phone was Gloria. I felt a chill.

She got right to the point. “Bill there’s something you need to know. It’s for both your good and Miranda’s. She was speaking in a low voice. It seemed Miranda wasn’t to know she called.

Ever get the feeling lightening has struck square on?

“Miranda suffers from schizophrenia and has her whole life. She thinks she hears voices. She probably told you she was being followed. She often thinks that. It’s better for both of you if you don’t see her again. Goodbye.” The phone went dead and I sat there numbed to the bone.

I didn’t call Miranda again. What was the use? If I’d been honest with myself, I’d have admitted I was scared. A week passed.

On Wednesday of the second week, having taken the El home, I’d just reached my door. I heard a voice behind me say, “Don’t move.” The tone said, “I mean it”. Moving wasn’t an option at that moment.

“Okay, turn slowly.” It was Gloria and she was holding a Glock pointed right at my chest.

“Gloria, what’s this all about?” I was scared, tried not to show it, but began to feel sweat roll down the sides of my face.

“It’s Miranda. She talks about you all the time. I can’t get her to quit. You’ve ruined everything. A voice told me to kill you. It said it’s the only way. I told Miranda I’d talk to you. She believes me.”—Her hands were shaking—“I followed the two of you on your date. Saw her kissing you. I always follow her. She’s fragile.”

Bill old man this is it. I never thought I’d go this way.

Then I saw him. Jack had pushed through the small group gathered to stare and was coming slowly up behind her. I tried not to let on.

When he got within several feet of her, I heard a strange sound.

She yelled and dropped to the ground releasing the Glock which

fell with a clunk. Jack kicked it away then pulled her hands behind her back fastening handcuffs around her wrists. He called for backup.

He turned to me. “My partner was dropping me off when I saw this woman. I’m licensed to carry a taser. God loves you buddy.”

Gloria went to jail and I told Jack about Miranda so he could send someone to help her. Not me. I’d had enough of that family.

For me there’ll only be memories of Miranda

END

Kindle https://goo.gl/Tyj9bi Paperback https://www.amazon.co.uk/TeardropsWhite-Doves-Paul/dp/1507858914/ ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?

JOINT 2nd Francis de Aguilar is a retired therapist from UK. Now, his two children having left home, is living in rural Devon with his partner and two dogs. Currently he’s working a sequel to his first novel. As well as writing Francis is a keen musician and composer. https://soundcloud.com/the-secrets-out Francis has had several poems published in online magazines such as; http://internationaltimes.it/? s=Francis+de+Aguilar.

One poem ‘Drowning’ has been included in a printed collection. http://thecurio.ecrater.com/ p/26064510/sometimes-anyway -pride-in-poetry-volume Francis is also working on a selfpublish collection of his poetry.

BULLSEYE. Today's the day he thought, as he lay there in the tiny bed in the equally tiny room. Today is payback for all the snide remarks, all the bullying and, worst of all, today I show the world what happens when you dump your baby on the state 'cos he’s not like all the others, not straight.

He clambered awkwardly out of the bed and stood. His crooked frame, thin and pale, had never experienced the feel of the sun.

He always covered up his misshapen body; even so, it did not stop the constant stares or the remarks.

Josh worked for a small tailoring firm, located in the basement of a larger firm in midtown Manhattan, New York’s garment district. The owner, Abe Singer, was pleased to have Josh, who was prepared to work for almost nothing, about all that Abe could afford in fact. Josh got this room in the back, thirty-two bucks a week and Abe would bring him food from home most days, mostly leftovers from their family meal. In return, Josh did the bookkeeping, admin and kept the place tidy.

It was a Sunday so Josh had the place to himself. He ate his meagre breakfast of day-old bagels dipped in milk while listening to the weather forecast, they predicted some heavy showers. He got dressed and, with some difficulty, reached under his bed for the box he had kept stashed there since it arrived three days ago.

"What's this then," Abe had asked, as he'd handed Josh the long flat parcel.

A new tripod for my camera," Josh lied. Photography was Josh's passion. He had saved for two years to get a camera.

"Most of his free time got spent either perched on the Manhattan rooftops snapping away or at the computer in the office that Abe allowed him to use to process his pictures.

His relationship with Abe was one of mutual need. Abe, by no means a generous - or kind-hearted individual, was in fact a rather bitter and bad-tempered old man who had seen his livelihood eroded by what he called 'cheap foreign imports'. Josh knew where he stood when, one day, Abe insisted he stay out of sight when a ‘regular’ customer came in for a fitting.

The bulk of Abe's work involved making specialist clothing for people like Josh, who just could not get clothes that fitted. The Hesketh Centre, where Josh lived, was the place where he had first encountered Abe. Josh had listened as the centre manager tried to explain to Abe that he needed to provide an invoice for each delivery from now on. That the cash in hand arrangement would no longer be workable since the new director had taken over.

Josh sensed an opportunity, having just completed one of the endless courses on offer at the centre. A computer course being the most recent, and, as it turned out, Josh proved to be a natural. He followed Abe along the corridor.

“I could help you with that invoicing thing Mr. Singer,” he offered from behind as he shuffled along, trying to keep up.

"How you gonna help?" Abe demanded scathingly “Let me show you Mr Singer, this way." Josh beckoned as he headed toward the training suite with his awkward gait. Josh fired up one of the PC's and with a few keystrokes produced an invoice for four specialist pairs of trousers at $40 each.

"You can use these... machines to do this, for me?"

Over the next few months, every time Abe made a delivery to the centre, Josh would create an invoice and Abe would slip him a few bucks. One day Abe produced a letter from the revenue office asking him for his accounts for the past year.

"Can you help with this?"

"Can you help with something like this Josh?� asked Abe, his tone curt as ever.

And so this was how Josh had got away from the Hesketh Centre orphanage and moved into the small back room at 'A, Singer Inc. Bespoke Tailoring.’ It was there he considered ways he might get revenge on what was for him, an unrelentingly cruel world.

Josh cleaned the lens on his camera with great care before packing his holdall. He removed the contents of the parcel and placed it the tripod case, buttoned up his jacket and headed up the steps to street level. An odd calm befell him as he clambered up the stairs of the Ogden Building, he knew when the concierge went on his break and so, critically as he was so recognisable, had slipped in unseen.

The weather changed; it started to rain, so Josh sheltered in the lobby just by the door to the roof-top. After a few minutes, the sun broke though, so he headed out and found a good spot. He got his camera out, fixed the long focus lens and scanned the horizon sweeping down to the street. There were few people about but enough, enough for him to show the world the extent of his anger.

Josh removed the hunting rifle from the tripod case, fixed the barrel in place and then the telescopic sight. He snapped a full magazine in place and jacked a shell into the chamber, raised the weapon to his misshapen shoulder and aimed downward over the parapet towards the street far below.

He sought his target through the scope. A woman with a buggy?

A youth kicking along on a skateboard, something Josh could never do. This was it; he began to squeeze the trigger when a bus got in the way.

The sunlight shafted down under the darkening sky as he searched for another target. Suddenly he saw it, a couple came out of a doorway and hailed a cab as the rain began. The guy embraced the girl as the cab waited by the kerb. Josh watched them kiss. His heart ached knowing he would probably never hold a girl, kiss a girl.

The rain got heavier making it harder to see and Josh was on the verge of giving up. Then, as if in answer, the girl opened a small red umbrella giving him a perfect target.

He rapidly pumped five shells into the red bullseye, they both crumpled to the ground.

He lowered the rifle and stared at the scene for a moment before slumping down behind the parapet. The rain was getting heavier now. Blinking rain out of his eyes he realised he was still holding his breath. Josh exhaled and felt a surge of release as years of pent up anger and hurt gushed out of his heart to be swept away by the rain.

By the time he got down to the street, via the fire escape, a crowd had gathered. A burly policeman tried to keep them at bay. Josh struggled to the front wanting to see the faces of the lovers he had executed.

"Hey, Quasimodo, back up there." The policeman placed his nightstick against the shoulder where, a few minutes earlier, the rifle stock had rested.

Josh did indeed back away; he hefted the holdall feeling comforted by the extra weight of the rifle.

He stared at the policeman thinking, someone will pay for that, someone will pay.

THE END.

Ferens Ar

100 years to the day on 12 Jan will mark the day The Times announced that Thomas Robinson Ferens had acquired a plot of land in Queen Victoria Square for the creation of an art gallery in Hull. The announcement was made in a letter from Ferens, which had been announced at a Hull City Council meeting by the Lord Mayor the day before, as reported in the Hull Daily Mail on 12 Jan 1917.

Following the unveiling of the Lorenzetti masterpiece this week, the Minister of State for Digital and Culture, Matt Hancock, will officially open the competition for the successor of the UK City of Culture in 2021.

By Nicola Taylor

Ferens Art Gallery will re-open its doors to the public on Friday 13 Jan from 12pm – 5pm following its £5.1m refurbishment, celebrating the start of our year as UK City of Culture. Visitors will find Pietro Lorenzetti’s rare 14th century panel painting, Christ between Saints Paul and Peter and other early Italian Renaissance masterpieces, plus the re-presentation of the gallery’s exceptional permanent collection.

Pietro Lorenzetti: Siena to Hull, A Masterpiece Revealed Having undergone extensive conservation treatment and research at the National.

Gallery in London, Pietro Lorenzetti’s stunning panel painting, Christ between Saints Paul and Peter reveals the dazzling world of early 14thcentury Sienese painting.

Francis Bacon: Nervous System Five of Francis Bacon’s notorious Screaming Popes join the Ferens Art Gallery’s permanent collection redisplay. This includes one of Bacon’s most revered and highly

t Gallery

recognised masterpieces, Head VI, from the Arts Council Collection.

nude installation ever staged in the UK.

Open Exhibition

The world renowned arts prize will come to Hull in September, offering the chance for all to encounter some of the most vibrant visual art being made today in an exciting exhibition of the four shortlisted artists’ work. The Turner Prize, named after British landscape painter JMW Turner, is an annual prize awarded by Tate to a British artist under the age of 50 who has exhibited outstanding work in the previous year. Ferens Art Gallery will be only the fifth venue outside London to host the prize since it was established in 1984.

Often provocative, the prize aims to promote debate around contemporary visual arts.

Previous winners include Damien Hirst, Grayson Perry, Jeremy Deller, Elizabeth Price and, in 2015, the collective Assemble.

The Open Exhibition at the Ferens has celebrated the creativity of local amateur and professional artists since 1967. Marking its 50th anniversary this year, the exhibition will be selected by Dr Gabriele Finaldi; Director of the National Gallery; Hull-born actor Maureen Lipman CBE, and internationally renowned sculptor and Royal Academician, David Mach.

Spencer Tunick’s Sea of Hull The unveiling of Spencer Tunick’s Sea of Hull commission in April will be a major highlight for more than 3,200 participants in Hull who took part in a series of urban portraits in July 2016, officially confirmed as the largest

Turner Prize 2017

A NDY P ELOQUIN Lover of All Things Dark and Mysterious I am, first and foremost, a storyteller and an artist--words are my palette.

Fantasy is my genre of choice, and I love to explore the darker side of human nature through the filter of fantasy heroes, villains, and everything in between.

I'm also a freelance writer, a book lover, and a guy who just loves to meet new people and spend hours talking about my fascination for the worlds I encounter in the pages of fantasy novels.

Fantasy provides us with an escape, a way to forget about our mundane problems and step into worlds where anything is possible. It transcends age, gender, religion, race, or lifestyle--it is our way of believing what cannot be, delving into the unknowable, and discovering hidden truths about ourselves and our world in a brand new way. Fiction at its very best!

http://andypeloquin.com/

"They killed my parents. They took my name. They imprisoned me in darkness. I

would not be broken."

Viola, a child sold to pay her father's debts, has lost everything: her mother, her home, and her identity. Thrown into a life among criminals, she has no time for grief as she endures the brutal training of an apprentice thief. The Night Guild molds an innocent waif into a cunning, agile outlaw skilled in the thieves' trade. She has only one choice: steal enough to pay her debts.

The cutthroat streets of Praamis will test her mettle, and she must learn to dodge the City Guards or swing from a hangman's rope. But a more dangerous foe lurks within the guild walls. A sadistic rival apprentice, threatened by her strength, is out for blood.

What hope does one girl have in a world of ruthless men?

Amazon Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/Child-Night-GuildQueen-Thieves-ebook/dp/B01N1TC3VW/ Amazon Paperback: Amazon Canada: https://www.amazon.ca/Child-Night-GuildQueen-Thieves-ebook/dp/B01N1TC3VW/ Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/33412715child-of-the-night-guild

Saskia Jonker

Saskia Jonker (1966), former Paralympic gold medallist, is a Buddhist awareness trainer who has been writing since she was 15. Her heart is in spiritual poetry, but she will take the occasional leap to the fictional (narrative) side, as she has done in her "A Cold Day in Paris".

Saskia is a published author. She wrote "The Heart Knows" and as the owner of "Poet's Dream" on Google+ she was co publisher of and author in 3 Anthology ebooks.

She is currently working on publishing a poetry book on life and love, hoping to release it in April this year.

A COLD DAY

IN

PARIS

It's a cold day in Paris

It's a cold day in Paris

A lonesome man

He buries his head in his coat

overlooking the Seine

Bitter tears stain the lining

Tour boats passing underneath

What could he have done

the deserted bridge Soft snowflakes gently gliding

When did the young, cocky guy,

off his hair:

he once was,

the only current comfort He'd lost his youth

turn into this shied away man?

He'd lost his confidence

He failed to understand

He'd lost his love.

how he could have let her go

differently?

Or even why she went.

It's a cold day in Paris He listens to the faint sounds

Boy it's a cold day in Paris

of jazz music

Inclement storms raging

Echoing from the crowded cafĂŠs

Outside and within

Into the still of the night

As does he, remaining there,

His gaze drawn to

motionless, on that bridge

the distant lights

The rattling resonance

on the shores, across

of engines in the background

Reminders of life.

failed to penetrate the hearing

Taxis defying nature's force

Until now, as a vehicle halts Right behind him.

into what seems eternal embrace

Tentatively he turns

He looks up at the stars

The jazz music stops

A flake kissing his nose

If only for a moment

Which star led her here,

And the lights Illuminate

back into his arms?

her loveable face

His icy heart melts

as she steps out

Surrendering once more,

Red umbrella in hand

on this cold Paris day,

Their eyes meet

to the one thing

through a curtain of snow

that actually always warms!

They both walk smilingly

END.

Watch the Video https://youtu.be/ VAl7Mm1qW9Y https:// Buy the book

www.createspace. com/6835323

This book, curiously called ‘The Rabbit Joke’ is esp

The story follows the adventure of a little rabbit called Fluffybunny and his quest to fin

Boosted on by Pinkie Paws, a certain girl rabbit, Fluffybunny is soon travelling

Travel with Fluffybunny on his adventure as he encounters foxes, hungry hawks, o

Will Fluffybunny ever find any food? Can

The only way you will ever know is to read ‘The Rabbit Joke’ to your

Order your

https://www.peecho.c

pecially designed to be read by adults to children.

nd food, in order to save his warren from starvation during an especially cold winter.

g farther than any rabbit has gone before; he is going beyond the hedgerow‌.

owls and metal monsters, on his journey down dales, across rivers and over hills.

n he save his warren from starvation?

r children, or maybe just curl up in a chair and read it all to yourself!

copy today

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Tatjana Sogorov.

Tatjana Sogorov is a freelance artist.

She is a graduate painter of fine arts (MA) at the Faculty of Fine Arts. A member of two representative fine and applied arts associations.

Tatjana also designs and makes unique women’s textile hand and tote bags and small home accessories.

She has had one juried solo exhibition of her paintings, taken part in around 40 juried group exhibitions both in Serbia and abroad. Tatjana won awards for the paintings she exhibited.

Some of her artworks have been published in magazines and in the art book by a famous architect representing different artists of applied arts and designers of my country of the 21st century.

Ennio Morricone is rightly considered the world’s greatest living film composer, a legend whose work has reached far beyond the scorched desertscapes of Almeria (A Few Dollars More) and the tumultuous waters of Iguazu Falls (The Mission). Much sought after by filmmakers the world over for his matchless versatility and productivity, Morricone’s innovative soundworks and truly exhaustive range of musical styles have complemented practically every conceivable movie genre there is.

However, he has not solely restricted himself to the silver screen, having created some remarkable signature pieces for radio and theatre, together with extensive forays into both absolute and applied music. Fondly referred to as il maestro by his peers, Morricone is just that: a master of his craft, a true virtuoso, effortlessly interweaving contrasting styles to produce some of the most sublime music of our day.

The

Ennio Morricone Series

The Ennio Morricone Series was made during my studies at the Faculty of Fine Arts. It was not the intention of making paintings of the famous Ennio Morricone, it was just a photo in the newspapers, representing his concert in my hometown. I was captured by that and started my exploration from there.

The series consists of four paintings and around six drawings (for now – I am working on some new ones).

All the paintings are made in the oil on canvas technique, with dimensions: 40x80, 80x120, 120x100 and 150x100 cm.

The drawings are made in different techniques on paper: pencil, charcoal and combined (two or three different pencils) and mostly around 21x30 cm in dimensions with one exception of 35x50 cm.

I started with a full portrait of Ennio Morricone (120x 100 cm painting and the small drawings) and later developed the theme to further explor of the face, viz its detail (in all the rest dimensions above), particularly the part which includes the eyes, nose and mouth, focusing on the look with the glasses which caught my attention the most.

Niume art(works) and craft blog: https://niume.com/ profile/80849#!/posts Twitter: https://twitter.com/T_art_ T-shirt store on Represent: https://represent.com/store/art-design -by-tas Society6 store: https://society6.com/tasoart Etsy: https://www.etsy.com/people/tatjanasoart

Tatjana Sogorov

Tatjana Sogo

rov

Elizabeth Nore

CQ Award Outstan Short s Elizabeth Newton has written a number of amazing books.

'Riddle' a twisted and interwoven story about murder, betrayal and revenge in a small town.

The second is 'View from the Sixth Floor: An Oswald Tale' which is a story of “what-if's?"

What if the assassination of President John F. Kennedy on November 22, 1963 was a conspiracy? What if accused assassin Lee Harvey Oswald was innocent? What if....

The Vineyard is one of Elisabeth's short stories, it may just give you reason to take a look at her books.

Rread The Vineyard here:

https://brilliantblogshare.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/thevineyard.html

een– newton

d 2016 for nding story

Click on cover images to see more

Jessica B

Bes Illustrati 20

When I paint, the w

“Art has always been

like that. I found my still in Kindergarten known the impact t have on me then. An artist. Jessica loves p through various form abstract emotion

Jessica is 25 years Gainesville, Florida, U dogs, a ferret, and a happy, sim

https:// www.facebook.com/ Jessicasstrangeart/

Brown

st ive artist 016

world stands still.

n therapeutic for me calling when I was but, I couldn’t have this passion would acrylic multi-media portraying her work ms of surrealism and nal symbolism. “

s old and resides in US with her fiancé, 2 a cat; living a very mple life.

https://www.instagram.com/threesleepingeyes/

THE MIGHTY

Joe Castro is an accomplished Philadelphia based collage artist, musician (The Lift Up), oil painter and graphic designer. His paintings and collages have been shown in galleries and art spaces across the United States, Canada, and Europe. They have been described as “a controlled explosion, aggressive and pensive (Kolaj Magazine)” and “bold and diverse… one of those collage artists whose works you recognize immediately… (Toombes.com).” He is a signature member of the National Collage Society.

When not working on new paintings and collages, he runs his own graphic design business, Red Attic Studios, where he has created gig posters for bands such as The Districts, She & Him, Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, Delta Spirit, Sturgill Simpson, Echo and the Bunnymen, Death Cab for Cutie and Pavement. He has won numerous awards for his design work, which has been featured in Graphic Design USA. He has directed music videos for The Sky Drops, Curly Castro, and Zilla Rocca. He is a board member of the Wilmington Skate Project, where he curated two benefit art shows, one of which was featured on Fuel TV’s What’s Happening with Chris Pastras

ht

JOE CASTRO

ttp://mightyjoecastro.com/

Rika Inami Best

Tanka Poetry Rika Inami lives in Akita Prefecture, Japan, graduated from the First Department of Literature, Waseda University, and a membership of “Muro Saisei Society”, “Kaze-no-Kai”, and a former membership of “Tanka Topos”. 秋田県在住 早稲田大学第一文学部卒業 「室生犀星学会」会員/ 「風の 会」会員/ 「短歌ト ポス」元会員 “TANKA” is surely tanka poetry and “HARAKO” is the name of a place, where I walk.

If I translate this literally, it is “Field of Fox”. The cover image is one of my photographs of Harako. I chose one from seasonal photographs in Harako for the book cover, I truly hope you enjoy this existent Tanka having roots in the environment of Japan.

Book 1

https://www.amazon.co.uk/TANKA-HARAKO-Japanese-ebook/dp/ B01BTRXMOI Book 2

https://www.amazon.com/TANKA-HARAKO-x2161-x77ED-x6B4Cebook/dp/B01JVWXG9Y

稲美 里 ベスト 俳句

Stephanie

BEST SINGER / SO

Cheekily cheerless, Stephanie Slevin's new album cuts just the right path between innocence and cynicality, delivering some of the catchiest cuts the folk-pop tradition has produced in recent years.

“I’m a Singer/Songwriter and I'm based in London England ' I sing from my pain and the pain of others. As I prefer to say, ' keeping it real from pain of feel !! ‘.. I have been a Poet from a very young age an now put that poetry into motion ' I hope you enjoy my music “ Thank you Steph

Slevin

ONGWRITER 2016

Listen now “I know that you love me the most”

https://www.reverbnation.com/stephanieslevin

Traci Bold writes picture books and young adult books. Her passion is writing for young people, telling their stories or telling stories young people are sheltered from.

Traci also writes to give animals a voice as she is passionate about their rights and keeping species from going extinct.

“Besides writing books, I write daily Word of the Day stories or quips based on the Word of the Day from www.dictionary.com on my webpage. Some stories are silly, some are dramatic and some are spooky. It just depends on the selection.�

Besides writing and researching Traci loves nature and anything creative. On July 10, 2015, my loving old dog, Brittie, crossed the rainbow bridge. She will always be my muse and I will continue to write in her honour as she is always by my side even in spirit. To you Brit, "Thank you for always listening to me read my stories and giving me your opinion with a smile, yawn or turning your head. You are my best babe, always and forever. I love you girl.

Traci is a proud mother of two exceptional daughters, a loving old dog (RIP 7-10-15) and wife to my BFF, my hubby. Member of SCBWI, 12x12 Picture Book Challenge, ReFoReMo, NaPiBoWriWe, NaNoWriMo and PiBoIdMo.

https://boldwriter67.wordpress.com/

In 2014 Karen published her first collection of short stories The Missing. “I’ve always been fascinated by the reason people go missing and the effects it has on those left behind.” This was followed by two more themed collections, Behind the Music and Heroes.

Karen lives on the beautiful Isle of Anglesey off the North Wales coast with her husband and elderly Yorkshire terrier. She has two children, who were both born on the same day, two years apart. There was also 2lbs difference in weight and all while they lived at house number 22.

Besides writing, Karen is an avid blogger, reader and book reviewer and now Karen also has her own review column, right here in CQ Magazine.

https://karensbookbuzz.wordpress.com/

Karen J Mossman Best

Book review Blog

Halfway up

Dorothy Berry-Lo Cumbria

As I write this it is officially the depths of winter and who could have guessed how much the Italian winter could throw at us! It has been a bad winter. Five years ago we were snowed in for two weeks but since then the winters have been mild. So mild, in fact, that local crops been hit by various pests and diseases including olive fly, leaving olives fallen on the ground and those on the trees not worth picking. This has impacted on the local economy of course. We actually all wanted, or I should say needed, a cold winter to kill off the pests for the sake of the local agriculture.

We got what we wanted – parts of Italy that rarely, if ever, see snow got enough for things to grind to a halt. Unbelievably, up our mountain and in our immediate area we have

a Mountain

ound reports from a, ITALY escaped it all. But all around us large quantities of snow have fallen and we can see snow covered mountains in the distance. More than a metre of snow fell in the areas hit by earthquakes last year. So, not only are people trying to recover from losing their homes and livelihoods, they are doing so in dreadful winter conditions. And if that wasn’t enough, we have had yet more earthquakes in Central Italy. That caused issues in combination with heavy snow by causing an avalanche that engulfed a hotel – you may have seen that on the news.

On a more cheery note, the snow has allowed people to have fun on Monte Amiata, an inactive volcano (lava dome) in Southern Tuscany which we can see from here. Tourism is a big part of the economy around Monte Amiata not least during the ski season. It is possible to go skiing and then relax in one of the natural hot springs in the area – not to mention having a wonderful meal in one of the local restaurants.

You can head seriously into relaxation this time of year by spending a day (or a week!) at one of the local spas that harness the hot springs. Massages, various hydrotherapy activities and a swim in a pool warmer than bathwater is available for tourists and locals alike in places like Saturnia, Bagno San Filippo and San Cascianio dei Bagni. The town of Bagno Vignoni has a wonderful surprise in the town centre, an old Roman bath house with a very large pool of hot spring water. All of these are heated by the volcanic activity going on underground. It’s amazing to think what is going on under our feet!

Even in winter the view from our mountain is magical. The air is crisp and clean even if you do think your nose might drop off when the Tramontana (the north wind) blows.

Sometimes there is low fog and some of the towns and villages look like they are floating on top of them. We sit in sunshine some days and look out over a sea of fog, knowing that the rest of the world is down there somewhere. One day we watched a blizzard move from the other side of Lago Trasimeno and all the way over Castiglione del Lago and up the valley until it reached us about ten minutes later. It didn’t lay luckily as we were in the middle of cutting up a tree that had fallen in strong winds and was blocking our access to the road... I told you it was a bad winter!

K ELLY S. M ARSDEN AUTHOR Kelly S. Marsden grew up in Yorkshire, and there were two constants in her life - books and horses.

Graduating with an equine degree from Aberystwyth University, she has spent most of her life since trying to experience everything the horse world has to offer. She is currently settled into a Nutritionist role for a horse feed company in Doncaster, South Yorkshire.

She writes Fantasy stories part-time. Her first book, The Shadow Rises (Witch-Hunter #1), was published in January 2013, and she now has two successful series under her belt.

Kelly has now released her latest book, The Oracle, Book 2 of the Enchena series.

The ORACLE

After a brief respite, the Gardyn rebels have returned to fight the tyranny of King Hrafn and Prince David.

Samantha, Jillis and Tobias will have to find their place in the new vision of Enchena; but first, they have to risk everything to make it real.

New allies will rise, as the past plays a huge part in the future; and an Oracle must be brought, to guide them all.

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Oracle-Enchena-Book-2-ebook/ dp/B01NBE62P1/ Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/Oracle-Enchena-Book-2-ebook/ dp/B01NBE62P1/ Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-oracle-k-smarsden/1125406292?ean=9781540691842 Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/33147181-theoracle

Read online for free

HERE

CLOTHING, ACCESSORIES, TECH COVER BE

RS, POSTERS, CANVASS PRINTS, ACRYLIC, CLOCKS, EDDING & MORE In 2016 PeeJay Design launched there ‘Studio Collection’ exclusively for Redbubble.com You can find the studio collection here

UK https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1539868923

USA https://www.amazon.com/dp/1539868923 Kindle Worldwide http://authl.it/6bo

Kazz’s Book Review

Hello, and welcome to the second edition of Kazz’s Book

Reviews. I am a writer and a supporter of Indie authors.

Each issue I shall review and talk books where hopefully you’ll discover your next favourite read.

You can link up with me here:

Website: magiofstories.net Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/Kazzmoss Twitter - https://twitter.com/KarenJMoss Amazon – author.to/KM Visit the Magic of Stories Bookstore https:// magicofstories.selz.com Sign up for the Magic of Stories newsletter in February and receive a free book -https://magicofstories.net/ mosnewsletter/

Souls Of the

Reaper What is the book about?

Set in the future, this is the Undead Unit, a werewolf, a vampire and a shifter, are all police officer investigating crimes by the undead.

Is it a Series?

Yes, the first book is Fang and Claw, which I also read and reviewed on my website. (https:// karensbookbuzz.wordpress.com/2016/02/15/fang-claw-by-markie-maddon/)

Kazz’s Review This is not my normal type of read, but having read and enjoyed the first book, I wanted to read the second, especially as one of the characters is named after me! My nickname is Kazz and I often use it in conjunction with party of my surname. So I was thrilled the author named one of her officers Kazz Moss.

Basically, this is a group of police officers have their own special way of doing things. Only they can investigate crimes committed by the undead. In this book, an unknown Reaper is taking souls from living people. He doesn't kill them just harvests them. By taking a soul from a living being makes it hard for that person to distinguish between right and wrong. That, in turn, causes the crime rate to go up. So can our detectives piece this together?

Can they find the Reaper in time?

What I liked best There is one scene where a character, also a Reaper, but a good one, traces the finely woven threads that still link the soul to its owner. He leaves his own body and rises up into an ethereal world beautifully described by the author. I was fascinated and this whole sequence had me anxiously turning the page to find out more about this mystical place.

And the rest I really like the author's style of writing. It reminds me of watching a film where your eyes can follow each scene. The author has a descriptive way that makes it easy for the reader to imagine just where they are and what they see and do.

I loved the relationships between the main characters, Lacey and Coulton. They were thrown together in the first book and it was an uneasy, especially as their families had a history.

In this book, they learn to trust and like each other and it's interesting to see this grow.

There are some great, if uneasy storylines, to follow as they make their way through their caseload.

Although set in the future, it could be the modern day, which makes it so much more believable.

Overall, a great read with great characters and what's more there is a book 3 and there will be more coming in the future.

Amazon UK https://www.amazon.co.uk/Souls-Reaper-Undead-Unit-Book-ebook/dp/ B019BLZWQU Amazon US https://www.amazon.com/Souls-Reaper-Undead-Unit-Book-ebook/dp/ B019BLZWQU

Kelly needs to escape from her abusive and controlling boyfriend, but she's terrified to leave.

She’s then given a chance to start a fresh, but is the cost for her freedom too high?

Sarah is happy in her life. She has a dream job and a perfect roommate. But when a brick is thrown through the window, followed by a letter containing razor blades, her life starts to spin out of control. Detective Ryan Andrews is on the case and the two quickly form a close bond.

Will Kelly pay that price for freedom? Can Sarah's secret past be kept from Ryan?

In the end The Truth Will Out. The Truth Will out by Karen J Mossman is a thriller set in the UK city of Manchester, a story of two women, both with something to hide.

Find out more and read a sample here https://read.amazon.com/kp/embed? asin=B01LXAQQJ4&ref_=cm_&reshareId=EXFBX17HKYV4RXCCRRM1&reshareChanne l=system Available on Amazon, or direct from the author at https://magicofstories.selz.com

Candice is a self-taught artist. She began painting in 2012. “ I never start a painting with anything in mind.

I choose the colours I feel like working with that day, then use my palette knife to apply much of the paint to canvas, then brush. Once the canvas is covered with colour, I take a look and see what I can see in it.

I start to work, building around whatever image I see in the painting. I mostly use the palette knife and fan brush. Some are done with palette knife only I have been very fortunate to have had a few shows and sales. Pretty much all of my paintings are just thoughts in my imagination funnelled into colours onto canvas.”

Candice James, Poet Laureate Emerita, New Westminster, BC. A poet, writer, visual artist, musician, singer-songwriter, book reviewer, workshop facilitator and board advisor to Royal City Literary Arts Society and a director of The Festival of the Book Society, Victoria BC. She is author of thirteen poetry books: the first was published in 1979 “A

Split In The Water” (Fiddlehead Books); and the most recent “City or Dreams – The New Westminster Poems” 2016 (Silver Bow Publishing).

Candice’s many awards include the prestigious Bernie Legge Artist Cultural Award and Pandora’s Collective Citizenship award.

Unmasked: I was thinking of the two sides of a person – the yin and the yang

Red Row Boat:

I was thinking of nightfall in Italy or Greece and an old neglected rowboat with peeling paint on the shore in the weeds. (above)

Rock Crescent: Ticonderoga Sunspill:

I was just thinking of water and rocks (Above right)

I was thinking of a sunset over a desert and water (Right)

To see more of Candice’s wonderful artworks and to read her poetry please visit

www.candicejames.com

‘On The Way Home’ We Sold Everything: An Excerpt from ‘On The Way Home’ From the memoirs of Josh LaMore.

We sold everything. I even sold my little Plymouth, with the rusted-out break lines and headlights that only worked when I applied pressure on the bright switch. in just the right way.

Lucky, it hadn't killed anyone. But that random unpredictable thing, the thing that held together while breaking down, was my car.

I didn’t care rust was all that was holding it together, but sacrifices had to be made.

“I'm sorry.” I said, aloud to my dying machine, parked among mountains of twisted broken metal and heaps of rubber, “I had plans for you."

Initially, Wade and I intended to drive it west until we drove straight into the Pacific. We planned to swim back to shore and watch as it was carried away by the current, buried at sea never to return. I’d then bask in the sun and contemplate the start of my new life and remember, for the last time, moments from the old.

A vehicle like my little Plymouth deserved a heroic departure, but we had to settle on a junk yard in Kankakee, Illinois, for a measly two hundred dollars. Two hundred bucks meant gas money and potential freedom.

breaks, and broken headlights four in a half hours to a house show in Cedar Rapids, Iowa.

Two hundred bucks was everything.

2. Pick up CDs

Shannon picked me up in her mom’s oversized SUV, from the wasteland oasis in the forgotten cornfields of that freezing, flat fucking nowhere. I wiped the tears from my eyes; pulled my scarf up close, as the February snow began to blow; squeezed the old key, the old key which would never engage the ignition again; I accepted reality. I was moving on.

3. Book Shows

I looked out the window on the ride home,

Where the hell were we going? What were we going to do? We did have a plan, but the questions still lingered. I think I knew we were fucked before the whole thing got started.

I made mental lists: 1. Stealing the Plymouth and moving to North Dakota just after escaping Florida.

2. Running out of road in the muddy hills, two hundred miles from any town, on half a tank of gas, somewhere in South Dakota.

3. Endless nights to and from Macomb with David for a band that was going nowhere.

4. Small tours in the midwest. How the hell did that thing endure?

5. Late night trips to Lake Michigan, Terre Haute, and Indianapolis.

6. Three in a half feet of snow, without

Things Needed and To Do: 1. Make patches

4. Promote 5. Get Food 6. Make Money 7. Sell the rest of my shit 8. Pack 9. Say Goodbye

We were fucked before we knew we were fucked.

This adventure; this plan; this escape was a disaster before it ever popped into this lost and anxious existence.

Things had been on an accelerated spiral downward for a while. For almost 23 hours of every day, I found myself sinking deeper into the couch. Lethargic.

Lifeless. Accruing an advanced state of joblessness and broke. It was hopeless. I was aimless. There was nothing left for me but a coffin of anti-psychotics and antidepressants.

The only way to make things better, I decided, was to take a plunge knowing well in advance it would lead to some sort of imminent ruin.

What did I care?

I was a fragile and well-scabbed over soul, in a state of bodily and emotionally bloated decay. It was all that held me together. Why not test my strength? If I was spiralling down, the only way to start getting myself back up was to hurry to the bottom.

The only thing that went up was my weight and a heightened lack of interest in everything.

So, I quit the meds and quit my music projects once and for all.

It’s not that this music stuff was anything great. It’s just they were, in every way you can fathom, my entire life. Music was all I knew and I didn’t even know it well.

The truth is, I am still very unsure about what happened.

Everything in those times was clouded over with a thick layer of prescribed meds. Meds that were supposed to make me better. One set of pills to bring me down, one set for long-term stabilization, another because the other two brought me down a little too far and I needed to be brought back up a little.

To be honest, I believe it was only a mask I developed to hide behind. At that point, I was so far behind my mask, I could no longer even see myself.

We pulled into the driveway. I got out, Shannon sped off, and I went back to sleep. The demise of the Plymouth brought me one step closer.

TO BE CONTINUED…...

See you all again

In may, for the Special

Japanese focus Edition of CQ Magazine