Issue 10
Writers' Bloc
Welcome to the eleventh issue of The Journal and the first issue of this academic year! For those of you not familiar with The Journal, it is an anthology of creative writing which showcases the best writers at The University of Birmingham. Thank you to all those who sent pieces in this month. The theme was Literature and it was really great to see the huge diversity of responses to this theme. We also produced this issue in conjuction with the Book to the Future Festival at the university. This issue contains an exciting mix of veterans and new writers which were narrowed down from a large batch of wonderful submissions. If your piece was not included this time, don't be disheartened as the next issue is now open for submissions! The deadline for this is 31 st November (See the back cover for details). If you like what you read you can find more work on our website at www.writersblocuob.com and follow The Journal twitter @TheJournal_WB. You can also follow our society's activities on Twitter @WritersBlocUoB and at Facebook.com/writersblocuob. Happy reading! Georgia Tindale, Editor
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The Journal
Contents Jack Williams
How libraries should be Katherine Reeve
The Stand-Off Vafa Motamedi
Simple
Lily Blacksell
Fiction
Charlie Moloney
Me, Myself and I Elena Orde
Gormenghast Robyn Townsend
thus grew the tale of wonderland Ludo Cinelli
Ferragosto - Feature Piece Jack Crowe
Young Jean Paul Sartre
4 5 7 12 14 18 20 22 29
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Writers' Bloc
How libraries should be Ancient tomes of battles and kings, all dead the pages smell of their blood Maps of foreign lands surveyed, but unexplored hang on the walls Fragile deserts turn to swamps during monsoon season Only dark oak respects the weight that it holds An ark would not be made from pine just as a book would not be bound in plastic Mountains grow in spring books are burnt in winter.
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Jack Williams
The Journal
The Stand-Off “The pen is mightier than the sword!” I cried, a blue biro clasped in my fist. My bully raised an eyebrow and said, “how about this?” I wasn’t entirely prepared for him to pull out an AK 47 (with silencer). My biro felt flimsy and I couldn’t help but think, a gun has bullets, my biro had ink. I could cut him down with satire, bleed him with a well placed pun, or immortalise him in endless woe. The problem is a bullet’s quick and poetry’s slow. I might just manage a limerick, if he shot me non-fatally (in my leg I suppose) I could construct a damning monologue, before he reloads, but the pain may well affect the quality of my prose. Thus my blue biro was no match, no shield, a useless weapon to wield, against the gun.
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Writers' Bloc Give Shakespeare a fountain Parker pen, (with embossed lettering) and against Bond he would have died, before the title of the Sonnet dried. As for me, I was shot dead, with lethal lead, maybe I should have brought a pencil instead. Because when all is written, and all is done, the pen is nothing, compared to the gun.
Katherine Reeve
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Simple The manuscript was finished. The writer had toiled away on it for what had felt like an eternity, but what had been, in fact, only four hours every evening for five months. Every stroke of his pen had felt like a Herculean effort, as if he were an architect and labourer, designing and building an entire skyscraper singlehandedly. He sat at his desk, staring at the wad of paper that lay before him with a mix of recognition and confusion, as if he were an infant who had just caught its reflection for the first time. So much time, so much effort, so much of himself had been poured into this large stack of papers some one hundred pages thick. It scarcely felt large enough at all. Also on his desk was another pile of papers, all blank. He retrieved a single sheet of paper from this pile and laid it on top of his manuscript. There, on the blank front sheet, he wrote the title of his work. Then, slowly and delicately, he inscribed his name. After he was finished, he stood up and stretched his back as far as it could go. He looked down at his work. It is good, he thought, now what do I do? He was a bank teller by day. It was not an occupation he was entirely enthusiastic about. There was a certain rigidness to the work that had suited his youthful personality but once he had passed through the gateway of middle age, he began to feel like he had ‘wasted his life away,’ as his late mother used to say. She’d had such great plans for her son. He was to be a man of consequence: a politician, a scientist or even a writer. Whatever her son did as a job didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that he was well-known and well regarded by the public at large. He was to be a glorious trophy to show off to all of her friends at the institute. She had died disappointed. The writer was determined to live up to his mother’s dream. He was all too aware of what others thought of him. He could see it in their eyes: 7
Writers' Bloc ‘Dullard.’ ‘Wallflower.’ ‘Nice chap, a bit boring.’ Even his wife used to call him ‘a simple man with a simple mind and simple needs.’ But he was so much more than that. He longed to be creative. If only they knew of the wonderful ideas floating about in his head. He was an artist deep down and had such amazing things to say, if he could just get others to listen. One day, he resolved to show them what he was worth. He had a story in him and by God they were going to hear it. *** The writer sat in his study flicking through the pages of his masterpiece. He was imagining the future that the manuscript would bring. He would send it off to a publisher and naturally it would be accepted. Awards and plaudits would follow, as well as all the money that would come from what would surely be a great commercial success. And then, most deliciously, he would walk into his former workplace and they would stare at him open-mouthed, all thinking: ‘Who knew he had it in him?’ He would smile. After he had finished his daydream, the writer began to read his manuscript in earnest. He winced as he pushed his way through the unnatural word choices and the forced metaphors that made up his novel. There was no rhythm to it; no substance. It needed something more. How could he present his soul to the world if it was as clumsy and inelegant as this? Seized by fury, he hurled the defective manuscript aside and started over again. *** 8
The Journal The writer’s wife was called Maria and he confused her a great deal. Every evening for the past five months he would lock himself in his study for four hours and wouldn’t come out for any reason. Whenever she would attempt to interrogate him on his business inside his study, he would mumble under his breath and avoid her for the rest of the day. She initially thought this strange but shrugged her shoulders and carried on with her day. One day her husband went into his study and never came out again. She knew he was alive as she could hear him pacing and grumbling, but he stayed inside his study beyond the usual four hour session. After a whole day had passed, she knocked on the door and demanded to be let in. After several minutes of knocking, the door opened ever so slightly and her husband’s face appeared through the crack. ‘Go away, I’m doing important work.’ ‘What work? Why won’t you tell me what it is?’ ‘It’s not finished. When it’s finished I’ll show you. It needs to be perfect before I show anyone. Now for God’s sake, just leave me in peace.’ The door slammed shut and that was the end of that. Every day she left a tray of food and water for him outside his study. Nothing was ever touched. She considered calling for a doctor but decided that it was best not to make a fuss. He was a simple man and couldn’t be up to much. *** The manuscript was getting longer and longer. What had begun as a hundred page affair had gradually morphed into a thousand page behemoth. Wonderful images and ideas were erupting from the writer’s head, travelling down his arms and into his pen, which was moving across the page at intense speed. He had been writing for two days non-stop and was beginning to get hungry and tired. Perhaps now, he thought, would be time to take a break 9
Writers' Bloc He got up sluggishly and walked, hunched over, to the door. Just as he touched the doorknob, he received a jolt of creativity. He leapt towards the desk and feverishly began writing again. I can’t leave, he thought, not untill it’s finished. After six days it was finished. In that time no water wetted his lips, no food entered his stomach and no sleep passed over his eyes. It was finished, and what a thing of beauty it was. The writer placed the sacred two thousand page tome in his safe place, where no-one could get to it. He had worked so hard, he’d be damned if some thief was going to steal it now. As he stood up and walked, his joints and bones creaked like an ancient engine turning on after centuries of disuse. ‘Oh when Maria reads what I’ve written,’ he whispered, ‘when she sees me for the first time!’ The emaciated figure stumbled out of his lair, walked to his living room and stared vacantly at his wife. He smiled as she gasped. ‘It’s finished,’ he said and promptly fell down on the floor, dead. *** The funeral wasn’t the hardest part. It was the clear-out that unnerved Maria the most. She couldn’t stand to look at her husband’s study anymore, filled to the brim, as it was, with the cluttered reminders of that mysterious week long hermitage. She had spent two days sorting through his papers, deciding what things to keep and what things to send to the furnace. It was difficult work but it had to be done. Her memories of his wasted body haunted her enough; she didn’t need all his possessions around too. Once she had finished, she returned to the study and looked over it one last time. A gust of wind blew through the doorway behind her and she heard the rustling of paper coming from the tall windowsill above her husband’s desk. She reached up and pulled down an extremely heavy set of papers covered in his messy, near indecipherable writing. Although they had been married for 10
The Journal twenty years, she still had great difficulty making out his unintelligible squiggles. She walked into the living room and shivered. Winter was approaching and with her husband gone the money would soon go with him. The fire was barely making an impression in the cramped room. Maria threw the block of papers onto the flames which jumped up at the arrival of extra fuel. She sat in her late husband’s chair and stoked the fire. As she did so, she thought about how little she had really known the old bank-teller. Perhaps there wasn’t much else to know. After all, she thought, as the pile of papers began to crumple in the heat, he was a very simple man.
Vafa Motamedi
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Writers' Bloc
Fiction ‘There is no doubt fiction makes a better job of the truth.’ Doris Lessing
‘I don’t read fiction anymore,’ he said with a chin out, mouth shut lift of his head to indicate the case was closed. We pretended we weren’t surrounded by shelves of his late wife’s books and we had more turkey curry instead of sharing sad looks because ‘No really, it’s delicious,’ and grief is a funny old thing and he can read economics textbooks if he wants. ‘Very low in fat, turkey, you know,’ and maybe this is healthier than him grabbing my wrist with every novel on my reading list saying ‘she loved (insert title) it was her favourite.’ So that our eyes well, our chests swell and words push out across the rivers in our vision. 12
The Journal Very low in fact, memories, you know, far better to swim further in every recollection as long as you always return as he did on holiday, in France, in a heatwave, into her outstretched towel and arms and his brother ran past with an inflatable alligator ‘Alors! Regard! Un croc, monsieur.’ He doesn’t read fiction any more, but I wouldn’t mind or be surprised if couched behind Das Kapital or Freakonomics is some Cormac McCarthy, well-thumbed, well-being, well-read, welcome. Should it slip to the floor landing awkward and open I will grab his wrist and say ‘leave it, it can’t fall any further.’ and say ‘she loved you, you know, you were her favourite.’
Lily Blacksell
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The Journal
Me, Myself and I One day I was sitting in my room reading the Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, when it came upon me that I was absurdly beautiful. I couldn’t quite shake the thought out of my head. After a while I felt compelled to abandon my studies and take to looking at myself in the mirror from all sorts of different angles. ‘I know if I said this to anyone they would hate me', I said to myself, ‘but I am gorgeous. Sometimes when I look at myself I almost feel jealous of the face staring back at me. Oh what I would give to have another just like me, so that I could live my life devoted to a being as wonderful as myself!’ At that moment, as if by some strange twist of fate, I felt a strange sensation in my right ribcage, as if the ribs were sliding apart. There was no pain, but the oddest sense of release. My head flew back and my eyes watered. Some time must have passed as I stood, swaying, in a trance-like, ecstatic state; a small trickle of drool had gathered in the corner of my mouth. I snapped back to reality at the shock of feeling my own finger wipe the spittle away. I moved my eyes and saw myself, standing erect before me. I looked at myself, and I looked back at me. ‘I have been looking for you all my life, my love.' I felt a passion for this doppelganger that I could not explain. All I knew is that I would live the rest of my life happy and I would never be alone again. We embraced, and I clasped myself tightly, tenderly stroking my other self to see if I would feel any tingling sensation in my own mind. But there was nothing; we were no longer one. ‘I had hoped that what I felt, you would also feel, and that what you saw I would behold as a vision. But now I see that we are two and one no longer. I will never know what you will feel and see and do.’ I took myself by the hand, which comforted me greatly, and my dear self 14
Writers' Bloc looked deep into my own eyes. ‘Do not think that because we are not one of body and mind we are not of one soul. What I feel, you shall also, because I will make you feel it. What I will see, you shall also, because you will be with me to see it. Whatever I do, you shall do also, and we will always be together.’ With this he led himself away, out of the house and into the world. From that moment onwards I was always with my other self. With two minds that were, for all intensive purposes, as one, there was no limit to what we could accomplish. I staged a two man play. I cut my own hair. I created my own secret language, and had private jokes with myself which we used to baffle and annoy those we disliked. In all those wonderful years I never slept alone. But it all came to an end. It may have been my fault looking back. Love brings out something vicious in us all. My self-love awoke the decadent little monster who lives in the corner of my eyes. I was unforgivable and I forgave myself. One morning I came in to find myself sitting on my bed reading. I looked up from my book quizzically. Had I been out? I looked down at me from the door. I looked dirty and worn out. There was something strange and wild in my eyes. I had the sense then, although I couldn’t explain how, that something had changed in me. I saw myself standing, panting, and I demanded, 'where have you been dearest brother? I had thought until now that you had fallen asleep downstairs, and I thought it best not to wake you. But now I see my own face looking at me and hardly recognise myself!' ‘Think no more about it. I will tell you everything. I have a wonderful story!' I stood up and threw the book at myself, 'A story? Then it is over.’ I came up to my trembling form and tried to soothe me with gentle words, 'No brother. I will recount it in the greatest detail, and then you will have been 15
The Journal there too and shared my adventure.’ I pushed myself away. ‘It is not enough! Words are not enough. You can look all over the world, you can try any language; there is nothing which can communicate the human experience. Literature, paintings, music, they all pale in comparison. You could write me a nine hundred page epic and I wouldn’t know a tenth of what you know.’ ‘But brother you can have it too. It is only a sunset, I will take you on my afternoon walk tomorrow and you can see it too. 'Your walk! Whilst I have been sitting on our bed thinking that all you know I know also, you have been taking walks! What else have you seen and done without me? Have you tired of me? Me, your very self! You crawled out of me, naked and degraded. But I suppose you would never return to me now. You’ve found purpose outside of me. Purpose and meaning, and walks'. I stiffened, and shook slightly. 'I will go back. And when we are one again, you will know the sunset as I have known it'. 'But how will we be one again?’ I grabbed myself. I felt my own hands caress every inch of myself. Although the hands were not unfamiliar, I could not predict their intent, and as they explored my body I flinched. Eventually I found the opening, somewhere below the ribs. Somehow it seemed that the hole had all but closed up, and it seemed to me at first that the thing was impossible. However, I surprised myself with the determined thrusts which my other half made to squeeze inside of me. I had to bend down and grab the railing of my bed. The only sounds I could hear were agonizing moans which the effort of the ordeal was drawing out of me. Then, I felt myself slip, and my other self plunged deep inside of me, pushing hard to penetrate as far as he needed to. And then I could see him no longer. 16
Writers' Bloc The ceiling was stained with a dark patch of damp. Outside in the street a glass was smashed, but nobody cared. I tried to picture the sunset. I tried to draw it out of myself. But I couldn’t see it. I still can’t, even today. If my other had tried to describe it, would he have found the right words? I sometimes wonder. If nothing else I could have heard him out, and said I thought it sounded a charming sunset. I tell myself that I could have been happy enough that he had seen it. Even if he had walked for years, and seen a million sunsets, and returned to me with a new name and a face I didn’t recognise. I would have loved him because he had seen it.
Charlie Moloney
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The Journal
Gormenghast A grid of portholes above the desk; a paper view built into the recess where bound bundles slot, holding that sharp sweet smell the scent of memory trapped in slowly yellowing cellulose. Every book is breaking down. There’s a space where that one rested. The negative of the paperbacked wedge with its tiny fault lines, bright white veins cracking over the surface. Inside - a vast construction of yawning masonry populated by delicately labelled pantomime characters: Prunesquallor, Lord Sepulchrave, gauche Fuchsia Groan with her flag of black hair. Each flick of a page like slicing into a beehive, a cross section where dust gathers in an attic furnitured with statues; layers down, through miles of echoing staircases, sweltering kitchens bubble and sweat and somewhere, sometime, there’s a library, burning.
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Writers' Bloc The trilogy faded as it progressed, collapsing inwards as I read, the way a dream trickles away. An unmistakable whitewashing turned rich landscapes into vague outlines as dementia squeezed and his memory became scorched earth.
Elena Orde
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The Journal
thus grew the tale of wonderland The Rabbit leads me away from sunshine and sense. Alice tumbles further and petticoats are lifted as she falls. The looking glass displays a Wonderland made for two. In it I am myself, and I am changed again and again . The ‘muchness’ overwhelms, is inside me. The Cat smirks, grins, sniggers, then with a purr, he licks my rose-white flesh. He growls when I please him, and flicks his bristling tail when I put a paw wrong. We pretend: the hyena and the bone. Devoured, licked and sucked clean, it is all make-believe and the Hatter presses closer, urging me into madness.
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Writers' Bloc The girl reflected is a wild wildflower, growing up in Wonderland. Fed by mushrooms and bottles of sweet liquor, her face is quite, quite mad. You believe in me, and so I believe in you. Eyes widen as I sink lower, you sink in to me, together in to the looking glass.
Robyn Townsend
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Ferragosto
Feature Piece
‘Could we skip the whole bit where you’re incredulous at the fact that I can speak?’ Its heavy head slumped, covered in a maroon mane. A swollen tongue stuck through two sharp canines. I had never seen a dead lion before. I looked around, and there was only the T-junction, the bins, the road signs, the thorn bushes, the dead lion. A couple of flies buzzed around its face. They were trying to get under its eyelid. ‘But you were dead a second ago.’ I heard a splutter. I turned around, hoping the splutter came from someone else – someone more apt to deal with a dead lion, ideally. The sun glared at me from the shiny black tarmac. ‘Oh yeah, could we skip that too?’ ‘I’m just surprised to see a lion talking.’ ‘You’re doing it.’ ‘Sorry. Wow. I just apologised to a lion.’ My palms stuck to the dark desk. The damp shirt against my armpits. The white window frames were filled with the brown slivers of pine needles. ‘Look. I’ll make this easy for you. What team do you support?’ ‘What?’ ‘Football team.’ ‘What football team do I support?’ ‘Fucking hell, yes, that’s what I asked you.’ 22
Writers' Bloc The blinking, black, short vertical line taunted me from the blank screen. There was nothing. Nothing.
‘
‘There’s no need to swear.’ ‘I can swear if I want.’ ‘How do you know about football? ‘How do you know about football?’ ‘Well, it’s just kind of there.’ ‘You said it. Which team do you support?’ ‘Fiorentina.’ I’m a Viola fan too. What do you think about Cuadrado’s transfer rumours?’ ‘Sorry, what?’ ‘Can you even hold a conversation? What’s your name?’ ‘Giorgio.’ ‘Hello Giorgio.’ ‘What’s yours?’ ‘I haven’t got one, you moron, I’m a lion.’ ‘Lions don’t have names?’ ‘Lions don’t have the brain-power to give each other names, no.’
It was Ferragosto, the most understated public holiday in Italy. The fifteenth of August. Everyone is already on holiday, and yet it is a public holiday. Assumption of The Virgin Mary. People go to the beach. A remnant of a Roman festival established by Augustus. And also a remnant of Fascism, where trains were discounted so that poorer people could go on holiday. ‘But you’re talking.’ ‘Seriously. That’s the third time.’ ‘Do you want me to give you one?’ ‘What?’ ‘A name.’ 23
The Journal ‘Fuck no. ’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Whenever humans give lions names they end up with something stupid like Mufasa. ’ ‘Doesn’t that mean something in an African language?’ ‘I don’t speak any African languages’ ‘If there’s a language I'd imagine a lion to speak, it’s an African one. ’ ‘Why?’ ‘Lots of lions in Africa. ’ ‘Are we in Africa?’ ‘No. ’ ‘Well there you go then. ’ ‘You might’ve been shipped over though. ’ ‘I might’ve. But I wasn’t. ’ ‘Anyway, I have to call you something. ’ ‘How about "lion"?’ ‘But you don’t call me "human". ’ ‘You have a name. ’ ‘I guess that works. “Lion. ” It’s a bit generic. ’ ‘Better than Aslan. ’ ‘Aslan means lion in some languages. ’ 'What are we doing standing here anyway?’ ‘Well, what do you want to do?’ ‘Go for a walk. ’ ‘Just a walk?’ ‘What did you expect?’ ‘I dunno, like a quest or something?’ ‘Where do you think you are? This isn’t the Wizard of Oz. ’ ‘Sorry, it’s just that in stories, when people talk to animals they’re usually on a mission of some kind. ’ 24
Writers' Bloc ‘Whatever floats your boat. You can pretend we’re on a quest, as long as you keep walking/' I wasn’t getting anywhere. I got up, pushing the chair backwards. I grabbed my keys from the desk, and headed for the kitchen. I took the full bin bags and made my way to the front door. The garden was beautiful as ever, the tall pine trees rose above the fresh smell of rosemary. I pushed the garden gate open, squinting from the sunlight. Down the street and onto the main road. Nobody on either road. Everyone having lunch, or on holiday, or having lunch on holiday. ‘So, what do you do?’ ‘I’m a writer. ’ ‘What do you write?’ ‘Novels, mostly. ’ ‘Any anthropomorphic animals in them?’ ‘You’re not anthropomorphic. ’ ‘I know that, blockhead. ’ ‘Then why are you asking?’ ‘Because I ’m interested in anthropomorphism. ’ ‘No. No anthropomorphic characters. ’ ‘That was really condescending you know. ’ ‘What?’ ‘Telling me I ’m not anthropomorphic. Of course I know that. I know I’m a lion. Not a human with lion features, or whichever way round you want it. ’ ‘First you tell me that you don’t have a name because you’re a lion. Next you tell me that you know what anthropomorphism is. ’ Next to the bins. Swollen tongue through two sharp canines. A splutter. One of its front legs twitched. The fur on its shoulder began to rise up. A back leg got under the weight of its body, and began to push up. It looked dazed. Standing, it shook its head and stretched its front legs, then its back legs. 25
The Journal ‘What do you write about then, if not anthropomorphic animals?’ ‘Here.’ ‘Here?’ ‘Yeah. Italy. I write about Italy a lot.’ ‘Why?’ ‘I know stuff about it. And not a lot of people do outside of Italy. So they like to hear it, I think.’ ‘Are you writing something about Italy now?’ ‘I’m not writing about anything, now.’ We’d been walking down the road towards town for a couple of minutes, and I couldn’t help but notice that we hadn’t seen any cars moving. Or anyone walking around. It was quiet, you could only hear the cicadas’ scratchy song. ‘What do you call a lion wearing a bow tie and a stylish hat?’ ‘What?’ ‘A dandy lion.’ ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’ We reached the suburb’s metro station. There was nobody inside. The gates were open. We went down to one of the platforms and there was a train waiting. The doors closed behind us. We talked about football, and the price of public transport, and the educational system. The train stopped at Re di Roma. We got off and wandered around. ‘Grograman.’ ‘Who?’ ‘The most obscure talking lion I can think of.’ ‘What’s his story?’ ‘Michael Ende’s The Never-Ending Story. It’s a children’s novel. He’s a lion that lives in the desert—‘ 26
Writers' Bloc
‘
‘Desert? Not a good place for a lion.’ ‘He’s fictional.’ ‘Fictional lions have to eat.’ This one doesn’t. He lives in a desert – well, to some extent, he is the desert. All around him things turn to sand and die. So he’s always in a desert. And he changes colour, I think.’ ‘He sounds like a twat. Why would he need to change colour? Changing colour is impractical for a lion.’ ‘No, but it doesn’t really matter—‘ ‘Of course it matters. If Grogman or whatever his name is stalking a gazelle and it suddenly turns purple, it’s not going to go “oh, there’s a patch of purple grass,” it’s going to go “fuck me, it’s a lion, I’d better leave.”' Again, he’s fictional.’ ‘What is that?’ ‘What?’ ‘That big stone face.’ ‘A Roman sculpture. It’s called la Bocca della Verità. It means the Mouth of Truth.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘They don’t know. Probably a bit of a fountain, or a manhole cover.’ ‘Whose face is it?’ ‘A pagan Roman god. They’re not sure which one.’ ‘He looks like a lion. The hair and the beard look like its mane.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Why is it called the mouth of truth?’ ‘In the middle ages, they believed that if you stuck your hand in it, and you were a liar, it would bite your hand.’
The marble was cool to the touch. I gently rubbed the inside of the mouth. My fingertips were sweaty, and the polluted air seemed hotter than ever. 27
The Journal ‘Come on then.’ ‘Come on what?’ ‘What are we doing here?’ ‘We just went for a walk and ended up here.’ ‘Stop it with that.’ ‘With what?’ ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ ‘We were discussing this sculpture.’ ‘Not that – look at the situation. The subtext. You’re a lion, right? And the sculpture is a symbol of truth. It looks like a lion. And I need truth right now. And I’m probably dreaming. Why would there be a dead lion next to some bins in a suburb in Rome? You’re clearly a figment of my subconscious trying to tell me something to get me over writer’s block. So hurry up and do it. Please.’ The lion suddenly pawed at my calf. It wasn’t hard, or particularly painful, only surprising. Three parallel trails of blood sprang from where it struck, and one of them started dripping. ‘I’m just a lion. You’ve been reading too much, man.’ ‘Maybe I have, lion. Where are we going next?’ They found me curled up next to the bins. They woke me up and asked me why I was curled up next to a dead lion, and how I had hurt my leg. They were about to tell me how the lion got there, and I stopped them.
Ludo Cinelli
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Writers' Bloc
Young Jean Paul Sartre Jean! Jean! Shouted Mrs Sartre Your dinner’s ready Just a minute! Jean! Hurry up! there’s no point me making it if you don’t eat it Jean entered the kitchen, his hands and shorts were muddy He sat down and stared at the fish fingers on his plate 'I hated fish fingers’ he says The shrink nods ‘I don’t know how this affected things’
Jack Crowe
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