Writeresque Issue 7 by Writeresque

WRITERESQUE

Writeresque Literary Magazine 07

Dearreader,

Iusuallyusethispagetotellyouaboutthevolumeathand;abouttheauthors,theirwork,ortheinspirationbehind thetheme Thistime,though,IthoughtI’dtellyoualittlebitaboutthecoverofthisissue ItwasinspiredbyGiulio Monteverde’sstunningmasterpiece,TheAngelofResurrection(orAngelodiMonteverde)intheCimiterodi StaglienoinGenoa,Italy.

Morethanadecadeago,ImovedtoGenoa,ItalytoteachEnglish.Ilivedtherefortwoandahalfyears,andwhileI wasn’tblownawaybytheLiguriancapitalitself,Iabsolutelylovedthecountryside.SomanylovelyplacesIusedto visit in and around Genoa, but one of my absolute favourites was the Monumental Cemetery of Staglieno. Establishedin1851,itisoneofthebiggestcemeteriesinEuropeandishometoamazingworksofart Builtonthe hillsideofGenova,itisoneofthemosttranquilplacesIhavevisited Nature’ssoundsaretheonlysoundonecan heararoundthere,andonefeelsuncomfortabletalkingoutofrespectforthesilenceandthosewhoseremainsrest there So,evenwhennotvisitingalone,weoftenendedupwalkingtogetherinsilenceforthemostofthetimethere, usingonlygesturestopointatwhatevercaughtoureye Therose-ringedparakeetsdidn’tquiteseeitthatway, though WhenIsay‘soundsofnature’,theircallsmakesupforabout90percentofthat Beautiful–albeitalittle loud–birdsinabeautifulplace.

So,itwasduringmyfirstwalktherethatIsawher,anditwaspureluck.IvisitedtheplacefourorfivetimeswhileI livedinGenoa,andmostofthetimeafterthefirsttime,Istruggledtofindher.Iwouldgetlostinthemany corridors, among the thousands of brilliant, life-like statues, the castle-like tombs, nestled between enormous, ancienttrees.IbelieveitwasafterthesecondtimeIcouldn’tfindherthatIaskedoneoftheworkersthere,andhe waskindenoughtoshowmethewaytoher Infact,theoldmantoldmeIwasnotthefirstpersontocomehere lookingforher,norwasIthefirstpersontofindthecemeterymoreattractivethananyotherlocaldestination Whenwereachedher,hesaid,Eccola,andleft

Iwasalonethistime,soIletmyselfstareateverypartofherforalongtime Herwholebody,madesoperfectlythat youcouldeasilybelieveshewasoncealivingbeingpetrifiedbysomeevilspell,wassointimidating,yetattractive I rememberhowmuchIwantedtoreachoutmyhandandtouchhers,touchherdress,herface…it’soddhowtime deletessomememoriesbutleavesuswithothers.

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Inthisissue...

"[ ]

Iseeyouonthewalls

Yourpurplefacewaving Likeacurse

Iputahandonmyrightchest Singingasiftheworlddissolved Betweenmyknees [...]"

AmirahAlWassif 'TheSameOldStory'

"TheloveIhaveformyfatheratthismomentisselfish,andlikeadrug,I desperatelywantitbackinmylife Thatfeelingfromthegoodolddays, whenIhadimaginedmylifewouldbelikethatforever,withafuture thatlookedsocertain.Mylittlefantasyworldofendlessjoyandpleasure. HispresenceopensupthetruthofwhereIcomefrom,thetruthItryso hardtohide."

NemanjaJocić

InPrisonWithMyFather

Readonformorewonderful,internationalpoetryandprose.Weusually setathemebeforeweannounceanupcomingissue.Thistime,wedid theopposite–wegavethisissueitsthemebasedonthesubmissionswe receivedforit

CoverArt

Witheveryissue,weoffertalentedindividualsthechancetounleashtheir creativityandbecomethenextCoverArtistsforWriteresqueLiteraryMagazine. Wepromoteallartistsandtheirworkinaspeciallydedicatedpagewithinthe magazine,aswellaswithpoststhroughoutoursocialmediachannelsThisisa greatopportunityforeveryonewantingtobuildaportfolioasapublishedartist Getintouchformoreinformation.Emailusatwriteresquelit@gmail.com

AnArundelTomb PHILIPLARKIN

Sidebyside,theirfacesblurred, Theearlandcountesslieinstone, Theirproperhabitsvaguelyshown Asjointedarmour,stiffenedpleat, Andthatfainthintoftheabsurd Thelittledogsundertheirfeet. Suchplainnessofthepre-baroque Hardlyinvolvestheeye,until Itmeetshisleft-handgauntlet,still Claspedemptyintheother;and Onesees,withasharptendershock, Hishandwithdrawn,holdingherhand. Theywouldnotthinktoliesolong Suchfaithfulnessineffigy Wasjustadetailfriendswouldsee: Asculptor’ssweetcommissionedgrace Thrownoffinhelpingtoprolong TheLatinnamesaroundthebase Theywouldnotguesshowearlyin Theirsupinestationaryvoyage Theairwouldchangetosoundlessdamage, Turntheoldtenantryaway; Howsoonsucceedingeyesbegin Tolook,notread Rigidlythey

Persisted,linked,throughlengthsand breadths Oftime.Snowfell,undated.Light Eachsummerthrongedtheglass Abright Litterofbirdcallsstrewedthesame Bone-riddledground.Andupthepaths Theendlessalteredpeoplecame, Washingattheiridentity. Now,helplessinthehollowof Anunarmorialage,atrough Ofsmokeinslowsuspendedskeins Abovetheirscrapofhistory, Onlyanattituderemains:

Timehastransfiguredtheminto Untruth Thestonefidelity Theyhardlymeanthascometobe Theirfinalblazon,andtoprove Ouralmost-instinctalmosttrue: Whatwillsurviveofusislove.

PhilipArthurLarkin(1922–1985)wasa poet,novelistandlibrarian,bornin Coventry,England Inadditionto collectionsofpoetry,Larkinpublishedtwo novels,aswellascriticism,essays,and reviewsofjazzmusic

THESAMEOLDSTORY

Amirah Al Wassif

EverytimeIstarttolaugh

Somebodyinventsanewwayoflaughter

Iruntotheclosestmirror

Buryingmyswollenface

Countingmydisappointmentsonmyfingers

Nomusicinthebackground

Onlythecrackingofmybones earit?

onthewalls plefacewaving se

Iputahandonmyrightchest

Singingasiftheworlddissolved

Betweenmyknees

Inthisstory

Adamdidn’teattheforbiddenfruit

JustEvewhodid

Hewasbusy

Creatingasuddenplottwist

Godupstairs

Watchinginsilence

Inthemirror

Iseeyourfavoritesong

Turnedintoaworm

Crawlingtowardmybelly

Yourface

Withoutfeatures Iaskyou

Areyouhungry?

Youaskme

Howdidyousurvive?

Andtherestishistory.

TOBURYACURIOUSGIRL

Amirah Al Wassif

WhenIwasyounger, Istoodonamountainofpillows Withabravedecisiontoswallowa wholefinger.Myfatherinsultedme becauseIamcurious.

Allhislifehewishedtohavea non-troublebabywhatevergirl orboy.

Myforefatherspreferredtoburybabygirls ratherthanputthem

Incarriagesandsingthemalullaby. Iwasbornwithagreatmotivationto scratchtheskyuponmyshoulders,crazy monkeysandheavyweights,Iusedtobake mygriefeachnight

Andthroughthedaylight,whilethey’retrying tosellme, Ispendmytimecalculatingthedistance betweenmygenderandmyawaitedfuneral. WhenItookmyfirststeps,mytribecircled aroundmelikebees.

TheyapproachedfiguringoutthatIhave thighsandbreasts Theytuckedmeinthe obediencepocket,theydwelledmeinaniron cage.

Theyatemywings,my ears.WhenIwas younger, Icrawledtowardsmyfather’sshoulders,I whispered,“howfardoestheworldextend?” Hefrownedandreplied“just,lookatthe spacebetweenyourlegs.”

LIVINGADOG’SLIFE

David Philip Ireland

thehounds,myfriends,thehounds–time'sage-oldstagehands, you ’vetroddenmoremilesthanmyfeeblemindcangrasp, theroughsketchesofageetcheduponmyskin, mydearcomrades. inthereckoningofcanineyears, you ’vebornewitnesstomyrecklessyouth, allthosethrillsandnightsspentonthehighway, andnow, well, we 'reallabitmoreworld-weary,aren'twe? sometimes,youknow, atenderkissuponthehandrekindlestheflamesofyouth, likeafeveredreverie. butwhatremains? justaspectreofwhatoncewas, cloakedinthegossamerfabricofexistence.

I’vewitnessedthesun'sdescent, observeditsascent, likeanageinghipster sippinghiscoffeeinabeatnikcafé, allthepoetsandartists groovingtothecosmicjazz.

Istumbledownthestairsinthemorn, searchingforthatjackpot, sardinesandcitrus, thefuelforthejourney. thencomesthewash, acleansingforthebody,

adailyritualinthisceaselessparchmentoflife'stale, akintotypinganendlessscrollofprose,merelygoingwiththeflow

I’vecarriedanearpiecesincedaysofbefore, tinnituscrooningitscosmicballad, thestaticinmycranium, echoesofmemories,oldandnew, entwinedlikejazzmelodiesinasmokyclub. sometimes,imustwrenchmydigitsfreefromthebasin, areminderofthecorporealnatureofitall,thestruggle. buthereistand, ontherightsideofthedirt, stillrestless, painmerelyanotherimprovisationinthejam, adifferentnoteinthesymphonyofexistence. theyearsrollon, theypersist, andwedrawstrengthfromthesagasweweave, thetalesthatshapeus. timechiselsitscontoursonthecountenance, buttheselinesareakintooldvinyl, eachgroovenarratingatale, asonginthemaking, astanzaintheepicoflife. incanineyears, you ’vebeenmysteadfastcomrades, heartsunwavering, loveenduring ahand-kiss, amarkofyourunwaveringdevotion, areminderoflife'seternalrhythm.

sardines,citrus,andthemorningregimen,it'sthebeatoftheday, thecadenceofexistence, agrooveinwhichtosettle purificationsatdawn, anopportunitytorenew, afreshverseinthegrandpoem. oneearadornedwithearphones, ahabitfrommywilddays, tinnitusasthecosmicbackdrop, whitenoiseswirlinglikethecosmositself. Iyearnforthegentleserenadeoftherain,itssoothingcaress, thegenuinearticle,youunderstand? dishwashing,asimplechore, atestamenttolife'sperpetualsymphony, attimesademandingone, buti'mhere,stillcognisant ontherightsideoftheworld,

Iremain, legsrestlessandall. theyearscomeandgo, storiesunfurl, thecountenanceages, yetthespiritperseveres. Itreasureeachinstant, oldandnew, akintoversesinanimpromptupoem, linesonaninterminablescroll. onthisodysseyofageing, Idiscoverstrength, theboundlessroadahead, DavidPhilipIreland|‘Livingadog’slife’

thenextadventure, thenextstory, thenextstanza, thenextimprovisationinthecosmicjazz

SOMETIMEINTHATAFTERNOON

David Philip Ireland

Cloakedindeepshadows,beneathaveilofeveningrain, Therearetalesofpassionblurringintowarmsepiastains. Inthefaintafterglowoffadinglight'sembrace, Twosoulsentwine,hiddenfromtheworld'sgaze.

Sheworeasheenof'SoirdeParis' AndafragmentofNottinghamlace, Anebonycigaretteholder, Sobranie'sgilt,asultrytrace

Heworeafive-dayshadow,fedoralowandsly, Illicitloveranlikeariver,acurrentrunninghigh. Histouchburneddeepandleftascarbelowthewaterline.

Insmokyroomswherebebopburned, Theymetinsilence,desiresunbound, Inwhisperedwordsandstolenglances, Dancingontheedges Oftheaudaciousmonsoon.

AshroudofLondonfog'sdisguise, Theiraffairateaseforpryingeyes, EmbankmentrendezvousnearThames'darkflow, Innocentslostinthedangerousundertow

She,witheyesofemeraldgreen, He,detective,unforeseen, Theirloveacomplexaffair, Afilmnoirromance,awakingdream.

Eachstolenkissinmoon'spalelight, Fleetmomentstrappedinshadowyflight,

Innocencelostinaworldastray, Andsometimeinthatafternoon, Theylostandfoundtheirway

ONEDAY,WEWILLLEAVEHOME

Annah Atane

Troubleliesinambushforus, Me,you,andtomorrow.

Say,thosewhosemouthsarenotloadedwithbulletsaresanctifiedwithfear sosilencebecomestheirname.

Thistroubleweknow,wearsthebeadsofshamearounditswaist,andankle, andwristlikeacharm

Thatcoversourvoicelikeafog;thatleavesusbytheriver naked,bythe edgeofacliff bleeding

Everyday,bloodspillsintheland,ourtonguestumble,ourprayerstakethe shapeofashadowthatwilts intoblurredvisions,andourquestionstaketheformofacurse.

Thisisananthemabouthowagovernmentburnsintofumingash inthe heartofit’scitizens, abouthowtomorrowveilsitselflikeabride.

Thechangethatishopedforisavoid,adesertedhouse,colonizedbyreptiles and

Betterdaysstareatusmenacinglyintheface escapehasbecomeadream jewelry,refusedtobeworn byfruition

Istandbeforethecrucifix,youbeforeqibla writingourtroublesawayliketheTenCommandments Pouringourshameintodarknesslikeclustersofrain embalmingourfearslikeLazarusofBethany that Oneday,wewillleavehomewithamangroveofwakingsmile,ariver ofstars, ofbrimminghope, offestivals,ofajourneywithnoroadblocks.

ASECRETIDONOTWEARONMYFACE

Annah Atane

ItwasonadaylikethisIlefthomewithmyluggage:abagofcuriosity. Iwalkedcautiouslylikeathiefunderthedogonyarotreeslinedonthat street.

Awomanfryingcosaiscoopedmycuriositylikethepastebeforeherintohot oil,onethatresembleda warning:awarningfrommymother.

Jewelofmyheartshewillalwayssay,Jewelofmyheart:forcrestingthe warningswrittenonthewallsof ourhome:onmyforehead,inmyunderwear. Forforbiddingsin,forspittingonprofanelanguages,forremainingchaste.

Him,ayoungman:whohasseenmynakednesswasastatueofDavid strongerthanthelessonsofmy mother,staringandbringingmetomyknees

Hisvoice:sweeterthanthemeaningbehindmynativename, Histhirdleg:arodthatbeatsmyfaceawayfromthewritingsonthewall vowsofchastityand modesty.

Youknowhowitfeelstodipyourfeetintoicecubes

Oryourteethintofrozenjuice

Say,Zoboorkunun-aya

Andcloseyoureyesasyourtonguewearstheflavorlikeanornamentthen, hideitfromeveryonewho alreadyknowsthefeel becauseitisanabominationforgirlsyouragetospeakabouttaste.

ItwasonadaylikethisIreturnedhome, andspokewithmyheadburiedinbetweenmytoes. Withmyheartsomersaultingwhenmothergoessilent

Whenshecallsmynameandturnstomelikeshehearstherhythms,likeshesmells athiefundermyskirt

Thisyoungmanwhosenameshewillneverknowremains asecretIdonotwearonmyface

THEWOMAN,WHO...

Silyana Shtiliyanova

Translation by T. Z. Dancer

Iwon’tbethewomanwhoseeksyouinarainyafternoon, NorwillIbetheonewhofollowsyourfootstepsonthesand. Iwon’tbethewomanwhowantsyoutoherself, Northeonewhoironsyourshirts.

Iwon’tbethewomanwhowouldgiveupherdresses, NorwillIbetheonewhohidesawayherwords.

Iwon’tbethewomanwhoasksaboutyourday, Northeonewhoisafraidofthenights

Iwon’tbethewomanwhowouldsufferfromyourabsence, NorwillIbetheonewhosays,‘come’.

Iwon’tbethewomanwhowantstostealyourfreedom, Northeonewhowouldexpectyourlove.

Iwillbethewomanwhoisasistertoeverystarinthesky. Iwillbethewomanwhoentwinesherhair, Likebranchesuponwhichshedisperseshersorrows, Thewomanwhostepsfearlessintothenight.

Iwillbethewomanwhostickstoyourpalms, Andtheonewhoisengulfedbyherrivers.

Iwillbethewomanwhokissesyourcheeks, Andtheonewhonarratesherdreams, Likestoriesyoucanneverforget

Iwillbethewomanwhoscattersherselfinyourarmswhileyoumakeloveto her,

Andwhowillgatherherselfonherownafterwards.

Iwillbethewomanwholeadsyoutotheshore, Andtheonewhotransformsintoawave,foreverloyaltothesea.

Iwillbethewomanwhosevoiceechoesinthespacebetweenus, Andtheonewhoyouhearcloserthanever.

Iwillbethewomanwhomakesyouteaandspillshalfofitonthefloor, Whilegazingatyou,enamoured,

Andtheonewhowillneverfallinlove.

Iwillbethewomanwhoplayswithyourrays, Andtheonewhoisamoontoyou.

Iwillbethewomanwhowillembraceyouinthemorning, Andtheonewhowillcolouryourworld.

Iwillbethewomanwhoreadsyouthingsthatdisinterestyou, Andtheonewhoexplainshowimportanttheyare.

Iwillbethewomanwholetsyougobecauseyouareabird, Andtheonewhosendsyoulettersinthewind.

Andyouwillbetheonewhowillneverknow, Ifmywordsreallybelongtoyou, Oriftheyonlyexistinadream

THEOLDMUSICIAN

Steffi Kim

There’sanoldmanwaitingbytheparkentrance Dayandnighthesitsatophisstony throne,thestairwaytoneitherheavennorhellbutsomewhereinbetween.

Hestrumshisguitarwhenthesunblessesearthwithhergoldenlocks.Whenclouds scuttlethroughtheheavenshisfingersgrazetheminiaturepiano.Andwhentheworld saddensandthundertearsholesinthepatchworkabove,he’llcalmthewindswithhis flute.

Conductoroftheclouds,whispererofthewinds,stoicallysilentm calledallthat,andworse.

Itwasneveragreeduponexactlywhenorhowhehadappeared straysaintcastofftotheearth,ormaybeawearyveteranofadist scorchingsummersandwrathfulblizzards,dayinanddayouthewasthere.Sittingon thesteps,pluckingatunefromthemelancholy.

Heseemedtoagehalfway,ifonlyforthedeepfoldsofhischeekswhichbeliedalife ofburden Whentimeherselfstrokedherfingersthroughmymother’shair,turningthe brownstrandsgrey,stillhishairremainedblackasnight Andthoseeyes thosebeady blackeyesthatseemedtostareateverythingandnothingatall thoseeyesremained burnedinmymindfortherestofmylife.

Ifeyeswerethewindowstothesoul,thenhiswerenothingmorethanshutters.

Myveryfirstencounterwiththeoldmancameatsevenyearsold,whenIwasstillwisely naïve.‘FürElise’wasrollingoffthestorefrontwindows.Thenotesfellinscintillating scales,amillionskippingraindrops.Ipranceddowntheblock,noticingtheanimated manwhosearmswildlydancedastheycrashedontothekeys.

‘Who’she?’Ihadasked,pointingattheslimstranger.

‘Who?’Mymotherreplied,eyesflickeringthroughhimlikehewasjustawispof smoke

‘Thatman Righthere,Mom,’Iranuptowithinyardsoftheman Hisfingers paused,themusicendingabruptly.Drapedacrosshiskneeslayathreadbareblanket, ....n

spunfromtearsandwovenbywearyfingers.Helistlesslystaredattheground.Istared athischin Ihadneverbeforenoticedthelongscar,sosharpitcouldhaveonlybeencut byaknife

‘Avery!Getbackhererightnow!’Mymotherscreeched.‘Get.Back.Here.’

Thevolumeofhervoiceshookthepillarsofmyheart.LiketheobedientdaughterI was,Ihurriedbacktothefamiliarscratchofhercashmere.

ThenextdaywhenIskippedtoschoolmymotherledmetotheoppositesidewalk. And,justlikethat,thepitoffearhadbeenplantedwithinme.

SoIbecamescaredofthesolemnoldmanwhoseldomsmiled.Hisghastlyface floatedthroughmynightmares.Iimaginedtheratsthatmustcrawlthroughhisthick blackcurlsandthewayshisguitarcouldbewieldedasaweapon.Fearoftheunknownis adouble-edgedsword,butitsuredidsparkmycuriosity.Whenevermisfortunevisited ourblock,rumorsabouttheoldmanwouldflylikekites,carriedbythewindsoffear. Theycalledhimtherobberofjoy;thepickpocketofsecrets.

LittledidIknowthatbeforelong,Iwouldvisitthewiltedrosesoverhisgrave.

And as the flowers died, the hazy rose-tinted fog over my eyes lifted, and each memorywasnolongersosweet

Astimetickedaway,themusicintheparkchanged.Itgrewsadder,darker.Iwatched fromtheoppositesideofthestreetasthelonelymanbobbedhisheadtothemelody.I neverdaredtostopandwatch,butIdidlistentothemusic.Sometimestheintrusive dust bunnies in the unswept corners of my mind hopped to the forefront, and I wondered.Didhesleepontheparksteps?Wastheassortmentofquiltsenoughtokeep himwarm?Howdidheacquirehisinstruments?

Andthemostpressingquestion.Whydidheneversing?

Iaskedmyfather,whosaidhemustbeanalcoholic.Perhapshewasoneofthose menwhosependulumofreasonoverswungthelineofhappymediums,landinginstead inabottleofbeer.

‘Tragediesinhispast,’myfathermurmured.‘Laziness,karma.’

Butwhywouldalazymanemanatemusic,infuseflavor,intostrangers’lives?What terriblethinghadhedonetodeservenoshelterfromthecrueltendenciesofnature?

EverytimethetreesdiedandwererevivedintobloomIwouldbestirredbythe gleefullikesofMozart.Thehappinesscouldnotlastlongthough.ByAugustitsank intocountryblues,andhummingleftasourtasteonthetongue.Thecherryblossom blanketsoftheparkfell,andlemonsofdisappointmentgrewrampant.Strangersspatat

hisfeet.Yetsomehowhefoundthewilltoplaythemhisbestheart-wrenchingmelodies. As scaffolding was erected, buildings torn down, and graffiti painted over, still the imperturbablemanstrummedaway Igrewup.Thecandlesonmybirthdaycakebecameadozenlittlefires.Newflames appearedbeforeIhadbreathtoextinguishthem.Sixteen,seventeen,eighteen.Interview, college,debt,rent,stockmarket,politics.

Mylifeexpandedacrossthecityblocks.Istilltrekkedbytheparkeverydayonmy waytowork,buttoooftenmyshoulderswerebent,eyesfixatedonaphonescreen.I votedinmyfirstelection.WhatdidIthinkaboutpoverty?WhatdidIthinkaboutthe homeless?Theboxeslayunchecked,blackblurringintograyblurringintoawhiteslate.

The old man faded away, becoming a fixture of scenery, just another forgotten bronze statue. His music fell on deaf ears. The city redeveloped the block, and the bangingofhammersandhonkingofhornsprovidedawelcominghugofwhitenoise.At work,Itoldclientswhatevertheywantedtohear,thewordsflowingoffmytonguelike water.Butmywordswerefarfromalifeblood,insteadtheydrippedlikeleakyfaucets andIrantoescapethepuddles Occasionallythetrafficjamonmemorylanewould loosen,andI’dcatchmyselfhummingFürElise Butmymindalwaystookthewrong exit of the roundabout and wound up in a dead end I’d stop mid-bar, confused on where my ears had heard the chords. There was always some place to be, some ubiquitoussenseofhurry.Inolongerhadthetimetothink,toevenwonderaboutthe oldmusician.

Untiloneday,hewasgone.

Icheckedlaterintheobituariesandfoundasolearticleclippingannouncingthe deathofanelderlyvagrantdowninthepark.Butthedatereadacoupleofyearsago.He haddisappearedovernight.HowhadIfailedtonotice?Gone,assilentassnowhitting theground.

Later, much later, I went to his grave. I learned many things. His name was AnthonyFinne.Hehadtwolateparents,RosineandArthur.Hewasonlysixtyyears old.

Therewerenootherwordsonthegrave.Nomessagefromlovedones,nolegacy, nocarvings IthitmethenthatIhadneverheardhimsing,muchlessspeak Wouldhis voicehavebeenroughasthespeckledgraphiteheadstone?

Ordelicateasthebeatofahummingbird’swings? Richasasyrupysummerday?

Therewereinfinitequestionsandnoanswers.Didheevernoticeme?Didheever

speaktoanyone?Ifhe’dspoken,wouldanyonehavelistened?Andatsevenyearsold, whenhesawahomelessman,whatdidhethink?Washeafraid,likeIwas?

Someonehadplantedarosebushnearby,whichhadrottedintoastateofdisrepair. AllofasuddenIwasmad,no,Iwasfurious,attheworld,atmyself,fortreatingits songbirds so cruelly. How could human beings be so apathetic? I picked off the mawkishroses,squishingthesilkypetalsinmyhandsuntiltheyoozedsweetliquidand turnedbrown.Theheavyairsaggedwithsilentsongsoflament.

Thesicklysweetsmellofdyinglovefilledtheair,cloggingmymindwiththefugof death.Iburiedmyheadtothegroundandwept.Forthisold,innocuousman–this livelysoul–whohadnovoice.

Andformyself,whohadavoicebutwastedit.

INPRISONWITHMYFATHER

Nemanja Jocić

Chapter1 (excerpt)

Onceagain,I'mgoingtovisitmyfatherinprison.ItooktheplanefromAmsterdamto Belgradewithaballofenthusiasminmystomach Iwillhaveasingleone-hourvisitwith mypapainanoldcommunist-lookingroomthathasclearlynotbeenrenovatedforat leastthirtyyears Ican’tcomplain,though Herewecansitprivatelytogetherwithout the prison guards staring at us through a one-way mirror, and I can hug him again withoutthethicknessofthedouble-glazedglassbetweenus.ThiswasthecasewhenI visited my father during the four years he spent in the EBI Vught. The EBI (Extra BeveiligdeInrichting)isthehighestsecuritydetentionfacilityoftheNetherlands,built onaformersiteofanoldNaziconcentrationcamp.TheinmatesoftheEBIVugthave almost no contact with other humans, and are permitted no more than one hour of recreationtime,spendingtherestoftheirdayconfinedtotheircells,alone.

Howheendeduptherewasforme,atthetime,amystery.ThefatherIknewwas akindandlovingman.Thewayhesmiledatyouwassowarmandgentle.Howhe greeted people was so friendly, almost brotherly, even to strangers. So emotional towardsoldpeople,andtothepooralwayswiththedeepestempathyfortheirsuffering. Hegavemewiselecturesonsubjectslikehistory,geography,politicsandsuch. With an intelligent manner and whilst hiding his true intentions, he was capable of making me think and dream big He taught me the distinction between right and wrong,tobasemymoralapproachtowardshumanitywithaChristianview.Helived hislifewithdeliberation,alwaysinvestinginthefuture,beitwithpeopleormoney.He hadaplanforme,too.Wherehefailedwaswhenhewentagainsthisownteachings.

AsIwaittoseemyfatherattheZabelaprisoninPožarevac,mythoughtsareshifting slowlytoanothermemoryofavisitItookwithmymothertotheEBIVugt.Wehad mistakenly arrived one hour too early according to visiting hours, so we decided to spend our time visiting the museum of the old camp next to the prison.

Itwassadtoseethecircumstanceswithwhichthesehumanshadtodealwithbeing captivethere Isawacarspeciallymadetotransferbodies Thesebodieswouldthenbe sent to the ovens A terrible reality of the world in which we live The inhumane conditionswerebad,butoneroominparticularstuckwithmethemost.Theroomwas verysmall,onlyninesquaremeters.Therewasnothinginside.Justanemptyroom.But inthislittleroomtherewereseventy-fourwomenforcedinside.Theywerekeptthereas punishmentforattackingafellowinmatewhohadbeenpassingoninformationabout the other prisoners’ actions to the camp authorities in exchange for her early release. Theyopenedthedooronedaylater,andasaresultofthispunishment,tenwomenhad diedfromsuffocation.Itstruckmehowhorrifyingitis,toknowthatIcouldhavebeen oneofthosepeople,too,ifIhadbeenaJewintheearly20thcentury.Myproblems todayaresomediocrecomparedtothis.Standinginthatlittleroom,mysympathyfor theirsufferingismatchedonlybymyhatredtowardstheevilmenresponsibleforsuch atrocities,butattheageoffifteen,Iwastooignoranttounderstandwhereevilcomes from. I was convinced that I was on the right side of humanity. I felt sure in my judgmentandbelievedallmyactionswerejustified Ileftthecampmakingthesignof theCrossforthevictims

Now,tenyearslaterhereinSerbia,wewillhaveatablewecansitat,withasnack andsomewater,andasmallheatertokeepuswarmfromthecold.

AsIenterthevisitingroom,Igetthisfeelingofwantingtogetmyfatheroutofthis godforsakenplace.Beontheroadagainlikeweusedto.Asfreemen.Asfatherandson.

Walkingin,Ialreadyknowhowmyfatherwillreacttoseeingme.

‘Oh!Myson!”hesays,stretchinghisarmsoutwithabigsmileonhisface. Hehugsandkissesme.Finally!FinallyIcanhavethatsmellagain!Thatsmellthat IalwaysforgetImisssomuchuntilIsmellitagain.Hisscentmakesitunbearableto openupandspeakmymind.I’machildagainwithinhispresence.Ittakesoverand enslaves me; it brings back memories, and they always feel pleasant. It’s the scent of truthandfreedom.It’sthesmellofwhoIam.Itsmellslikehome.

Myheartisrelievedwithonesimplehug.Therestofthevisitisn’tasimportant anymore

‘Hellopapa,’Isaywithabigsmileonmyface I’msohappytoseehim ........The love I have for my father at this moment is selfish, and like a drug, I desperatelywantitbackinmylife.Thatfeelingfromthegoodolddays,whenIhad imaginedmylifewouldbelikethatforever,withafuturethatlookedsocertain.My littlefantasy

littlefantasyworldofendlessjoyandpleasure.Hispresenceopensupthetruthofwhere Icomefrom,thetruthItrysohardtohide

Throughoutthevisit,hemakesfrequentphysicalcontactwithme,strokingmy handsandrubbingmyhair,andevenkissesmeonthecheekasifI’mafive-year-old. Mysenseofcompassionpermitshimtodoashepleases,andIdon’ttalkbacktohim evenifIbelieveheiswrongabouthislifechoices.

Myfatherislookingassharpasever.He’swell-dressed,withachoiceofclothing thatcouldhavecomestraightfromaRalphLaurenstore.Alwayswearingthenewest shoes in fashion – I’ve never seen him wearing the same pair of shoes at any of our previousvisits.Hishairisstyledhandsomely,makingtherestofhisfaceanattractivesite at which to look. I spot only a few white hairs on the side of his head that can be countedononehand.Notbadforamaninhisearlyfifties.Lookingathishair,I’m reminded of his hair-loss obsession. As a child, I would look at him perplexed as he carriedouthisdailymorningroutine.Readingthenewspaperwithabagofeggsoverhis head,andintheshowerIcouldalwaysfindsixorsevendifferentshampoosforhair-loss prevention Buthisobsessionwithhavingahealthyheadofhairwenthandinhandwith hisattitudetowardsallotheraspectsofhishealth Hecouldn’tevenstandlookingata McDonald’s without throwing out comments of disgust like, “Only fucking Dutch peopleeathere”or“FuckingAmericanpropaganda”.Hisfoodswerealwayscarefully chosenfortheirnutritiousvalue.Heknowsexactlywhichfoodsarebestforeachpartof thebody,andwhichvitaminsareneededmost.

Heneverinhislifesmokedordrank,andespeciallyneverusedanydrugs.Ofcourse,he onlyloveddrugsjusttogetrich.Hehasbeendrivinghiswifecrazybyorderingherto buyeverymedicalproductshownonthetelevisioncommercials.Ithadevengottothe point that he started wearing a beauty mask inside, inspiring his fellow inmates to imitatethisludicrouspractice.IfJoćadoesit,thenthere’snothingtobeashamedofby doingityourself.Havingaprisonfullofpumped-upcriminalsandviciousmurderers walkingaroundwithbeautymasksisnotridiculousatall!

Furthermore,onhislittlefingerhewearsagoldenringencrustedwithadiamond largerthanmyeyeball.Buttodayhe’snotwearinghisusualgoldenRolexcoveredwith diamonds He’sbroughtadifferentonetoswapwithmine,whichhehadrequestedme tobringfromhishouse Althoughcompletelyunnecessary,heexecutesthisexchangeof watchesasifwe’reinsomekindofdrugdeal.Withastrangemovementandalookover hisshoulder,hetakesitoffandhandsitovertome.Itakeitandexamineit.

‘ThiswatchisfromtheRussiansecretservice,’hesays,withaproudgrinonhisface

thataccompanieseveryreferencetohisachievements.

Indeed,Iturnthewatchoverandsee“USSR”engravedontheback Inaprevious visit,theguardshadinterruptedthisexchangeofwatchesbecausethesecuritycamera hadspottedus.Fortherestofthevisit,myfatherhadbeeninaheatedtemper,cursing and glaring at the camera with flaming eyes, as if he was staring directly at the man behindthescreenwhohadinterruptedsuchanimportantexchange.

Iaskhimifitwillbeaproblemiftheyseeusswappingwatchesagain.Withone eyebrowraised,helooksatmeunimpressed,andsayswithalowmafiosotone:

‘Meh!Whoeverpointstomethefinger–willlosethearm!’

Regardlessofwhichlanguagehewasspeaking,ofwhichtherewereatleastseven, healwaysspokeinthatbrokenSlavicdialectfollowedbyashortchoiceofwordsthat effectivelyportrayedhispersonalityasaboss.ItmadeastrongimpactonmesinceI haven’tgotanyleadershipskillsmyself.Iletpeoplewalkalloverme.Butnobodycantell myfatherwhattodo.Noone!

Thiswatchswappingbusinessofmyfather’shadnootherpurposethantokeep himselfbusyinsidewithobligationsanddeals,completelyunnecessary,buthedoesn’t wanttolosetouchofhowheusedtoliveoutside Hecan’tliveadifferentway It’sthe onlylifeheknows

Thepurposeofmyvisitwasn’tmerelysomesortofafamilyreunion,butaplanto startgainingmoneyandrespect.Ineededafavourfromhim.Icanfinallyreleasemyball ofenthusiasmoutofmybellytotellhimmynews.I’moverlyexcitedtoseehowhewill react,butalsoalittleinsecure.WillIbegoodenoughforthis?

Iwhisperinhisear.

‘Ok,ok.Noproblem,’repliesmyfather,withnosignofsurprisetobefoundeither inhisvoiceorbodylanguage.

Myplanhasletmyfatherdrophisact,andheexposeshistruenature.Asideof him I haven’t had the privilege to see before. His compassionate eyes have changed, becomingthemanofallthelegendarystoriesI’veheardof.Icanseenowthedangerof thisman.

Ashestartstalkingtomeinaneducationalmanner,mymindturnsinwardly instead of listening to what he has to say, trying to reflect on the meaning of my existence

FormostyearsofmylifeI’vebeenplayingthefoolbeforemyself,whileatthesame timebelievingmyselftobearealmanwithaconsiderableamountofindependence. Within a soft heart filled with profound consciousness, I proved from my boyhood onwardsto....

onwardstobedevelopedintoanenviousjuvenilebetrayedbyhisownlackoftalent.I tookforstrengthwhathasalwaysbeenmyweakness,borntotrustmyviolentcravings asagift,buteverysingletimeIturnouttoosensibleformajorsinisterpurposes Unable todistinguishonethoughtoremotionfromtheother,andattainmypassionatedream anddiscoverlong-lastingcreativity,Irunaroundtocatchatasteofgloryintheshadows ofmyfather,andperhapsIconsideredmymostsickeningactionsasanactofcourage and love. The time has come to make up my mind. I will never get rewarded for remainingacoward.

Thesuddenclose-eyecontactofmyfathertryingtomakeapointgetsmyattention forasecond,butI’vemasteredtheskillofpretendingtopayperfectattentiontoanyone talkingtomewhilemymindiswanderingoff.AndsoIcontinue.

EvenifIhaven’tpersonallybeeninvolvedinanyseriouscriminalactivity,it’seasy toimaginemyselfasacriminal.I’vehadenoughinfluencegrowingupwithcriminalsto understandtheirworld.Inthecriminalunderworld,ifyouwanttobeasomebody,you havetokillasomebody.NowistheonlymomentthatIcanreallyfeelalive,becauseI’m Joca’sson I’masomebodyevenifI’vedoneabsolutelynothingwithmylife I’mJoca’s son,andthatalonemakesmeasomebody,becausepeoplelookatmeandtheyseemy father,butIfeellikeanobody

NEMAJA JOCIĆ

TALKS ABOUT THE CHALLENGES OF WRITING HIS MEMOIR, IN PRISON WITH MY FATHER

InPrisonwithMyFatherisyourfirstbook. Whydidyoudecidetowriteit?

Ihadtowriteit Mylife,inrespecttopurposeand future,wasatstake,andmyresourceswerelimited. Ihadspentthirtyyearsofmylifelivinguptoan emotionally attached drama that surrounded my father’s criminal lifestyle. Adulthood became destructiveanddreamswhereruined,formyonly trueachievementIcouldgrasponwasnotending upinthesameplaceasmyfather–prison.Having saidthat,Iwasfarfromactuallybeingcapableof livingmyownlifeaccordingtowhatIwasmeant tobe–afreehumanbeing.TheprisonIwasliving inexistedbeyondmetaldoorsandironbars.After yearsofbeingenslavedtotheideaofbecomingmy father, known as one of the most feared mafia bosses in both Amsterdam and Serbia, I tried figuringoutwhatIcoulddotoreleasemyselffrom this prison. Create a business? Become a spiritual healer?Findalover?Perhapsgetagun?Allofthem possibleoptions,butnonethatwasamatchtothe optionofwritingabook.Iinsistthatabookdoes notmerelyexistinordertotellstoriesforthesake ofit,butitservesasalivingtestament Becauseof this power and ability a book is able to offer people, it became my weapon of choice. Strategicallyspeaking,it’salsowhatwaswithinmy closestreach.Allyouneedisapenandpaper,ora ypewrter,oralaptopwithsomebuttons

typewriter, or a laptop with some buttons on it. Thoughwhatyouputonthispieceofpapermay changetheworldasyouareusedtoseeingit Like any reading person, you are familiar with this notion. When I started writing this book, it became one of the most toughest of challenges I had to face in a lifetime. Something that would demand my fullest dedication as if my life dependedonit That’swhatIneeded!Togetout whathadtobesaid.

Whatwasthemostchallengingthingabout writingthisbook?

Itwasachallengeformeinalmosteverywayyou could imagine I had no money, no writing experience,thecoronapandemickickedoff,andI washeartbroken,allaloneinthisworld.Yet,that didn’t really count as an actual challenge since those circumstances where all the necessary ingredients I needed to work in my favour and start writing my book It’s called, ‘suffering’ Of course,nothingcouldcomparetohavingtostare atanemptyscreenandhavingtotypethatwhat wasitchinginmysoulforsolong Thisiswhere my real challenge began. As long as I can remember, I have been invisible to the crowd, exceptwhenbeingthesonofmyfather Myfather is a great man to many; to some, he is a hated criminal,buttomost,heisapersontobefeared

criminal,buttomost,heisapersontobefeared

To me he, is my father – a man that I couldn’t reach with simple words. I needed him and withouthispresence,Ifelthopeless Hecouldn’t understand that. To him life is all about power. WhenIhadalreadyspentalotofmytimewriting my story, it was the little details that got me suffocating over and over again. Things that I neverevenrealizedbotheredmeinthefirstplace.

My first experience of visiting my father in prisonwaswhenIwasthirteenyearsold,andthis continued until my sixteenth birthday. This was noordinaryprisonbutamaximumsecurityone SometimesittookhoursbeforeIcouldreachthe visit room. They checked me at least two times, and when I finally got at the visit, we where separatedbyathickglass.Whilewritingaboutit inmybook,Icametothediscoverythatitwasn’t justthedistancebetweenmeandmyfatherthat had me broken, but I was internally annihilated overthefactthatIwasashamedtoadmitthatit was too hard for me seeing my dad in this condition. As a result, I carried a sense of guilt throughtheagesbecauseIbelievedIcouldhave donesomethingmore Iwasafailureasason You find that out in your thirties, and suddenly you feel relieved after having cast out this heavy burden. So, as hard as the challenge can get, so muchmoreliberatingitishavinggonethroughit

IalwaysthoughtIwasscaredto facemyfather,butinreality, thatwasn’ttheproblematall ThetruthisthatIwasscaredto facemyself.

Painisnotsomethingwearegoodatdealingwith ashumans.ButIhadfoundthesolutiontothat, too.Drinkabottleofwine.Thenwrite.Writeand bleed

Were there ever times you almost gave up on writingthisstory?

Thehardestpartreallywastobegin.Ialmostgave upbeforeIevenstarted Againstallodds,you’re suddenly obliged to trust a vision of something that’snotthere,andexpectthatitwillwork.And that’s just the self-confidence part The emotion going along with having to open yourself up to whathurtyouthemostinlifemaybeoneofthe mostfrighteningexperiencesyouwilleverhaveto face.I’mscared–asallhumansare–butlifeisa struggleandIliketotreatitassuch.OnceIstarted writing,Icouldn’tstop It’sbeenfouryearsnow Whenthepandemicwasover,alotofbillshadto bepaidsoalotoftimeawayfromwritinghadto be spent on a job, yet every chance I got I continuedfinishingupwritingmybook.Looking backnowIcan’timaginehowmylifewouldhave takensucharedeemingturnofeventshadInot startedwritingthisbookformyself.Thestruggle wasallworthit.

Whatistheimportanceofsharinglife experiencesthroughstorytellinginliterature?

Tokeepthatwheelgoing Bytellingmystoryand howmylifeexperienceshaveshaped,broken,and healed me into what I am today, I’m merely echoingwhat’sbeensaidbysomanybeforeand somanywillafterme.Wejustneedanewsetof decorsfromtimetotimewherewecanrecognize ourselvesinandadapt Thecovermaybedifferent butinthecentregovernsthepoweroflove.Love never changes. Apart from that, sharing life experienceskeepsliteratureitselfalive Withoutit theartofwritingwillbecomeboring.Ofcourse, therearealsootherways.Youcouldwriteasong or make a movie about any life experience you want.Theyareallbeautifulandeffectivewaysof

story-telling,butabookismorespecificonhow youwanttotellyourstory.Thebiggestdifference ofreadingabookincomparisontoallotherforms of story telling is that it sets your imagination completelyfree.Realityandfantasycanmeetand createmoreintimatemeasures.

Whatdoyouhopepeople’stakeonyourstory wouldbe?

Ican’tcontrolwhatpeoplewillthinkorhowthey willreacttomynovel.It’smoreimportantforme tothinkhowImyselffeelwhenreadingmywork. Is it really me? Have I been honest? And do I simplyenjoyreadingit.Ibelievethat’swhereI’ll find the people who will be attracted to my writing Furthermore, the book is focused on a broad audience. Some may affiliate themselves withmystoryandgetaninspiringmessageoutof it Others may not necessarily have that deeper kindofconnection,buttheywouldwanttoread itoutofpureinterest.Intheend,story-tellingis general, and certain stories don’t always match with a specific person, but in which time that person ’slifeorphasetheymaybe,itwillandmust affect them genuinely, or even change them forever Inmycase,itwouldbeablessingtohave writtenastorywherepeoplecouldhavethesolace thatthey’renotalone.

DoyouthinkyouwillwriteanotherbookAnd ifso,whatgenredoyouthinkitwillbe?

That will depend really if I will ever find it necessary to write a book again. As I tried to express my motivation earlier, for me writing a book was out of practical use only with a very specificpurpose.NotthatIdidn’tenjoyit.Itwas oneofthebestandusefulexperiencesinmylife, butfornow,afterpublishingthisnovel,Idon’t

thinkIwillbewritinganotherbook,ornotfora long time. I am planning to write and direct a movie,though,sostaytuned.

InPrisonwithMyFatherisexpectedtobeready forpublicationbytheendoftheyear.

WritersqueMagazineispassionateabout gettingstoriesblackonwhite.Wearedevoted tohelpingnewauthorsofallbackgroundsget theirworkoutintotheworld Ifyouhavea bookthatisabouttobepublishedandwantto talkaboutit,orsimplywanttospreadthe word,we’dlovetohelp.Getintouchwitha chapterofyourbookandwe’lldotherest.

STREETFIGHT

Ayer del Futuro

Chapter9

A week later it was thirty-five years from the day Franco’s army crushed a student demonstration, leaving two dozen dead and hundreds injured. This tragedy led to creating a new law, which forbid the police to cross the borders of the universities nationwide.Everyyearonthisdate,thecopsinBarcelonawereunderalertfor“antisocialevents”,andtheprotestswereviewedthroughthedictatorialeyeofBigBrother. Today,themarchcontributedtoseveralbrokenstorewindowsandsp

BackatStreetForce,however,noonehaddeclaredanendto Sleevesrolledup,ourco-squatterswerehardatwhattheyweredoing type of production. Nenad, Santos, and Sierra were scrubbing th prints,ManuelandGabrielafilledthemwithgasoline,andAlvaroandAlejandroused screwdrivers to force in the tight knots that would keep the rags from popping out. Thentheyflippedthecocktailsbottomup,heldthemforafewsecondsuntilthetextiles soaked, and finally carefully wrapped the bottlenecks in plastic. In this way the evaporationoffuelemissionswasprevented.

‘Hey,that’swhatIlovetolistentobeforeaction!’

Delighted,Alejandroputhistooldownnexttotheboxwithsiliconegloves,turned theknobonthestereoandSepultura’s“TroopsofDoom”thunderedfromitsspeakers. Althoughhewashangingwithusonadailybasis,thethirty-fouryearoldMadrileño wasintometal,butthrashanddeathwaswhatwassparkinghisfuelintofire.

Itwasapproachingmidnight.Alightautumnfoghungoverthestreets.Theyslept peacefully undisturbed by traffic, pedestrians and unnecessary clatter From time to time,inanefforttoearnheaviercashatthenightfare,ahurriedtaxispedthroughthem Wemovedcautiously,reducinganynoisetoaminimum.Nowsilencewasourclosest ally.Weheldthebottlestightlyclosetoourbodies,onehandcoveringtheragssoakedin petrolthathungfromthem.Withunusuallybowedheads,ourpacewashurriedand purposeful.Myheart,intherhythmofafreighttrain,madethelungsfoldandexpand more and more often and shallower. My breath was the frontman of this midnight symphony. I could feel the vein above my right temple throbbing insistently, as if something was urging to come out of it. The fallen leaves, scattered over the road divulgedourunwantedpresence.AssoonaswereachedBalmes,ourstepsquickened

andturnedintoajog Thetargetwasacoupleofminutesaway Thecloserwewere getting,thefasterwemoved Soon,wewerealmostsprintingandanyonespottingus immediatelysteppedaside,givingusacorridorofaction.Thefewwhodidnotcarry bottleswerearmedwithwoodensticks,whichweresupposedtoserveasadeterrentto thecopsincaseofunexpectedintervention.

An armoured bus of riot police was always parked in front of the entry of the Consulate-General of Venezuela in Barcelona. We surprised them sideways. A flying walloffiregreetedthemwithshoutsof“COPS,PIGS,MURDERERS!!!”Ourattack apparently aroused a customer of the restaurant in the next block. He grabbed the ashtrayfromhistableandlaunchedittowardstheuniformedmenshouting,“Fuckyou all!”

Iturnedthelighterwheel,rubbingthecerium-ironalloysontheflint,butnospark came, no flame followed. Each and every second felt like a minute long. “BURN PIGS!”“DIEPIGS!”Thebottlescontinuedtofly,accompaniedbystonesandshouts. Afterseveralfailedattempts,therewasnomoretimetowasteandIsentthebottleinto thecoreofthefirethatwasburningaroundthecops Therestofthepigsjumpedoutof thebusandstartedshootingbackwithteargas.Itwastimeforustoretreat.Afewrich people’scarsgothitontheway,youknowwhichones–thoseshiniestones,theones youcan’tbuywithlabour.

WereturnedtotheStreetForceinfullpack,noarrestsandnocasualties.Atleastonour side.SomeofthebrigadewentintoAlvaro’sroom,therestcamewithus.Nenadputon aBlitzCDandblewtheroomupwith“Warriors.”

Thesunissettingandthedayislate

Aswewalkoverthiswastelandofhate

There’speoplegettingangryinthesedarkesthours

There’sbloodonthestreetsandthestreetsareours

Warriors,neverforgetthewarriors

Hefetchedouttwowell-chilledbottlesofcheapwhitewineandmadetheircapsgooff likerocketswhilewescreamedineuphoria:

Warriors,neverforgettheWarriors!

‘Lastnightwasinteresting!’IgreetedCatalinainthemorning,whowasbusypouring canned dog food into a bowl A fragrance wafted through the air of the courtyard, makingmystomachgrowlinhunger.HerGermanshepherdwaslikeher,sophisticated, withthestyleandmannersofanaristocrat.She’dhadherforfouryearsnow,andraised herasifshewereherdaughter.Standingslenderbesideher,Elizaobedientlywaitedfor permission from her mistress. Her light brown fur glistened healthily under the Novembersun.

‘Yes,butlet’sseehowlongitwilllastlikethis,’althoughshewassmiling,shedid notseemparticularlypleasedwithourspontaneousaction.

‘Whatdoyoumean?’Iwaspuzzled.

‘It’seasytousetheno-cops-on-uni-campuslaw,butyoucan’talwaysrunbackhere andhide,’CatalinalookedupfromElisaandoureyesmetinseriousness.Hersmilewas alreadymissing.

‘Someday,thepolicewillbreachuniversityprotectionandinvade.Thenwewillall bearrested Andforalongtime’

“Chapter 9” is a chapter from the fictionalized book Street Force, which follows the storyofyoungHungarianantifascistAndorasheandhisfriendimmigratetoapunk squatinBarcelona.Riots,fightsandalifeofmoneylesssurvivalconstitutesAndor’s newlifeasheembarksonacauseforfreedomandequality

(The events in Street Force are inspired by true stories, collected from friends and acquaintancesoftheauthor).

TREEDWELLERS

Abhishek Udaykumar

It wasn’t till that evening that the Coca-Colas were back on the shelf and we had a reasontowalkuptheslope.Alitchitreehungfromtheskyandawomanwashedvessels inthethicket.Theoccasionalpickuptrucksfeltlikeglyphsinsideavideogame,they remindedmeoftheworldbeyondtheresearchstation,andthatthetropicswerehot becauseofplantations.

The upper hill was grassy and occasionally cool, if one knew how to position themselvesintheloamyshade.Thewarmcolaturnedtosoapinsidemysandythroat. Thevillagerswerecertainthattheelephantswouldcrosstheriverina therewaslittletoeatontheothersideofthehill Wehadspentawee ourfootageandtherewasn’tmuchlefttodobutwait

‘Mystomachneedsatubofcurd.I’mtiredofdrinkingdownthe

Wehadbeenoverthismanytimes.Iwasstillirritatedaboutyourobsessionwith theharvestsequence–Ididn’tseehowwecouldfilmitasanythingbesidesamontage andstillmaintainthepaceofournarrative.Thefarmerslivedinthatchedhouses,anda fewofthembuiltconcretebungalows,iftheycould.Therubbertreeshadbegunto yield,butthepeopledidn’tpainttheirhomes.Ithoughtabouttheroomonthetop floorofthestation,overlookingtheteaktrees,itshighceilingandsalamanderspecimens pinnedtothewall,andhowIlikedsittingbeneaththesunroof–watchingthelangurs crackopenfruits.

‘DidyouthinkaboutwhatGulshanaskedyou?’Isaid,stirringmybottleintheair. ‘Idon’tthinkafilmneedstosaysomething.Ijustwanttoshowlife.’ ‘Idon’tknow.It’sstilltheirplace.’

There was a route behind the plantation that took us down a muddy stream, leadingtothestation’skitchen Welikedhoppingacrosstherocksandpressingourtoes intothemudbank.Awhistlingthrushpeereddownabranch,ponderingasongasyou staggered in your tight jeans. The minerals in the region made your hair fall, so you carriedawatersprayeronourexcursions.Everybodyatthestationtoldauniquejoke abouthowyou‘perfumed’yourhairinthemiddleofthejungle.

‘Youknowwhenwewereonthejeeptheothernight? ‘Hmmm.’

‘It’sstrangehowit’ssonormalthatwedon’ttalkforhourswhenwe’reonthe.. road.’

.......

‘Ineverfallasleepeither.’

‘Iwasthinkingaboutabstractioninart Andhow paintingaformlesscollagestill reflects our ways of relating to the world. Like, there’s no way you can deny that a mustardyellowemergesfromwarmth,asinafield,abrightyellowfromexplosiveness, as in the sun, or blue from freedom, as in the sky or water, red from something alarming, and so on. So, abstraction encourages a deeper imagination of form. It’s unnecessary, and false even, because it doesn’t obliterate our perception Besides, everything in nature exists within a form and system. The spirit of existence isn’t fragmentedlikehowartmaytellus.Itisactuallyevolvedandinterconnected,unlike abstractionthatisolatesfeelingsanddepictsthemasabsolutes.Thoughthenatureof chaosmayleaveusinafragmentedcondition,Ithinkabstractartdistancesusfromthe elementsoflife,especiallywiththeirelusivetitlesandartisticstatements’

‘Whatabout…’

‘Justplayingwithcolours?Thenthat’sallthatabstractartshouldbe,achildish occupation.Itcandepictmeaningevenifitlacksrepresentation,butitdoesn’tfeelreal. It’salanguageinventedbyartistsforotherartists.’

Youhadtrailedawayfrommeoverthecourseofyourspeech,tillyouwereonthe otherside.Therewasamoundofgrassbeyondthewater’scurvaturewhereajackfruit treestoodlikeanoverlord.Youleapedoutofthestreamandsettledinyourfavourite spot, looking down at the blurred valley and the stony station nestled in the monotonousgreen.Iwantedtosaysomethingbutthesoundofthewaterstoppedme.

TheideaofabstractionremindedmeofFredKelemen’sthoughtsaboutfilm.

‘ifyoutaketwocolours,let’ssayacertainredandacertainyellow andyouputthemsidebyside,andthenlet’ssayyoutaketheyellow awayandyouputacertainbluebesidethesamered,theredwill completelychange.Itwillbehavedifferently,butnotbecausethered changed,it’sbecauseoftherelation.’

Hesaysthatone‘cannotcreateideas.’Thatfilmmakingoftentendstobeasearchfor possibilitiesthatcancreateone’sideas.Iwasagitatedabouthowyouwantedtofilmthe villagers harvesting tapioca from the forest. You believed that it would reveal a dimensionoftheirtradition,regardlessoftheirmindlessagriculture.Icouldn’thelpbut

thinkthatourfilmlackedintention,likeasatelliterovingacrossanewplanet–itwas curious,naïve,anduncritical.

TherewasaseminarinthecomingmonthcalledTreeFrogsandTheMonsoon. Gulshan, the director of the research station, had asked us to join his team on their expeditionsandphotographdifferentspeciesoffrogs.Hewantedustopresentthemat theseminaralongwithportionsofourongoingfilm,thoughhewasmildlyawarethat ourstorywasmoreaboutthehumancondition.Thestationoccasionallyventuredinto studying patterns of human cultivation and their impact on the feeding habits of hornbills,cicadas,frogs,primatesandothertreedwellers;buttheyseldomrepresented human beings While our project entailed a visual and scientific collaboration about changinganimalhabitats,yourargumentwasthat‘change’couldscarcelybeportrayed intheabsenceofthetribals’narrative.

Iwatchedyouskipacrossthestream,sayingthatitwouldbemorecomfortableto washourclothesonthebanksthaninthecourtyardoutsidethebathrooms.Therewere dayswithnoelectricity,networkorwater Fuelwashardtocomebyandsometimeswe walkedforhoursbeforewereachedavillage;therewasn’tmuchtodotherebutlisten. Eachdayfeltlongenoughtobeamonth.

Theresearchersneverstoppedworking.Wesometimescarriedtheirlunchfromthe canteenandatewiththembetweenexperiments.Thelabwasstuffybutitoverlooked thestreamandtheyletuseditinthecornerifwedidn’tattackeachother Theplacehad inspired me to start a journal of illustrations. My drawings were artistic versions of zoological diagrams – eviscerated insects, jaws and musculature of rodents, gills and brains of fish and intestines of wild boars. I sat on the porch of the station. The humidity urged my body to exercise, while you disappeared to keep your evening routine.

Thatnightafterdinner,westrolledalongthecompoundwallandtalkedaboutLav Diaz’sEvolutionofaFilipinoFamily,aneleven-hourlongfilmthatfollowsthelivesof farmers in the Philippines – amidst political strife, distress migration and economic hardship,shotovernineyearswiththesameactors.Epicfilmsaboutindigenouspeople weren’tanewphenomenon.TheGermanfilmmakerUlrikeOttingerfinishedTaigain 1992,aneight-hourdocumentaryaboutnomadsinNorthernMongolia JohnMarshall madeAKalahariFamily,asix-partseriesaboutNamibianhistoryandthemythsand strugglessurroundingthe‘bushmen,’filmedoverfourteenyears.Butitwasrarethat such films weren’t made by outsiders. Maybe the locals found it unnecessary to

documentthetrivialityoftheirownlives.Orperhapsitwastheirprioritytosurvivethat made ethnography seem pointless. A teacher once told me to remember that we storytellersalwaysbenefitedfarmorefromthepeople’sstoriesthantheyeverdid.

I watched you put a cigarette to your mouth You hated your room and we occasionallystayedupinthelabwhentheresearchersworkedallnight.Sometimesthey tookabreakandwedrankabottleofpineapplewine,talkingaboutthehorriblecities. Butwemostlyrolledaboutonourbedsandtriedtofallasleep,despitethemosquitoes andthepower-cuts.Theforestmingledwiththeplantationandamixofcacklesand croaksenlivenedthedarkmoundsofbushesbeyondthestation.Thestreamhurried further down the slope, where the rubber groves turned into rice fields I sat down besidethepathwayandlookedupasyoucrunchedyourunlitcigarette.

‘Iwasthinking…’

‘Hmmm.’ You seemed to anticipate what I was going to say, and sounded as thoughyoudidn’twanttohearit.

‘Iwasthinkingthat,sincewe’reanywaygoingtophotographtreefrogsoverthe nextfewweeks,apartfromourcurrentfilmwork…whynotjustfilmthefrogsaswell. Thatway,we’llhaveagoodamountoffootagetomakeafilmabouttreedwellersand maybewecanevenpresentitattheseminar,insteadofshowingwhatwe’veshotsofar. IthinkitwouldsatisfyGulshan.’

Youshuffledtotheothersideofthepath,likehowyouhadcrossedthestream Andthenyouwanderedback,searchingforaglimmerofmoonlight.Ihadknownyou longenoughtounderstandthatitwasyourwayofsayingokay.Ialsoknewthatyou didn’twanttotalkaboutit,andthatyouwouldstopsulkingwhenwegotbackonthe field.Iofferedyouamatchboxbutyoudidn’twantit.Youjustneededsomethingto chewon.

Bethanie Knapper

WhenIsawherwinkatme,Ithoughtitwasatrickofthelight.

ItwasamurkydayandasIwaitedimpatientlyformycoffee,shewalkedpastme withhereyesonthedoor.Herhairstylelookedmoreexpensive,herclotheslookednicer thanmine,herwalkhadmoreconfidence,butanyonewouldsaywelookedidentical.

AsIsawherleave,Iwascertainshehadn’tnoticedme.ThenIwassureIsawher turnroundandwinkasshewalkedbackintothestreetandthewind.

IneverthoughtthatI’dseeheragain,butIdid.Iwasinadingybar,withtinnyrock musicplayingonthestereo.Itwasn’treallythekindofplacewhereI’dexpectherto drink.Isawherfacemorecloselythistime,hereyeslikereflectionsofmyown.IswearI evensawthescaronmychinfromyearsago.Shedidn’tseeme,though.

Idon’tknowwhy,butIwonderedwhathervoicesoundedlike.

Iwatchedherfinishherdrinkandleavethetable,andthoughtthatitwasstrange thatwewereboththerealone Thistime,IwantedtomakesurethatIdidn’tloseher I sawherduckintothepassengerseatofablackcar,anddidn’tknowifIwantedherto turnroundandseemewatchingherornot.Therewasamaninthedriver’sside,andI couldn’tmakeoutwhattheyweresayingtoeachother,asI’mnotgreatatlipreading.

Andthatwasit,really.Twoencounterswithastranger.ButIthoughtofherwhen Icaughtalookatmyownreflection,distortedinthebackofasoupspoon.Icouldn’t get her out of my mind, feeling haunted by this other version of myself. I scrolled throughInstagram,unabletofocusonanything,untilIrealiseddeepdowninmymind thatIwaslookingforher.ItwaslikeIcouldn’tsettleuntilIfoundsomethingtohold onto,somethingtoremindmethatwewerereal.IwonderedifI’denduppickingup herparkingtickets,ifmyfriendswoulddoubletakeiftheysawherwalkingdownthe street.Ifwe’dendupgoingtostuffthatwedidn’twanttoasafavourtoeachother.

AndthenIfoundher.Thefacelessalgorithmsomehowledmebacktoher,going throughhermakeupbagessentialsanddancinginacloudofperfumewithaTop40hit playingatdoublespeedinthebackground

Mynewmorningritualbecamescrollingthroughherpage,andsoonIfoundthat itbecamethemomentthatcentredmywholeday.Itookcomfortinseeingthebarsshe wentto,thejewelleryshewore.Iscrolledbackthroughfamilyholidaysinthesunshine, withpeoplewholookedlikeherbutnotlikeme.AtfirstitwasthesimilaritiesthatI constantlyscannedforwhenIsawherfaceonthescreen,zoominginandzoominginto

findtheslightestsplashofcoloursinoureyes,marksandfeaturesthatwerethesame. ButthenitwasthedifferencesthatIwantedtosee.Whatmadeeachofusunique.

Ishowedaholidayphotoofhertomypartneratthetime,whoaskedmewhenI’d beentoRome.Thiswaswhatprobablymademesounsettledabouther–allpeople wanttobelievethatthey’reunique.Itwasasifherlifewassomeechoofmyown,an aspirationorachallengeorwhatI’dfailedtodo.Ididn’tknowwhetheritwasthepain ofwhathadn’thappenedIwasfocusingon,orthethoughtsomewherethatwhatI mightbeseeingwassomekindofvisionofthefuturethatmightbebetterthannow.

TherewasathirdtimewhenIsawher.Iwaswalkingbythecanal,andIcouldsee herinfrontofme.Itseemedstrangethatsheseemedsooutofplaceeverywhereshe’d appeared.Shewasn’tleavingthistime.

Istoodnexttoherandforthefirsttime,welookedateachother,thenatour reflectionsinthemurkywaterofthecanal.Itriedtofindthelittledetailsinherfacethat remindedmeofmyown,triedtoseewhatpartsofherwentwitheachofherrelatives.

I’dlookedatherfaceforsolong,spentsomanymorningswithitthereonascreen thatseeingitinfrontofmedidn’tfeelreal.SomethingseemedsofamiliarthatwhenI shuffledtotheside,Iexpectedhertomovetoo,likesomesortofglossyshadow.I thoughtofwhatwouldhappentous

Ihadfoundher,butnowwhat?Wasthereareasonwhyshewashereandhad showedupatthattime?DidsheevenlookasmuchlikemeasIthought,ordidIimagine it?

Ithoughtofsteppingintoherlifeandtakingover,sheddingeverythingthathad happened and just getting to start again Wouldn’t that be what was supposed to happen?

Inscreenwritingtheycallitwhitespace Thegapswherethereisnostory,whereyouget tofillinyourownblanksandpickupwherethestoryleavesoff,andIrealisedthatwas whatshewasgoingtobeforme.Shecouldbeanythingandnothing,readytorescueme orhauntme,shecouldbesomethinguncannyorjustanordinary,quiteplaingirl.Alost sisterorsomethingdarkerfromtheshadows,comingupfromthewaterofthecanal. Justanothericononthescreentoscrollpast.

WhichdidIwant,thehappyendingorthedestruction?

Shedidn’tstickaroundlongenoughformetodecide.

T. Z. Dancer

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Irememberwantingtotouchher,butIdon’trememberifIdid.DidItouchoneofher arms?Shehasthemwrappedaroundherbody,oneofthemisplacedjustaboveher chest.Theotherisholdingalong,thinhornthatshedoesn’tseeminterestedinever blowing(whocaresiftheendoftheendofalldaysshouldcomeuponus:allthesameto her).IknowIcouldn’thavetouchedherface,Inevercouldhavereachedit.But,oh howIwouldhavelovedto!Ican’tandIwon’ttrytodescribeitwithwords.Idon’t think anything I could put together would compare to her beauty in person, and attemptingtodosowouldbemorethananoffence–itwouldbeblasphemy.ButIcan tellyouhowitbearsthislook,thissort-of-a-Mona-Lisaeffectithasthatchangesasyou walkaroundher Fromoneangle,shelookssoinnocent,child-like Thisisperhapsher mainappearance,thefaceyouwouldseeifyouweretoonlywalkpastherandlookup justasyouarerightinfrontofher.Butifyoustickaroundforabit,youseethatfrom anotherangle,shelookssad.Andfromanother,shelooksangry,almostscary.Fromyet another,shelookslikesheislookingstraightatyou;hereyesthatofalivingperson,one thathassomuchtosay,somuchtoask.

Lookingatherasawhole,youcanseetheoutlineofherbodyunderneathherlong, satin-like dress. You can see the shape of her left knee, the detail in her elbows, her tummy,eventhecavityofherbellybutton.Shelookssorealthatitmademesad.

Istartedwonderingifshecouldhavebeenarealpersononce?DidMonteverdecarveher imageentirelyoutofhisimagination,orwasshesomeoneheknew?Ormaybesomeone he wished he knew? Maybe she was the first girl he fell in love with. Or was she his friend?Asister,oradaughter?OrmaybeMonteverdewasn’treallyabrilliantsculptorat all Hewasawickedsorcererwhopetrifiedhisvictimsintostatues,foreverboundto someone ’stomborgrave.Forevernameless,knownonlyasSomeone’s.Couldtherebea counterspell,atrue-love’s-kisssortofanactthatcouldturnthestonebacktoskinand hair?Atthatmoment,Iwouldhavekilledtoknowthecolourofhereyes.

Istoodthere,lookingatherfromeverypossibleangleforthelongesttime.Irealisedat some

somepoint,thatitmighthavebeenanhour orlonger ButIdidn’tcare WhenIfinally didleave,ImadesureIpaidproperattentiontothewayIwasfollowingbacktotheexit Afterthattime,ImemorisedthewaytothebeautifulangelsothatIneverhadtoask again.

WhenIgotbacktotheapartmentwhereIwasstaying,Iwasstillthinkingabouther.I wanted to remember her with more than just the few pictures I had taken with my camera.IknewwhatIwantedtodobutIdidn’tknowwhy.Togetherwithmyhorrible handwriting, I can’t draw to save my life, both curtesy to my dysgraphia. So, yeah, I don’tknowwhy,butIwantedtodrawapictureofher.Itfeltlikeaveryintimateact, and I was beyond excited to do it. For those who haven’t yet had a search for Monteverde’sAngelontheinternet,shelooksnothinglikethepictureImanagedto produceofher.Forwhateverreason,theangelIdrewcameoutalittlewicked-looking andangry,muchangrierthantheoriginalcaneverlook.However,thereissomething thatdoesremindmeofherwhenlookingatthepicture.Maybeit’stheactofdoingitat thetimeIdiditmorethantheslightresemblanceIthinkithastotheangel

It’salittleweird,IrealiseasI’mwritingthis,theaffectionIfeelforher.Iwonderifthat’s whatsomepeoplefeellikewhenlookingaticons.Ormaybeitwassomethingfarmore elementary,farmoremundane,likeacrash.Orwasitmore?Canyoufallinlovewitha statue?I’mremindedofthatstorytheycoveredmanyyearagoinGermany.Abouta swanwhoseemedtohavefalleninlovewithoneofthosepaddleboatsbecauseitwasin theshapeofaswan.Itwouldswimwithitfordays,staynexttoitwhenitwastiedtothe shore.Irememberatthetime,Ifeltreallysadfortheswan.Poorthing.Butmaybehe knewthesawnwasn’trealanditmadenodifference.Ormaybeheorshehadaneyefor artaswell?Somethingswewouldneverknow.

My picture means many things to me, but for this issue, the angel – my angel –representsstrength,resilience,independenceandfreedomoveroppression.Butartisin theeyeofthebeholder,astheysay Ihopethispicturewouldmeansomethingtoyouas well

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AmirahAlWassifisanaward-winningpublishedpoet.Herpoetrycollection,ForThoseWhoDon’tKnowChocolatewas publishedinFebruary2019byPoeticJusticeBooks&artsHerillustratedchildren’sbook,TheCocoaBoyandOtherStories waspublishedinFebruary2020‘ToBuryACuriousGirl’waspublishedinherpoetrycollection,ToBuryaCuriousGirlby BedazzledInkPublishingCompany.

HerpoemshaveappearedinseveralprintsandonlinepublicationsincludingSouthFloridaPoetry,BirminghamArts Journal,HawaiiReview,TheMeniscus,ChironReview,TheHunger,WritersResist,RightNow,andseveralother publications.

Amirah’spoem‘Hallucinations’wasnominatedfortheScienceFictionPoetryRhyslingAward

AnnahAtanewasborninBorno,NigeriaShegrewupinasmallcommunityinMaiduguri, whereherparentsarebusinessownersSheisamodel,afashionenthusiast,anda businesswoman;founderoftheminiclothingbrand,A’annaSheholdsaBScinAnimalScience fromtheUniversityofMaiduguri,BornoState

Herwritinghasitsrootsinpoetry,shortstories,essays,andfiction.Herworkshaveappearedin thebrittlepaper,SpillWordsPress,itanilè,andupcomingonKalaharireview

AyerdelFuturowasborninPlovdiv,BulgariaandisnowlivinginBerlinHewrotethe travelogueInthreeworlds.Thebookwaswrittenduringtheauthor’sholidaysinMexicoin Marchof2020InthreeworldswasreleasedonlyinBulgarianwiththepurposeofbeinggiven justtofriendsandfamilyAyerdelFuturohaswrittenafewpoemsandshortstoriesaswellas dozensofsongsforhispunkbands,whereheistheleadsinger.

StreetForceissoontobereleasedforsaleinsearchforawideraudience

DavidPhilipIrelandisawriter,poet,musician,artistandexperimentalist RattlesnakeJar,David’snewestbookandalbum,isavailablenowonAmazon DavidPhilipIrelandhasworkedinmanyaspectsofthearts,includingmusic,theatreand photography,publishinganumberofsoloandcollaborativemusicprojects,twonovels, SlowPoisonandBloodstones,plustwoanthologiesofpoetry

TodiscoverDavid’sbackcatalogue,visit:linktree/davidirelandmusic

NemanjaJocićwasbornintheadmirablecityofAmsterdamBecauseofhismixedcultural background,sontoaDutchmother,aSerbianfather,andmentallydevelopedwithinthe Greekculture,hebecamemoreinterestedinexperimentingwithwhatlifehadtoofferinits mostradicalextent

Nemanjatookonhisbiggestchallengeofself-expressionyet-thewritingofhisfirstnovel Inspiredbyhisownlife,Nemanjaexploresthecomplexityofhumanemotions,thesearchfor obtaininginnerfreedom,andtheendlessloveandpaindilemmasthatshapeusintowhowe are '

SteffiKimhasbeenanavidreaderfromayoungageShelivesinSeattle,Washingtonwheresheenjoysplayingsoccerinher freetimeaswellasspendingtimewithfriendsandfamilySteffiiscurrentlyfifteenyearsold,andasophomoreinhigh school.

SilyanaShtiliyanovaisapoetandawriterfromBulgariaHerpublishedbookofpoetrywas awardedanationalliteraryprizein2020.

SilyanagraduatedfromthetheBourgasFreeUniveritywithBAinPsychology,andiscurrently studyingItalianphilologyinSofiaShe'sawriterfortheBulgarianmagazine,Spisanie8

HerpoemshavebeenpublishedinvariousBulgarianmediaaswellasintheBourgasLiteracy Almanac

AbhishekUdaykumarisawriter,filmmakerandpainterHegraduatedfromRoyalHolloway UniversityofLondonwithEnglishandCreativeWriting.Hisnarrativesreflectthehuman conditionofruralandurbancommunitiesHehasbeenpublishedindifferentliterary journals,andhasmadethirteenfilmsandseveralseriesofpaintings

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