Turl Times

Turl Times
I pushed upon my gate and found it gone. - David Jeffrey
Contributors
Carolina Amoroso - Beware of this twentythree year old female. She was born and raised in Buenos Aires, Argentina, where she learnt to dance vigorously to South American rhythms. She divides her time between teaching English and straightening her hair to no avail. She has been spotted stealing cookies and was caught red-handed in somebodys wedding picture. The Sorting Hat has rightfully proclaimed her a hardcore Slytherin. Dipti Anand - is a dreamer. An artist in training, she loves to draw and paint. She is currently halfway through finishing her BSc degree with a double concentration in Entrepreneurship and Creative and Visual Arts at Babson College, USA. Clearly this is all just a ploy to distract her friends and family from her true hopes and dreams, which are to be a Bollywood dancer. She has been writing since she was 9 years old and her first poem was called Smile. Dipti specializes in giving people false directions to well-known destinations and dressing as well as she possibly can, even when the weather is just absolutely unbearably awful. She also loves bubble tea. Sheila Armstrong - Sheila is still refusing to grow up. After getting her degree in English and Psychology, she is going back to Dublin to do a Masters in Popular Literature. She will also be doing an internship with New Island press and might just get a business card. She has just gotten a saxophone, and is proceeding to annoy everyone in a 5 mile radius. She is writing short bits and pieces, but still hasnt come up with that one good idea that will allow her to retire at the age of 25. Her blog is http://www.facebook.com/l/de316NBvi6VkKOwlDw1CX4U48Q/www.wrapitinwords.tum blr.com Omnya Attaelmanan - 22 and 52, has spent the past few months interning at Wiley Publishing following her graduation in January with a BA in English literature (very useful for covering up particularly blank patches of wall and such). She plans to spend her summer taking courses at the University of Utrecht in global migration, international conflict management, and ethnic relations and integration (because that all ties up nicely with English literature) in preparation for Masters studies. Shell also be using it as an opportunity to eat a lot of cheese, look at a lot of tulips, do something else vaguely Dutch and spend as much time as possible with a certain hazel-eyed gentleman who happens to live nearby. She writes because not writing makes her feel increasingly uncomfortable the longer that she allows it to happen, kind of like not doing her laundry, and makes absolutely no guarantees about quality.
Janet Barr - is living back in her hometown of Melbourne in Australia. She is negotiating the writing of a biography for a marine engineer from far north Queensland while continuing work on her screenplay for a full-length feature film. It is based on Janets adventures in Botswana over thirty years ago at the height of the Rhodesian (now Zimbabwe) civil war. Majoring in art history, Janet graduated with a Bachelor of Arts (Hons) from the University of Melbourne. Her honors thesis investigated the changes in controversies surrounding sitespecific sculpture in the public sphere in Australia, Britain, France and the USA since the late nineteenth century. Central to her thesis was the relocation of one her favorite works, titled Angel, by Australian artist Deborah Halpern. This giant mythological creature, made with hand painted ceramic tiles on a steel and cement armature, now stands in colorful splendor beside the Yarra River in Melbourne.
Lorenza Haddad - is a college student from Mexico. A warm hearted, sweet young woman, Lorenza can often be found wandering through Blackwells, reminiscing about excellent salads she's had in the very recent past, and, unfortunately, sometimes careening headfirst into thick, dense briar patches. Her long, flowing locks have inspired much jealousy in the female population. In the future, Lorenza hopes to spend a great deal of time strolling around sunny warm beaches and reading books under gently waving palm trees. If this fails, she has her heart set on becoming an archaeologist. Cilla Henriette - was born in an Indonesian family with mixed religious and cultural backgrounds. Her innate curiosity of cultural richness and diversity has brought her to live in Singapore, The Netherlands and now India. She works for Innate Motion, a brand development agency that helps companies building more meaningful brands for people and society. She feels fortunate with the opportunity to meet people across ages and places around the globe through her job. She is intrigued with real human issues and inspired to voice these out through her writing. Cilla came to Oxford to expand her imagination and become a better writer.
Rebecca Brothers - Rebecca Brothers will be back in America by the time you read this. It's bittersweet. On the one hand, she wants to eat Mexican food and play the organ and never worry again about what is that at the bottom of her cup of tea. On the other hand, she's rather enjoyed teaching preschool and making origami shrimp and learning a language that's only David Jeffrey - My wife Annie and I moved from useful with 0.71% of the world's population. It Sydney, Australia to New York in 2000 when I was a great year, but like Titanic, a pan of was posted to work in the Office of Legal Affairs lasagna, and Reagan's presidency, it's over now at the United Nations. Our two children, Royce and let's move the heck on. Next up: a summer and Ellen, work in the DC area and we have in the exotic land of Walla Walla, Washington, extended family in the Oz and the UK. I sing in whose baseball team is named after a type of the bass section of the Choir of the First onion. Presbyterian Church in the City of New York in Greenwich Village. In Sydney, I hosted a live Trisha Bhattacharya - was born and raised in childrens television program during college and India; she currently lives in Kolkata. Her short law school, wrote and performed comedy stories, articles and poetry have appeared in sketches on public radio, and appeared in TV The Times of India, Fashion and Beyond, and in commercials and soaps. In New York I continue the 11th issue of 34th Parallel. to write short stories at present, am a keen cyclist, hiker and swimmer and take improv theatre classes. It has been a privilege and a joy to be Ruth Cupp - has been a Practicing attorney part of this wonderful Summer School. since 1954, columnist for SC Lawyers Weekly, writing third book, it is non-fiction and on the Jackie Lee King - decided to go off to the subject of unmarried teenage mothers. University of Oxford to see what they know about creative writing. Upon his return, he began to Wafik Doss - or (Fiko) Doss is 19 years old and dedicate many waking hours, and some not so lives on a farm in Cairo, Egypt. He is currently wakey, to fulfilling a dream of being a full time studying at the American University in Cairo and author of short stories, plays, and maybe a novel majoring in English and Comparative Literature. or two. A plan is in the works to receive the Wafik has inherited a love of literature and the Pulitzer Prize sometime in the near future, but in fine arts from his mothers side and his flair for the meantime he bounces around traveling and business from his fathers. He dreams of writing about this business we call music. From traveling to Tibet, South Africa, and The record labels, to concert venues, to the artists Americas, and hopes of becoming a worldthemselves, he has spent the past 20 years renowned writer. In his spare time, he fights off immersed in this ever-changing industry. As an monkeys in Bali, incidentally, and loves accomplished author of several interviews and swimming and traveling the world. Wafik has articles that span from Taylor Swift to The been writing poetry since the age of six and Genitorturers (Currently at 120) he continues to remembers his first ever poem, word for word, work to promote great musical acts in both however he is too embarrassed to include it in Country and Heavy Metal. Check out several of the anthology. his articles at http://www.a2une2u.blogspot.com.
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CONTENTS
2 3 5 Foreward to the Turl Times Jackie Lee King Reunion Carolina Amoroso Written by the Imagination, the NonBelievers and the Reluctant to Move On Dipti Anand Thirty Years On Janet Barr Coriander Light Trisha Bhattacharya The Politicians Wife Rebecca Brothers Our Night Lorenza Haddad 2015 Cilla Henriette Reunion David Jeffrey Reunions Jackie Lee King Reunion? Amy Lovat Turl Tales of the Sea Or: Pirate, this book. James Edwin McDonough Red.Circle.Three Sean McIntyre Reunion Stefanie Sabathy We Shed No Tears Calvin Sandiford Secondhand Smoke Agnieszka (Aggie) Stachura
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Turl Times Volume II Issue 4 October 1, 2011 ISSN#: Pending Editor & Publisher Jackie Lee King Assistant Editors Carolina Amoroso Dipti Anand Amy Lovat Images & Artwork Jackie Lee King Cover Photo Ashley McMillan Coat of Arms James McDonough Google Images See Back Page for Image sources
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BULLETIN BOARD
BACK PAGE:THE NEXT ISSUE
Photo from Dipti Anand
Turl Times
Forward to the Turl Times

Jackie Lee King: U.S.A. Michigan City, IN Reunion: Returning to a previous state of union or uniting what was, and now is, again. Although old Mr. Webster defines the term as more about classreunions that is, I like my definition better. But lets not confuse unification with nostalgia. A few years ago, I went to my high school twentyyear reunion, and as you would guess, a lot had changed. My graduating class contained 330 students, but over the years that number started to dwindle. Though I have no hard facts to substantiate this, the rough estimate is that most moved away, some are in prison, and a handful are now pushing up daisies. A few individuals did stick around to become the new pillars of the community, but at this reunion there were only 40 people in attendance. At the event, there was a lot of, who are you and what have you done to fill-in-the-name. The years had changed all of us; mostly cosmetic, but who we were on the inside still rang true. I found myself slipping into old patterns and behaviors. It was strange that I still felt intimidated by one of my classmates that had graduated in the top ten. We both went off to college, but they flunked out their first semester, and here I was with a Masters Degree, contemplating an application to a certain writing program overseas. In a way, it is comforting to have these feelingsthe past is familiar. The future is unwritten, but in order to get there, we must set out to do something. I look back on our time at Oxford with fond memories and yet, do not want to be caught up in nostalgia. This is why I am glad that we continue to write, in our own time, and send each other stories. With each issue, we reunion with ourselves, and are unified in our goal to just get the darn thing done. This issue was excruciatingly difficult for me because I wanted to loose myself in everyone elses submission. I finally found the courage to move on, and was inspired by the work. I hope this issue brings inspiration to you as well. It is easy to live in the past because it is perfectyou cant change it. Through our writing, we can filter the memories and define what we want out of life. This is the reunion that I wish for all of usto grow. I do want to meet up with all of you at some future date on the grass, but in the mean time, we have the Turl Times. Regardless of goal, we share this time, and if weeks and months go by without a physical reunion, then I am thankful for the words we share. This is not nostalgia; its re-connecting with who we are. A reunion.
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Turl Times October 1, 2011
Carolina Amoroso: Argentina Buenos Aires
writing for free is fulfilling but it doesnt exactly pay the bills) Id thank Trisha for always saying the sweetest things and giving the nicest feedback. To Lynn Id yell Dude, where the hell have you been?! then ask him to say svanzich. (And also have him teach me how to spell svanzich) Id demand a Little Miss Sunshine face from Amy, quickly followed by her Im gonna kill you slowly face. Steph I would ask to become my personal trainer and take me through that Appalachian trail she spoke of so much. (Ive still got some weight to lose damn you white chocolate chip and strawberry cookies!) Just hearing Sean say Hi there C with that awesome Aussie accent would be perfect. I would take Lorenza straight to Anuba to show everyone on the dance floor why Latinas are the best. Id ask James to resume those photography lessons. (Once youve mastered benches and staircases, whats next?) To Camilla Id give a strawberry (though she would probably smash it immediately with her sparkly silver running shoes) or a new dress, which I would have previously bought with Dipti, the best shopping buddy. Id tell Jackie thanks. (He would have probably organized the whole reunion) Id ask Omnya and Vanita to introduce me to the Elvises. (Yep, I cant get over the fact I missed out on that) Id confess to David J. that even though its been over a year, I remember his short piece about different types of shoes walking through NY Grand Central Station vividly, and that I do hope he has started turning it into a collection of short stories. Id introduce Stefanie S. to a groom, since she seems to be fond of taking to them when she crashes weddings. Id convince Danielle and Milou to live on campus this time so that they spend more time with us.
Reunion Reunion is a great choice of theme (kudos Jackie). And itd be even better if I actually had the money to go and reunite with you all, which in turn would have made writing the submission for this issue much easier. You may say that it will happen some day, or that through this newsletter me meet electronically. But lets face it it sucks that were not all together now, maybe reading this same material in the context of an open mic night. Its been more than an entire year and is there anyone who can honestly say something thats happened since was better, or at least on a par with the Oxford experience? Come on, I dare you! Ok, so I suffer from Oxford withdrawal and I get aggressive. Theres only one thing to do then: imagine I get to meet each of you again. Itd go something like this
Id show Cilla the crayons she gave me now worn- to prove that, at her encouragement, I have been colouring the world indeed. Or maybe just my bedroom wall. Still. Id get Fikos autograph, because I just know hes going to be famous and itll be worth a lot one day. (Yes,
Turl Times Vol. II Issue 4
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Id beg Aggie to bake me the cupcake she got an award for. (Or at least let me have the recipe so I can vainly attempt to cook it myself) Id give Kyoko a present: some incense. (And maybe a fire extinguisher, you know, just in case) Id ask Patrick to bring some more of those Belgian chocolates to celebrate our reunion. Id tell Sheela her Turl Times submission Stigmata was wonderful and even proved inspirational for a short piece of my own. (There was no plagiarism though, I swear!) Id tell Ruth how much I admire her stamina. Id wish Amanda a lifetime of horses. (And maybe happiness too, but mainly horses)
Janet, Anna, Ambrose, Rhonda, Calvin, Rebecca, To

David S, Josianne and Sheeba Id say I regret not having spent more time with them, and would make sure that changed this time around, and Id buy them all some Pimms, because no promise is ever taken seriously enough unless uttered with a dose of the Exonian beverage par excellence.
Photo from Steffi Sabathy

P. 4 Turl Times October 1, 2011
Dipti Anand India New Delhi
Janet Barr Australia Melbourne
Written by the Imagination, the NonBelievers and the Reluctant to Move On Good morning lonely voice in the long distance I havent seen you in 8 months by your own insistence, and I once took seeing your face for granted day after day Now Ive found new ways to miss you. So Good afternoon my friend in the deep blue sky Who disappeared in fire, without a good bye you left me after you promised to see me again, and last night I dreamed you real. So Good evening my love in the warm stress of embrace Ask who took you from me, if Hell replace me, and find you a new favorite tomorrow, who will eat up your absence with some faith. So Good night my special birthday kiss Lingering at the doorway for a moment like this, where in an instance you taught me bravery, and the wise words from the Art of War. So Good bye my heart of six feet tall, I wish we could have had it all, much more than only 5 years with you, I hope Ill survive this mad desire to keep you alive.
Thirty Years On It is thirty years since we finished school, according to the invitation. How the time flies. Several old friends have been busy working the phones. Are you going? Rob asks me. Sure am, I reply. I want to see who turns up. I want to see if I recognise anyone, says Rob. Thirty years is a long time. There were around one hundred and forty girls in our final year at school. Form twelve, it was known as then, although most of us had been in school for thirteen years when the prep grade that preceded grade one is counted in. Ours was a big school, in Melbourne terms. Like me, the majority had come into the seventh form from government primary schools for boys and girls to complete the six years of our secondary education. We were an excited gaggle of eleven-year-old girls, turning twelve as the year progressed. With three brothers at home, the rarefied air of an all girls school was serene in those early years. By the end of our time there, it was a different story as many tried - with mixed success - to breach its confines in pursuit of boys. Our female hormones surging, the opposite sex was as central to our conversation then as now. The night of our reunion was a revelation of marriages and divorces, children and careers, travels abroad and news of family and friends from long ago. It was a strange event.
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The shared experiences of those years together were, for the most part, all we had in common now. The gulf of thirty years apart was telling. Before and after the reunion, I turned the pages of photo albums from that time at school and felt a different world come back to life. The Bogong High Plains were alive with snakes that spring. Our task for the morning was to follow the watercourse of the Kiewa River to its source high up in the Victorian Alps. For the first time, I found the subject of Geography, like the snakes at our feet, come alive. With maps attached to clipboards, the compass arrows and contour lines made sense as we hiked up slopes covered in flowering heaths and native grasses beneath the rising sun in a clear blue sky. Nearing the summit, the headwaters emerged in sparkling rivulets from beneath soggy, mosscovered ground. It took the sudden appearance of a slithering snake to send us shrieking in all directions. To mounting alarm, the sighting of several more snakes in quick succession forced our nervous teachers to abort our mission to reach the summit before lunch. The ensuing descent of twenty teenage girls was swift and noisy as we leapt from rock to boulder, trying to avert wet shoes and venomous fangs. We hadnt noticed any of these sleek Copper Head or Tiger snakes on our ascent. Perhaps the morning sun had finally warmed the ground sufficiently to entice them from their holes, hungry and ready to mate after months in hibernation. They were not unlike us in that respect, although the snakes opportunities for procreation were far greater than ours out there. The teachers kept a close and practised eye on their adolescent charges when away on camp. Lunch was taken back in the summit trails car park on open ground. Surrounded by beautiful mountain peaks, bread rolls were hungrily devoured despite their dodgy preparation by my friend Susie and me. The camp caterer, who had settled on a quick and economical method to prepare lunch for the masses, had handed us a saucepan of melted butter and two paintbrushes. Finding the ration inadequate to our taste, in his absence we helped ourselves to a second block of butter from the refrigerator. We hurriedly applied the semi-melted slab to the day-old bread, spread across an ancient timber bench. The butter went on like lumps of cheese in some rolls, but no one complained. We were starving and the afternoon was packed with more hydrographical exercises before sundown and our evening meal back at the camp lodge. The afternoon was spent in a chill wind beside the river where the task was to measure the speed of water flow with the aid of ping-pong balls. The team on the bridge upstream shouted each time a ball hit the swirling torrent. The downstream team clocked the time it took each bobbing ball to reach their net with only one or two escaping capture
before their inevitable restraint by a dam wall further down. The task completed by mid afternoon, we boarded the bus and begged the driver to play the Beach Boys and Rolling Stones on the radio as we travelled down the narrow, winding road to the days final assignment. An ugly steel and concrete hydroelectric station dominated the beautiful mountain valley, perched across a ravine like something from outer space. Inside its sturdy walls we studied the workings of the enormous power generating machinery. By nightfall, the light emanating from the electric light bulbs in the lodges back at base camp were brighter, but not greater in number, than the glow of cigarettes of the naughty girls, gossiping in the bush outside. Smuggled to camp deep in our schoolbags, we held the contraband fetchingly between our fingers, pursed lips and inspired air flaring the tips with an orange glow. We had assured the teachers that we were just taking a stroll in the fresh mountain air before turning in for the night. Fresh air, indeed. It was freezing out there, as I recall, but we were determined. I dont doubt the teachers knew what we were up to; they only needed to look outside their windows to see the fairy lights of our illicit activity. More likely than not, they were indulging their own fondness for the habit in the warm comfort of their rooms. Thirty years later, as the wine flowed at our reunion, mid-life hot flushes set more faces aglow than the cigarette ends of the few remaining smokers, forced outside into the cold again. Thankfully, I had kicked the addiction long ago, my desire to conceive three wonderful children sufficient to break the costly bond with nicotine. Time spent beyond the classroom was more rewarding and memorable than the hours constrained in rows of desks before a wall of chalk and whiteboards. Geography and History in my senior years gave me the chance to board an aeroplane for the first time when I was sixteen years old. We flew to the island state of Tasmania in a Fokker Friendship, a small plane that seated about fifty people. The pilot and his co-pilot were on full view to the passengers until they drew the curtains - the only barrier to the cockpit in those days. I remember the thrill of the plane gathering speed down the runway, the tilt of the nose in the air and feeling my body pressed back into the seat as the plane left the ground. I still love that feeling of taking off, the beginning of a new adventure. Our school trip, to study the geography and early colonial history of Tasmania, included a site visit to the ruins of the grim penal settlement where desperate convicts were transported from Britain to what was then known as Van Diemans Land. In one week we crossed the beautiful island from Hobart in the east to the wild and sparsely inhabited
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west coast. The most dramatic vision of destructive human behaviour on this verdant island was the moonscape that surrounded the old mining town called Queenstown. Clear felling of timber and toxic fumes from gold and copper mines had killed off all vegetation on the hills for miles around. The mining had ceased by the time we visited the abandoned site in the 1970s, but the damage would take many decades more to repair the silent, eerie landscape. To break free from the classroom, books and diagrams were always a joy, perhaps with the exception of what seemed like annual visits to the planetarium in the city museum. These excursions bored all but the few who were irritated by our whispered gossip that competed with the droning commentary. Why we didnt camp out on the school oval some nights, to scan the starry sky for the Southern Cross, Orion and its stars that drew a saucepan in the sky, still puzzles me. The one subject and the superb teacher who could bring her subject to life within the confines of a classroom was Miss Luly, with a joyful passion for Art History. Twice a week we pushed the desks aside and set our chairs around the slide projector and screen. Miss Luly took us on magical carpet rides across continents and time. Her extensive travels filled her treasure trove of photos, artefacts and anecdotes from ancient to contemporary Egypt and North Africa, across Asia, the Middle East, Europe and the Americas. The forty-minute class was never long enough or often enough for our small group of devotees. The paintings and sculptures shown to us were brought to life by Miss Lulys vivid descriptions of the lives and times of the artists who had made them and her own excursions there. She worked to travel and loved her job. I think she had life worked out. Sadly, some of the brightest among us at school did not find such a happy place later on in life. Our reunion was missing not only a number who chose not to or who could not come, but also some who had died tragically young, by accident or illness, and to our shock, one who had taken her own life. The leap from hats, gloves and blazers, essential parts of our uniform on all but the hottest days in summer, to the myriad lives the reunion drew back together again, three decades later, was impossible to coalesce in one brief evening. Where boyfriends and music, clothes, parties, holidays and exams once dominated our conversations, now it was with awkward enquiries that we tried to find some common ground again. I had kept in touch with several close friends from school while drifting apart from others whose interests had diverged from mine. Trying to picture women, now middle-aged, as teenagers in short gym skirts with hockey sticks, tennis racquets and baseball bats was beyond imagination for most, though a few looked remarkably familiar. The yearbooks were out and photos of
our children compared to our younger selves. Quite a few had tried more than one marriage with mixed success. One among us had found that taking her first husband as her third proved the first divorce and second marriage a mistake best forgotten. Buoyant as ever, Sally looked remarkably happy and reminded us that impulsivity was in her DNA. I recalled her frequent summons from class to the deputy headmistresss office for censure, her misdemeanours always entertaining and heartily encouraged by the rest of us. She was a happy soul then, as now. Surprisingly, apart from old friends with whom Ive stayed in touch, the girls I most enjoyed catching up with tended to be ones Id not been close to at school. The most adventurous had great stories to tell and bubbled with life. Spread across the country, we swapped phone numbers and said wed call if ever in Queensland, Darwin or outback New South Wales, wherever they had established home, family and careers. Some who live overseas sent letters and photos and two, with the time and money to travel, came back to sing the old school song, sip the wine and reminisce. Cherry Brandy Advocat, Bacardy, Rum and Coke and Drops on the Rocks were the alcoholic blasts of the past that our older livers and taste buds had relinquished by necessity. As one year and the next go by, the contacts remain as names in the address book with no new experiences shared to rekindle friendships of long ago. I remain ambivalent about reunions. There seems something inherently unsatisfying about mingling with past friends and acquaintances for a few brief hours, never to see or speak to them for years afterwards, if ever. Worse still is meeting old friends who have suffered great trauma in their lives and feeling incapable of giving them meaningful time and support in the present circumstances of our distant lives. The deaths of children and permanent disability of others can never be consoled in one brief re-acquaintance. School was that intense period in our youth when we spent the longest time with the greatest number of people, never to be matched again. At our final school assembly, as I looked around the hundreds of girls dressed in identical uniforms, I remember feeling the enormity of the change that was upon us. Alike on the surface, we were destined to become increasingly different and distant as the years buffeted, shaped and polished us. The pearls seeded in those early years are the friends who prevail, thirty years on.
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Trisha Bhattacharya Kolkata India
oblivious to the gluey weather. Tara had no such shield, yet. No one would believe her true tale of spirits. In the modern world, where latest gizmos, celebrity, money, and fashion made headlines, conversations about the spirit world were pass, so far. Oh, but believe me, will you maa? Tara had told her mother, just once that one afternoon, when her mother had paused by her room, and peeped to see how her twenty-year-old daughter was doing. Are you alright Tara? I think you have been listening to a lot of music lately. Once the ear plugs leave your ears, the songs play out in your head and you think it is someone talking to you. Her mother had said, sternly. These apartments are very new. No one has lived here before us, so I dont really believe anything you say. Concentrate on your studies, Tara, and stop thinking about strange voices! Tara had stopped listening to any music for over a week now, but the voices had continued. Come Tara, play with us, please dont study, lets go and sit by the riverside. There were mainly two voices she could hear: one of a young child and the other of an older woman. The voices had never been menacing, simply playful. There was no way she could prove anything to her parents. The spirits were incorporeal and left no traces. Taras exams were approaching and she had to study. Finally, she decided to look up an old priestess and healer called Mashimaa, who lived on the outskirts of the city. Tara had found her address in a local daily paper. The bus dropped Tara near Goriapara, from where she walked down to Mashimaas two-storey house, which was an enormous grey structure, bordered in light pink. The house was old but felt strangely soothing. Tara looked beautiful in a light red cotton sari, which she had chosen especially for the visit. A young girl led Tara into mashimaas room. The walls of her room were light green, graced with bright yellow windows. A few strands of white hair tucked behind her ears, a white sari draped in Bengali style around her; an old lady was resting in an antique wooden armchair. She looked pleasant and very calm. Bosho, sit here, the lady said, studying Tara carefully from behind her thick-framed glasses. Tara was offered a creaky old chair. It did not mind her presence much, because it creaked whole-heartedly. I know why you have come, Mashimaa said, a smile lighting her face, transforming her features with childlike exuberance. Tara sat, squeamish at first, but after the lady smiled, she relaxed. Do they talk a lot? Mashimaa said. Tara nodded her head, nervously pleased that she had come to the right person. The chair stopped creaking and felt sturdier to Tara.
Coriander Light It had grown dark outside. The sky had turned a shade of dark inky-purple. This purple awning, like a ship plying its way across the Atlantic, hovered over Taras frantic steps back home. She needed solace to hide from the effervescent spirits that came to speak to her at night before she went to sleep almost every day. This had been going on for the past week. Tara had told no one. No one was going to believe her anyway. Strange voices frequented her on the eighth floor of her apartment, which was situated bang in the middle of the city of Kolkata, and not in some remote corner of the country. She heard voices, speaking politely to her, asking her to go sit by the riverside with them. Amid slithery traffic jams, Gulliver malls, and steaming cups of coffee in offices, baristas; sitting on stones, lined in front of tiny tea-kiosks, individuals discussed literature, daily news, poetry, music, politicians and politics. On other days, Tara would have observed all this but in the past week, she had forgotten everything. Afternoons were spent in college, and evenings in trepidation. As she walked back home from college, she managed a glance at a couple crossing the humid city streets -- engulfed in their love for each other, thoroughly
P. 8
Oh, please Mashimaa, help me. How do I get them to leave me alone? The old lady rose, walked to a wooden cabinet by the window sill, opened a drawer, and searched for something beneath a layer of stacked handkerchiefs. Her eyes lit up. She pulled it out: a piece of shiny green paper crumpled into a ball. Mashimaa lifted the corners of the paper and showed her the aromatic green herb powder resting inside. It was an unusual coriander essence. She gestured Tara to hold the packet in her hands, while she pulled out three cards from inside another drawer. Mashimaas eyes lit up again when she held the cards out to Tara. Read from each card, loudly, after you spread the powder, inside your house, in all the rooms and in all corners. The spirits that visit your house are good spirits, they wont harm you ever. But they must leave. They dont belong to our world. Taras eyes sparkled. Yes Mashimaa. Are you sure they will be gone? I cant study these days, dont enjoy anything at all. I hope they will leave me alone after today. Mashimaa nodded her head. They will leave. It is Gods will. There is a reason you have come all the way to my house. Ours is a bond from a previous birth; a reunion of a mother and a daughter, in this lifetime. Anyway, dont worry about that. I am sure you do not believe in rebirths. But whatever happens, you must not panic when you read from the cards. The herb behaves differently with different people. Sometimes it whirls around on the floor to rid the house of spirits. Sometimes it changes into green droplets and comes down in a drizzle. And sometimes it changes into diaphanous green bubbles, hitting the walls softly in spirited play to heal, or to ward off unloving voices. Tara felt a simultaneously warm and cool sensation soothe her. Mashimaa gave her a motherly glance. The herb transforms into something new with everyone each time. Only six people have used it so far; you are the seventh one. Therefore, I do not know what is in store for you. Tara felt uneasy now, but the light in Mashimaas eyes was reassuring. You must not panic, be strong, it will listen to you, but if you fear, it wont be able to do its job, and then you will have to try something else. Mashimaa quietly walked backed to her armchair. However, I only have three such packets left. My mother made them when she was ninety years old. As a young girl, she had learnt various orphic ways of setting spirits free, healing souls, through mystic words written by real sages. And she continued helping people till her last breath.
Tara nodded in awe. Mashimaa resumed. The three cards I have given you preserve those words. Read the words out properly, dont misspell them. The herb wont work without the cards. Taras heartbeat quickened as she glanced at the cards in her hand. The first one had a soft yellow background, and written on it with black ink were words in Bangla, which meant: Dispel fear because God is with you. Dispel unloving voices, because God is with you. Awaken in glory and set this child free, bring freedom, wisdom, and strength to this childs spirit, for eternity. Tara looked at the other two cards. One was bleached turquoise, and the third one was crimson. But they just turned blank! Tara said, watching the words suddenly vanish. What will I do with blank cards? Mashimaa chuckled. Oh, the words will reappear once you sprinkle the powder. Tara could only stare at her eyes, which she suddenly noticed were unusually grey. She thanked her and left. Dusk had fallen; the taxi cleared its way through the narrow streets of Kolkata, and brought Tara back to her house. The lights were out. Her parents were not at home. They had gone out to attend a dinner party, at a friends house nearby. Tara was all alone. It was a perfect time to carry out the healers task. She swiftly sprinkled the powder around the corners of her room and the entire house. The walls of her house were dark orange, and the floors were light cream. She could see the herb clearly now. It was an exact hue of coriander green. After climbing on top of her cot in her room, Tara took the cards out. The words immediately reappeared. She read out each word, clearly. She wanted freedom from the disturbing voices in her room forever, and she meant the spirits no harm. She prayed as she finished reading out from the first card. Nothing happened for the first few minutes, and then, the turquoise and crimson card shifted in her hand, and on them appeared sentences. Taras read them out with equanimity. Give this heart freedom from worrying voices, give this heart shelter that it deserves and fill the pure hearts life with abundance. After reading out the turquoise card, she read from the crimson card, which said: Selfless and sure, please grant a pure heart a fuller life now. Help it heal; give it strength to remove all the unloving voices from its life, forever.
P. 9
Tara looked at the corners of her room, to see if the particles had responded to her. A minute went by and there were no bubbles or drizzle. She trembled. How could it not work? She had done everything Mashimaa had told her! Tara accused herself inwardly and fell to her feet on the cot, and cried. Tears soaked her cheeks and the sheets beneath her face. However, two seconds later, she felt a movement in the room, but it was no voice this time. Instead, the herb particles rose gradually into the air, and gaining volume and mass, turned into pumpkin-sized coriander green orbs. As if yearning to rid her room of the strange voices, something popped, musically, one after the other. Through a film of tears, Tara could see fine beams of light emerging from the orbs. Like tiny baby birds breaking through eggshells, a light from within broke through the coriander walls of the spheres, illuminating her room and probably her entire house in its light. The voices reappeared this time, and instead of being playful, seemed mournful to Tara. But why are you sending us away? Tara was no longer fearful. She bid the voices farewell. Please go to a safe place, where there are other spirits to play with you! She did not think about the strange voices any longer. Coriander-colored light had soaked her house in mystic glory. She knew she would never hear the strange voices again. She would be able to study and be normal, like before. The light from the orbs now fell on her cheeks, her body, and she immediately felt lighter, like some heavy burden had been lifted. She stared at the wonder before her. The spheres, hanging mid-air, looked like enormous globules that had immersed her house in the incandescent glow of beryl light. After about ten minutes, the coriander spheres merged into powder again and fell on the floor in a rain of aromatic coriander herb. Tara ran to the living room. There, too, the floor was covered in green perfumed soot. The voices were no longer with her. They were gone, for life. Tara knew this was no illusion. She had proof; a tiny coriander orb, in one corner of the living room, glowed in coruscant grandeur. She picked it up. It was almost like soft rubber to touch. She expected the light from the orb to dwindle. But it did not. Tara smiled. She cleaned the floors before her parents returned and hid the glowing orb in her almirah. Tara carried it to Mashimaa the next day, who laughed like a child when she saw the tiny glowing sphere. Looks like Coriander Light has taken a liking to you, she said. Keep her and the cards. Maybe she too has a connection with you and me from a past life.
Her? Do you mean the orb is a woman? And were you really my mother from a past life? Tara said, bemused. And why do I need to keep the cards Mashimaa? Mashima smiled. Yes, that is how we shall address her now. Yes, I was your mother. And you dont have to believe it if you do not want to. Just remember that Coriander light will be very lucky for you, Tara. The cards and she belong together. Keep them together. My mother did tell me that anything that remains after the herbs have done their work is rare and is a blessing. Its light shall protect you, always. Tara gasped. The orb in her hands felt smooth. How do you know that, Mashimaa? A serene smile curved Mashimaas wrinkled mouth. I just know, my child. I have lived a long, peaceful, and an adventurous life. Maybe I have more wealth than you can imagine. Maybe I am just a simple miracle worker. Whatever I am, I was meant to help you. And maybe we were meant to reunite -- you, me and coriander light. Tara touched Mashimaas feet with respect and nodded. The sphere glowed intensely, enveloping them in its coriander light.
Photo from Rebecca Brothers
P. 10
Rebecca Brothers U.S.A. Oregon
Pleased to meet you, Mr. Morrison, I said, keeping my voice light and pleasant, as Mother had always insisted. Please, Miss Wellson, call me Andrew. I think Ive seen you around campus. I just graduated from Rainier with my law degree. Please, Im Melanie. And yes, I go to Rainier. Im senior biochem pre-med. Lovely, he said, still holding my hand. But you havent been at any of the functions this year, I think? I dont remember seeing you at the Black and White Ball in February. No, Ive been in Switzerland for the past five months. Skiing?
The Politicians Wife Its Monday. October the nineteenth, I think. Breakfast? I had a bagel and juice. Fifty-six. Forty-two. Eighty-one. Thats Johnny Depp. Thats Marilyn Monroe. Goodness me, thats Andrew Morrison. Did I ever tell you about Andrew, Christina? You know him? Is he really? Yes I think I heard about that once, long ago. It doesnt surprise me. I met him when I was twenty-one, and I knew right away hed do something like that. He was that kind of a man. No, we were students together. At Rainier University. You can look it up. Its near Seattle. I was a newscaster for a local TV station, KRAN, channel twelve. Just a small job, but I did like it, and it paid the bills. I wouldnt let my parents pay controlling bumblers, only interesting in Society. Thats how we met in the first place, actually. Miss Wellson, he said, shaking my hand, and I knew at once I would marry him. He was in a dark blue pinstriped suit and had a firm handshake and eyes like melted chocolate. He was clean shaven, of course, and tall, and had a long, thin nose. You must be Miss Emilys sister. He indicated my younger sister in her enormous white dress, surrounded by the other debutantes for a photo. Im Andrew Morrison.
I wish, I said dryly, before pulling myself together again. Studying, actually. I had an internship at a research facility in Basel. Fascinating, he said, together. What sort of research? knitting his eyebrows
As any of my friends could tell you, that was all the invitation I needed for a three-hour discourse on cancer research and my work with T-cell reprogramming. By now they knew enough to cut me off before I got into my stride and started describing each trial subject in hairsplitting detail. But they werent around to do it. And Andrew seemed more than happy to listen, so I talked. He asked surprisingly probing questions about procedures and ethics and ten-year plans, and before I knew it, it was past midnight and the party was over. Melanie, were heading home now, said Emily, coming over with her bolero on. Her roses were pinioned under her elbow, and she looked a bit cross. Oh, goodness me, I said, looking at the time. I never even realized --- Emmy, wheres your escort? Ethan? Did he leave already? She shrugged and looked away. No idea.
P. 11
Oh, Im sorry, said Andrew, standing up too. I meant to ask you to dance, and now its too late. Was she talking about cancer again? Emily said sourly. She does that a lot. She does have a certain passion for it, he said, looking at me. But thats necessarily not a bad thing. He was there again for the opening of the new womens shelter at the end of June, and for the Fourth of July barbecue at the Bradfields, and when Bubbles was set free from the aquarium in August, Andrew was the one who lifted the cages gate and led the applause as the sea otter splashed into the water and swam away without looking back. He must be glad to be out, I said to him quietly, after being in there so long. Oh, I dont know, he said, squinting at the ripples. Maybe it seemed cozy to him. Animals can adapt to quite a lot. Maybe, I said. But I bet that now hes out, he knows the difference between bars and freedom. Andrew laughed and put his arm around my waist. Youre quite the philosopher, my dear. Just observant, I said, slightly annoyed. Is there a difference? Whats next on the schedule? I asked. He laughed again and kissed my forehead. A camera flashed. Changing the subject, Miss Wellson? You always do that when you know Im right. And you always laugh at me when you know Im
What do you mean? This wont take much longer. Tomorrow? What time? All right, but you promised, Christina. Ill be here. Im certainly not going anywhere. By Christmas Eve, wed been dating for six months, and he wanted to take it to the next level. He said so on one knee, down beside our morning room Christmas tree, the one decorated all in cream and gold. Hed stationed me on the window seat, and in his eyes I could see tiny points of light from the icicle lights on the gutters outside. Jeeves, Emmys black Persian, had strolled into the room during Andrews speech and started batting fiercely at the lowest ornaments on the tree. I could see my mothers shadow outside the French doors that led to the kitchen. Melanie, Andrew whispered. I snapped my attention back to him and the enormous Tiffany diamond he held. What? I whispered hoarsely, shoving Jeeves out of the way. Will you? I glanced again at my mothers shadow, then back to him. I thought about debutante balls and sea otters, throwing the first pitch and getting the good seats and having people point at you on the street. I thought of flashes going off in my face and seeing my picture in the newspaper and the eternal smiling and waving. It wouldnt go away, I knew that. If anything, it would get worse. Andrew was interning at the state legislature by then, and he fully intended to be a congressman by age thirty, or preferably before. He had it in him to go all the way. He knew that. We all knew that. Yes, I whispered. I cleared my throat and tried again. Yes, Ill marry you. My mother squeaked and hurried away. Andrew leaned forward to put the ring on my finger, and I waited for the tides of joy to rise in me. But there wasnt time, I suppose. It was all a whirl that night, telling all the relatives and being hugged and kissed until I wanted nothing more than to lock myself in my room for a week.
right.
Touch. To answer your question, were finished here, I think, unless any of these reporters have more questions. Are you free for lunch? Im not, I said, smiling at him in spite of myself. I have a date with a certain young councilman. Well, hell just have to wait, Andrew said, giving me a hand off the dock, because Im claiming your time first.
P. 12
Youll marry in June, of course, said Lina firmly. At the Squireton Heights, with four hundred guests and an open bar. Mother, said Andrew, perhaps --- No, Andrew. Its your duty to society. Oh, that old word. I hated it now like never before. Well, June 6 is out, said my mother, scrolling through her iPad. Were all heading to the East Coast that weekend. Pauls graduating from Harvard Law. My cousin, I explained. Lina ignored me. June 13, she went on. No, that wont work, thats the anniversary of my fathers death. Perhaps a black ribbon around the brides bouquet ? my mother suggested tentatively. She looked at Linas face and backed away quickly. Or June 20, more time to prepare, thats always better. It cant be too late in the season, Lina said, alarmed. Weve got to start campaigning in earnest on August 1 at the latest. I glanced at Andrew, who looked unhappy. He didnt want to run for the state legislature this early, I knew; he would have rather waited until he had more experience. But there was an opening, and Lina had decided that he would run, so he was running. It cant be after July 10, if we want Rose to be there, my mother said. Scotts taking up his duties in Rabat that week, and they want some time to settle in. So that leaves June 20, June 27, or July 4. I suppose we could always cut the honeymoon short and start the campaign early, Lina mused. We? I had to jump in. Well, we can strike out July 4, I said. Oh, I dont know, said Lina. It would be a memorable day. Regardless of the date, I knew it would be memorable, if this planning session was any indicator.
What about June 27? I said, striving for a brisk, professional tone. Lina pursed her lips and studied her planner. Its not ideal, she said at last. Id have to reschedule a massage. Not necessarily, I said cheerfully. You could have it done the morning of the wedding, and then youd be fresh and relaxed for the ceremony. And out of my hair for a few blessed hours. June 27 it is, said my mother, relieved. Ill start looking at stationery for the invitations, Melly, and get them narrowed down for you. Not necessary, said Lina, waving a hand and still perusing her schedule. The wedding planner will take care of it. My mother wilted. I stared at Lina. The wedding planner? Jacque Lombard, she said. And I had to plead very heavily for him to do your wedding. It was really only my connections that secured him in the end. A red and white theme, I think, and Jacque quite agrees with me. Elegant and timeless. The wedding of the century. I squeezed the napkin in my lap once more and released my breath. That sounds lovely, I said, trying to smile. Andrew relaxed as well. Perhaps this was for the best. If I didnt have to plan the wedding, Id have more time to concentrate my last semester of classes. The first Saturday of the new year, I was thigh-deep in biochem notes when the doorbell rang. Concentrating on a chart and idly picking at my lip, I distantly heard Mom answer it and talk with whoever the guest was. Then someone was running up the stairs and knocking on my door. Ooh, Melly, said Mom excitedly, bursting in, Linas here! And were going dress shopping! I looked at her. Mom, Im studying.
P. 13
But Melanie! Dress shopping! For your dress! At Peregrine St. Elliss, said Lina, materializing in the doorway and eyeing my room. Hmm what a fascinating aesthetic. I like it, I said icily, standing up and dropping my empty Dr. Pepper can into the recycling bin. It suits my needs. Mmm, yes, she said, surveying the sweatpants thrown over the bookcase and the stacks of textbooks I hadnt sold yet. You know, I have the sweetest little Puerto Rican housekeeper that I would be --- Dress shopping, you said? I cut in. That sounds wonderful. Lets go. I marched down the stairs with my mother, looking half like a small child at Disneyland and half like a small child in the principals office, right behind me. Melly, she whispered nervously, under Linas angry refusals to substitute white jonquils for white lilacs, you know how influential Lina is. Please dont antagonize her. I sighed. Mother, I thought this was my wedding. Of course, dear, she whispered, but --- well --shes paying for most of it, you know, and with these strikes going on, we really cant afford --- I turned to face her and suddenly recalled how much Father had been gone recently. The mill workers are still striking? I asked. More than ever, she said. And the dockhands as well, and the truck drivers --- and if the stock market keeps diving the way it has been --- and with your Uncle Lewis taking such awful risks --- well, just keep a stiff upper lip, Melly, thats all Im asking. Yes, all right, I said. Ill try. We reached Linas sleek black SUV and got in. Lina reached forward and handed a white paper cup back to me. Green tea, she cooed at me, swiping on more lipstick and starting the car with a single motion. To help your complexion; youre looking a bit old under the eyes.
I took a grudging sip and nearly choked. None of that fattening milk or sugar, of course, she said, merging effortlessly onto the main road. We wouldnt want our sweet little bride blowing up like a balloon, now, would we? I gritted my teeth and took another sip. Twenty minutes later, we were pulling into the parking lot of the sort of dress shop you see represented in the wedding magazines --- the kind of wedding dress ads with pouty models in dramatic poses and too much makeup. Lina hustled me into the store, waving away the greeter who hurried forward, looking scandalized by my jeans and flipflops. Shes with me, Gavin, she said impatiently, and he retreated in confusion. Now, lets see, youre what, an eight? Dear me. You really should meet my trainer, shes the sweetest little Swedish girl --- oh, see, here are the Monique Lhuilliers, her new collection is to die for --- How can I help you, ladies? said a salesgirl, shimmering into view. Yes, weve got an eight here, see what you can do, Lina said, waving me forward. Charming, she said half an hour later, sipping champagne as I stood dubiously in front of a three-way mirror. Absolutely charming. Dont you agree, Cara? You really are beautiful, my mother sniffed, reaching for another tissue. I eyed myself and silently wondered if the shop put something in the champagne. This dress had a neckline down to my navel, a ten-foot train appliqud with Swarovski crystal roses, and several hundred long, thin strips of fabric that were attached at the waist and fluttered loosely over the ruched hoop skirt. What do you think, Rene? Lina asked the salesgirl, who was apparently paid to give unsolicited opinions on everything from veil length to bust size. Magnifique, without a doubt, she oozed. Would Mademoiselle care to have this one reserved? Mademoiselle would not, I said peevishly. Mademoiselle is not paying ten grand to look like a cuttlefish in mating season. Oh, spectacular. nonsense, gushed Mom. You look
P. 14
If you mean that in the sense of making a spectacle of myself, then I couldnt agree more, I declared, booking it to the dressing room with as much grace as a low-budget oil tanker on her maiden voyage. Shes been rather pressured lately, I could hear Mom saying to Lina. Finals and papers and so forth, you understand. Mmm, said Lina. Shes not generally this irritable. Shes usually quite
But its such a bourgeois place, Melanie, Mom pleaded. I really dont think you understand No, I think I do, I said coolly. I dont see the point of breaking the bank on this. I dont want a huge wedding or a stylish wedding or even a wedding where everyone goes home amazed. I just want a pretty wedding and a friendly reception where all the family and friends can come together and have a good time celebrating with me and Andrew. I appreciate your vision, said Lina. Its admirable, really. But, Melanie, you have to realize something. Andrew is not the average groom. He has lofty ambitions, and he has the skills and personality to realize them. You really owe it to him to give him the kind of wedding he needs one where everyone can see him as a promising young politician. I was silent. There was a flaw somewhere in her argument, I knew, but I was too tired and frustrated to pinpoint it right then. I fiddled with the strap on my handbag and looked away. Why couldnt my kind of style be in vogue? Why did I have to wear an ugly, overpriced dress to be appreciated as a bride, as a daughter, as a future daughter-in-law? What happened to a girls wedding day being the best day of her life? Why did it have to be
stable.
Mmm. Im sure she didnt mean to be rude. Im sure, Lina soothed. Yep, definitely something in the champagne. Melanie, do you need any help? Nearly ready, I called, waving away Rene and reaching for my jeans. Listen I hesitated, wondering if there was a graceful way to phrase it. There wasnt, I decided, so I jumped right in. Id like to stop by Davids Bridal on the way home. Someone gasped. I heard the smash of a crystal flute hitting the floor. Davids Bridal, dear? Mom called carefully. You dont really want to go there, do you? Sure, I said, stepping out of the dressing room. Mother was staring nervously at Lina. Rene looked as though someone had just slapped her in the face with a cold salmon. Lina had gone very pale and was looking at me as though I had just announced my intent to ditch her son and marry an Alaskan seal trapper. They have good-quality dresses and elegant designs, and they dont cost an arm and a leg.
Photo from Cilla Henriette

Turl Times Vol. II Issue 4 P. 15
transformed into a nightmare presided over by a future mother-in-law who put Society before anything else? Shes right, you know, said Sasha, my lab partner and maid of honor, later that day. This really is a big deal for the Morrisons. I sighed, flopped onto my stomach, and starting picking at my blue cotton bedspread. I know. But its my day too, right? Shouldnt I get some say in things? I havent decided one thing --- not one! Not even the colors or the location! I barely had a say in the date! Sasha was silent. Shed known the Morrisons even longer than I had, since shed been Andrews sisters roommate in high school. You think shes right, dont you? I accused. You think I should just back down and let her take control. It was her turn to sigh. I wouldnt tell you that, Melanie. But you have to realize that this isnt just a wedding for Andrew --- its an Event, like opening a new rec center or shaking hands with veterans. Or letting a sea otter go free, I muttered. What? Nothing. This is his chance to make a splash --- --- I grinned at that --- --- and hes not going to shrug it off. And as the youngest candidate in this years election, frankly, he really needs this boost. You really understand him, dont you? She was quiet. I remember when my mom was elected mayor of Spokane. I was eight and my sister was ten. We had to show up in our best dresses and smile and wave and look happy, no matter how we were feeling. It was like being royalty, in a way. And now its my turn, huh? Yep. Have fun. Do you miss it? She mulled. Sometimes. Its a heady sensation, you know, feeling like youre influencing peoples moods and
opinions. Feeling like what you do matters, one way or another. I held my tongue and went along with Lina. Once we were past the cuttlefish dress, I had to admit that she did have a great sense of style, she certainly knew how to get things done. I watched the wedding take shape around me and tried to think of it as just another Event, like an auction or a benefit concert. That helped, but as the shop assistants fluttered around me, taking the dress in here and rearranging it there, I couldnt help but feel a little bitter. Every wedding magazine Id skimmed said that June 27 was supposed to be my day. It was turning out to be anything but. Two months before the wedding, an envelope was delivered to my apartment. I turned it around in my hands, wondering how it could hold good news. It was from Berkeley, where Id applied to medical school the year before. Of course I couldnt go, even if they said yes. And theyd probably say no. I hadnt established a very good study schedule in the first semester of my junior year it had showed in my transcript. Hey, sweetie, said Andrew, coming in the front door and kissing me on the back of my neck. How was your day? I couldnt answer. My mouth was dry. You okay? he said softly. Then he stiffened. I guessed hed seen the envelope. Medical school? he said. He stepped back. Melanie, how could you do this to me? I stayed still. I could hear him pacing behind me. I thought wed agreed youd be my number-one supporter, he stormed. And now you go and pull a trick like this? I whirled around, my temper lost. Dont make it sound like I planned this behind your back! Youve known since the day we met that I wanted to be a doctor. Certainly, before I came along, he blustered. But a politician cant marry a doctor, Melanie. It just doesnt work. He could marry a teacher, or --- or a secretary or an accountant or somebody else with a part-time job. But a doctor? Especially with the amount of time it would take you to get through school and residency --- and I cant move, Melanie, I cant! My campaign starts here!
P. 16
You havent even asked if Ive been accepted yet, I said coldly. Or if Im still thinking of going. Its so nice to see that Im your first priority. Fine, he said, running his hand through his hair. Open it, then. I stared at him, still raging inside. It felt as though my stomach were filled with lava, roiling and seething. He turned and stared out the window, his back stiff. I slid one finger under the envelopes flap and pulled out the letter. Dear Ms. Wellson, it began, we are pleased to welcome you to the class of 2017. Enclosed please find I stuffed the letter back into the envelope, my hands shaking. I couldnt go. I knew that. I had to stay at Andrews side. That was my proper place. And replaced the me strength, exactly how dock. yet there was a flame within me. It had volcano. It was burning steadily, calmly, giving pushing me on. And in that moment, I knew Bubbles had felt that day as he lept from the
You need a professional wife, someone who will take on your career as her own and thats not me. It never was. I said yes to Berkeley, specialized in oncology, went on to be the administrator for one of the top cancer centers in the state of Washington. I lived in an apartment near the Seattle Center with my two rescue cats, Canola and Mr. Kibbles. I joined Doctors Without Borders and traveled to Honduras and Thailand on missions. I was somebody, you know. Look in the newspapers. Look in the DWB newsletters and the press releases. I did good work. I loved to shop at flea markets and antique stores. I bought what I liked, and in my eyes, it all matched. I was happy. Rose and Scott died in the Moroccan Revolution. Did you know that? They were the ones who nearly started the war. Emily married Ethan and divorced him two years later. Then she married Jon, then Eric, then Isaac. Last I heard, she moved to Israel and was living in a kibbutz. Think of it --- little Emmy, the deb, hoeing cucumbers and washing other peoples dishes. But I guess people can change. Maybe shes happy there. I havent heard from her in years. I think she has children. Andrew? Yes, I saw him again. It was when he was still a senator. About ten years into my career, I was invited to spend a few days in Olympia and speak at a special session at the state legislation. They were presenting new health care legislation and wanted to hear from the experts. I made my presentation at the session, tried to answer all questions with a minimum of medical jargon, and sat down with a sigh of relief. We had all been invited to a dinner afterwards a form of no-pressure interaction after the competition and grilling at the special session, I suppose. It was a formal affair, so I rented a dress, fastened my French twist with crystal pins, and commandeered a cab to the hotel where the dinner would be held. We were all announced as we came in an action that brought my deb days back to me in a hysterical whirl and I took up residence by an ice sculpture, waiting for the festivities to begin. The list seemed to be never-ending, and the press was still resolutely snapping pictures, and the ballroom kept getting more and
Andrew, I said, feeling strangely calm, they accepted me. He said nothing. I saw his shoulders tense and his knuckles whiten as he clutched the windowsill. Im going, I went on. Its one of the best schools there is, and its its my path. Youve chosen yours. Im choosing mine. What about us? he rapped out. Its your choice, I told him. If you want to wait for me you can. But you should know that it will be a while. He laughed humorlessly. I need a wife now, Melanie. Chills went down my spine. You need a wife, I said slowly, like any politician needs a wife. You need someone to stand at your side and smile and wave. You need someone who knows what hats to wear and what to say to sticky interview questions. I went over to him and placed the Tiffany ring on the windowsill in front of him.
P. 17
more full, and then the last name on the list caught my attention. Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming Senator Andrew Morrison of the United States Senate, and his lovely wife Sasha. I watched them work the crowds for a while, answering questions, making jokes, philosophizing about this nation or that natural disaster. Sasha was poised, elegant, witty, charming, and every other clichd quality for one of her class. It was painfully lovely to watch them in their perfection. Some part of me whispered that that could have been me, in the silk dress and diamond earrings. I reached up to touch my pearls and closed my eyes. They would go home to a mansion and servants; I, to my two cats and Friends reruns. It wasnt fair. Id worked hard and sacrificed and followed my dreams, and this was my reward? To watch my ex-fianc and ex-maid of honor work the crowds together? Dr. Wellson? I opened my eyes. It was Andrew and Sasha, looking appropriately delighted. Dr. Wellson was a classmate of mine from Rainier University, Andrew told the ever-present cloud of reporters and cameramen. Our families were old friends. Oh, how my tongue itched. I forced a smile. Did you know then how far Senator Morrison would go in his career, Dr. Wellson? a reporter asked. I suspected, I said lightly. Even then, he was charismatic and hardworking. I met his eyes. He believed strongly in his own abilities and knew his goals better than the back of his hand. Andrew smiled --- a real smile, I could almost believe --- and said some sort of goodbye, shaking my hand. Sasha kissed my cheek, and they both moved on. I felt a sudden urge to run for the door and take a taxi back to my apartment as fast as I could go, preferably to curl up with my cats and a bucket of popcorn and all twelve seasons of Friends. But I stayed. I know how to be strong. You know that. Im here, arent I? I stayed. I networked. I talked with everyone I could find, and by the end of the evening, I had more interested
donors than I thought our new pediatric wing would need. One of them, a millionaire from Queen Annes Hill, asked me to dance five times, and we only stopped when the band quit playing, and four months later we were married. He lost most of his money in the Depression and after the accident, I couldnt work either. He died just three years ago, did you know that? From a broken heart. His favorite granddaughter, Tina, got pregnant and ran away, and he collapsed when he heard the news. Angry? No. I never met the granddaughter. I dont know that I ever loved my husband --- not really. Thats why I kept my own name, Wellson, instead of taking his, Mercer. And he knew that, and he worked with it. When you love too much, too early, I think sometimes you can kind of get burned out and youll just take what you can get. Did I love Andrew? Well, what a question. I suppose I had to, didnt I, to say yes in the first place. He was charming, Ill give him that. A real gentleman. Whats that? Yes, of course I know your name. Youre Christina. I dont remember much these days, but I do remember you. Its on your nametag, isnt it, and youre in here every morning with my pills. Youre always quick with a smile. I like that. Whats that? Christina Mercer? Well, my goodness. Thats what happens when they open the gate for the otter.
P. 18
Lorenza Haddad: Mexico Cuernavaca currently living in Houston, TX
Act like a lady and theyll treat you like one, Ladies arent supposed to get drunk, Ladies arent supposed. Ladies in her book are perfect pictures from the 50s, submissive, uneducated and with a stick up their ass. I blow a kiss to Tray as I get into the car shoving Nadia to the other window. My little black dress slides up my thighs but I leave it. Its just too much damn trouble being a lady. Carter looks at me, then at Nadia and offers us a smoke. I shake my head, but Nadias long tanned armed reaches for it and she takes a long drag. Her perfect plump lips painted a dark, marooney red. She bats her curled black eyelashes at me begging with her perfect green eyes for me to try. You know I cant, I say my eyes stinging from the smoke. The smell is too distinct. The car shrinks and my hands are sweating. I remember that last time. You started squealing like a pig about to be slaughtered and then when you took a drag you coughed so bad I almost peed my pants! Carter says laughing. I feel my cheeks burning and my throat tightening. I clench my fists, trembling from the effort of not crying, or maybe its from not hitting Carter. Nadia slaps him with her perfect manicured hands, but Carter just keeps snickering. Yeah, what the hell happened? Tray asks. His big brown eyes concerned as he looks at me through the rear view mirror. Nothing. I lower my gaze. Nadias long arms reach out to squeeze Trays muscled shoulders. I want to bat her hand away, to tell her her man is the unattractive jerk, but I just stare at my legs, big and muscled from volleyball practice. Where we going? I look at Tray seeing as he takes a drag, too. The beach, he answers pointing at the receding waves. The sea is almost lost in the darkness, you can only see the stars and street pole lights reflected on the waves crest. We brought heels, Nadia and I protest at the same time. Dont bitch, just take them the fuck off and drink, Carter snaps.
Our Night This is going to be the night, I think as I put on my red lipstick. I jump trying to get one red pump on while at the same time walking to the door. Dude, hurry, Nadia shouts honking Trays car. Shit. I look around for my purse. Where did I leave it? I wobble to the kitchen, one foot pump-less and take my black cross body leather bag from the counter. It is covered in green play-dough. Im going to kill her! Peeep peeeep. I jump, startled, and hit the counter as I fall. My legs are sprawled before me, my other red pump still in my hand. Peeep, Peeep. Fuck, Im coming. I shout. I sit rubbing my shin and trying to get my other shoe on. I finally walk out the kitchen door. It always creaks which makes it hard to sneak in, or out. You fucking scared me. I yell at Nadia as I walk towards Trays black Jeep. Tray smiles from his window as he scans me. Damn girl! You can never go wrong with that dress, he says licking his lips. My mom says I should find this offensive, but shes just old and stupid. I can still hear her squeaky voice
P. 19
What is wrong with him? Since he started dating Nadia he had transformed into this possessive, sex-obsessed stereotypical jerk. Carter eyes Nadia approving her red lace dress with cutouts on the sides exposing her perfect waist and round pushed-up boobs. Nadia just gives him an icy look. You wont get any, she warns. Dude you better shut it! Tray says laughing. He sounds almost like Goofy making me laugh every time. He steers the car into the sand, a patch so dark I can hardly see past the headlights. He pumps up the music as he gets off the car taking with him a bottle of some unpronounceable Vodka. Carter reaches and pulls a bottle from the floor and gets off. Nadia and I take some cups, push off our heels and jump into the sand. I cant believe we took this long getting ready and they cant even see! I say to Nadia confident the music will not let Carter or Tray hear. Nadia just shrugs and looks at Carter who is already sitting down on the sand with a Rum bottle in his hands and lips. Nadia runs into his lap, the sand she pushes up glimmering in the cars lights. I feel mesmerized by the sight of Tray behind the glimmering flecks. His tanned body shirtless. Afraid of the dark sea? he says with a challenging smile. Thank God for waterproof makeup I think and nod, running and racing with him to the sea. Already there I am blinded by the sudden darkness, by the sound of free waves and faint music and by the thought of Tray, out here alone with me and shirtless. Strong hands touch my back and push me into the waves. Hey! I accuse as I splash him. I jump unto his back, a hard task as I am half his height, and try to pin him down but he just laughs at my effort. Youre like a fly. His Goofy-like laugh sounds above the ocean and music. He turns around and, somehow, I face him straddling his abs and back. A cute fly, he adds looking into my eyes. I am floating, looking into his eyes not able to blink or look away. I feel this is it, finally my moment, finally my kiss, but instead of lips I find water. Salt and sand water enters my mouth as I fight off Tray, the coldness of it engulfing me whole. I close my eyes as he lets go. Sand, brittle and wet, recedes as I sink my feet into it pushing myself to stand. What the Fuck! I yell at Tray. My stomach and eyes are burning and my mouth dry. I stare him down but he just laughs in return. I got you good, he can barely say through his laughs. I feel my mouth tug into a smile as I look at him. All
my anger is gone as I try to, playfully, drown him. He grabbed my leg and pulled me close to him, I could feel heat coming through every part he touched. I ached for him, for more, as he pulled me up unto his arms and held me waiting for the perfect wave. I fight, my arms and legs kicking but he discards me like a fly unto the coming wave. Those seconds I flew I could feel the coming wind, chill on my arms and then bam! Water rises all around me as I feel my body go down, all my senses open except my eyes. I can perceive clearly even with my eyes close. I can make the moving waves through their current and sound, I know where Tray is through the lack of one. I come out laughing, barely able to breathe, but laughing nonetheless. After our fight is done, me winning not even a small battle, we turn our attention back to the beach. Nadia and Carter are nowhere to be seen. I feel more confident with her gone and I take Trays arm and shove him to the sand. I fell on top of him, my momentum too strong to cut off and I could feel his strong arm beneath me. He turns to face me, moving me with his body so that I lay directly on top of him. He doesnt look surprised; maybe he thought that I would eventually beat him. I am thinking all the terrible clichs, his eyes sparkle, his smile lights my world, and I feel butterflies. How could all of these be true? I was frozen, held in place like a prey hypnotized by a snake. His smile widens, as I look deep into his eyes. I feel stupid still on top of him. Maybe he is wondering why the hell wont I get off. I start backing off, my arms barely responding, my body not listening to my mind. I put each arm on his sides but strong hands grab hold of them. Dont, he says. A simple word, not a command, more like hes pleading. I nod feeling stupid, about what, wanting to stand or wanting to stay? He eyes me, unconvinced, maybe even unsure. I have never seen Tray like this, he is always confident. He isnt the eternal bad boy, but he does what he pleases. I always thought he wasnt interested for that reason, he never seemed to want to make a move. Whats wrong? I ask panicking. Maybe I misunderstood, maybe he really isnt interested. He puts his finger to my lips and pulls my head closer to his. His lips touch mine, a perfect match as they move in unison. Finally, our first kiss.
P. 20
Cilla Henriette Indonesia currently living in Amsterdam
Actually yeahapart from writing for work, last year I finally started working on my book. Great. Whats it about? You know. I think I have mentioned about this a couple of times. About women around the world that I have met, those who touched me deeply for who they are or what they have done. Sounds great! Am I in there? Hahaha, sure. Im still working on your character though shell come on the later part. So, whats the news with you? I have just finished university, and now Im moving back to Mexico. I will try to get a job and work there for a while. Do you remember my boyfriend? Sure I do. Yeah, well try to live together and see what happens. [Soft Break]Thats wonderful! Am I hearing a wedding bell?
2015 It was a sunny, warm day with the English summer breeze blowing on my face. A beautiful, almost idyllic surrounding from 15th century captivated my presence. The breeze sometimes felt a bit cold, considering the bright sunshine, but I discreetly blamed the English weather. I was sitting in a beautiful garden, enjoying the weather and very eager to meet the people Ive been waiting for. The scent of summer made me relaxed. I was indulging my senses and memories when a heard a voice, so warm and familiar that Ive been waiting to hear. Have you been writing? I gave her the biggest smile, put away my computer, and almost climbed to hug this tall beautiful girl before me. Oh my God, look at you! You looked like a woman! Haha, I take that as a compliment. Sure! I nod, smile and give her another hug. So, have you been writing?
Well, actually he proposed! Oh my God, congratulations! Thanks. I was very happy but I thought that I want to see how it is to live with him before we both commit, you know Very wise I wink and hug her when we heard steps approaching. A very cheerful and crispy voice surprised both of us and we constantly did the hugging and kissing. Whats the news with you Missy? Things have been great! I have finished my postgraduate study you know. Yeah, we talked last month on Skype. Exactly! So yeah, cant complain. Life is good. As always with you right? Hahaha. But I have news. A long pause, we looked at each other, showing the say it already faces.
P. 21
Im getting married next year! Oh my God! Congratulations!
Yeah, so Im still representing them and Im kind of in a great place at the moment because of that. Wow! Great news, congrats!
Thanks, you guys. Are you coming? Sure, how can I say no to this? Where will it be? Itll be in Delhiwe will have a week of party, functions, prayers, whatnot. A whole week? I can imagine, Ive been to North Indian weddings Sure. But lets go vegan and not talk about skinny puppies but the grass, potatoes and strawberries. Our laughter and happiness filled up the garden. It was a beautiful, happy day with so much positive energy I hadnt felt in a long time. Steps approaching, another adorable view came to near us - a familiar face with long curly blond hair and a beautiful woman walking next to him. Oh my God! Some of us ran to him, firing questions, hugs and kisses. I waited for about a minute before I got up and walked to him. Congratulations, big writer! Oh come on, Im not a big writer. You will be. I think your book is a new definition of childrens book. I love the part that you left empty for their own imagination. Thanks. So will you introduce this beautiful lady? Im sorry, this is Elle, my girl friend. We all looked at the lady and introduced ourselves. She smiled and looked at everyone a bit embarrassed. Im sure it was not easy to come into a group of people who seem so familiar with each other. There was an awkward pause. Focus guys! Shall we move to the hall and see if there are other people there? We laughed again from the familiar remark that has brought us together many times many years ago. Focus guys always worked like a charm. We walked slowly and the chattering continued. Memories of the grass, strawberries, and potatoes came back and new jokes were being made. Oh my God! I just got an idea. Everyone stopped, looking at my face trying to examine if there was truth in it. Oh no, dont tell me you want us to go and find the potato & strawberry bunkers!
before.
Yeah, itll be tiring but Im excited. Im sure you are! And well be there. Look at my girls! How have you been? A deep, friendly voice that was very familiar broke our excitement about the North Indian wedding conversation. A face from the past with a very different figure, but he was real. Oh my God! Is that Buddha Belly? Yes, thats me. You have lost the Buddha Belly, how could you do
that?
Hahaha, thats not fair Lady, Ive been working very hard. You look great my dear, so dont worry about her comment, shes just messing with you. Dont do that again, losing Buddha Belly means losing my sense of humour, so Im not funny anymore. Who said you were ever funny? Hows the entertainment business doing? Really good. You guys have heard about all the attention and fame of the Skinny Puppy Reborn right? Oh yeahthey are famous in Europe.
P. 22
No, no thats not it. You guys know that Im always very bad with titles right? I smiled from the imagination of us potato & strawberry bunker hunting. OKyou lost my interest! I know what to title my book now, well if I ever get
years ago, with the biggest smile and the most cheerful voice, yelling our names and running to our direction. With all the excitement we embraced her, constant questions of how are you was the main topic of exchange for about 2 minutes. She came back and embraced me again. Where were you?
there.
Yes you will, what is it? Potato, strawberries & the grass. I know it has nothing to do with the topics but will be many editions of this. Random stuff Im interested in writing and sharing, inspired by our 2010s summer. Im buying all your books! Haha thanks. But seriously, I think its a great idea. We were sitting on the stairs in front of the hall when we saw bunch of faces we know. One very tall lady with long blond hair and still looked exactly the same like 5 Its a house outside of the college and some of us used to stay there, happily, not. Ahh Well show you that later. Thanks! She nodded and smiled. This lady I was at the outhouse. We all giggled from that statement, it brought back 2010 even more to our presence. What is the outhouse? Elle asked a question
finally.
Photo from Carolina Amoroso

Turl Times Vol. II Issue 4 P. 23
seemed very shy now, next to our loudness and excitedselves. However, she suddenly looked familiar but I was not sure from where or when. So where were you before? Kings Arms. Oh yeah, lets go there. Sure, but they are coming soon though. Who? Any guess? How many of them? Four. I think I know. Who? Names were being mentioned. Names I wanted to meet so badly and I was making a guess in my head, when I felt a pat on my left shoulder. We are about to land Madam, you need to put your seat upright and open the window. What?! I looked at the lady on my distant left as if she was a ghost. Shes Elle! But wearing a flight attendant costume with a perfect hairdo and make up. Is this like a game? She looked back at me smiling, Are you OK Madam? Of course Im not! But I nodded instead and did what she asked me to. I closed my eyes, trying my best to bring back what just happened to my imagination. It was disturbed again by the announcement made by the captain on the landing update. I gave up. I took a deep breath and looked at the turbulent weather outside my window. I need to see those faces, in real.
David Jeffrey: Australia - Sydney currently living in Sleepy Hollow, NY
Reunion In a taxi to reunite With high school friends long out of sight. I'd had my doubts, declined the calls. In twenty years I'd dodged them all. But curiosity grows strong. Who's made what? Who's proved them wrong? Who's worked wonders? Who's been knighted? Who has strayed and been indicted? Gunna had phoned, my arm to twist. Just like the time he broke my wrist. "This year I'm on the Old Boys Board!" I hope our funds are well insured. He'd earned his name from endless boasts: Gunna make millions, live on the coast." "Gunna sail off with my first big win." But Gunna's ship had never come in. Frog's our speaker" - we'd been good friends. This news had swayed me to attend. Pythons coming from Timbuktu!" That snake who scratched my Moody Blues.
P. 24
"And Midge" (quite tall) "and Grunge" (yes, small). "And Beast" (who's name just says it all). "Gunna be huge!" said he with glee, Hoping I'd wiped my memory. Ah Midge, who called me Little Blister. And Grunge, who terrorised my sister. "Your lecture notes?" Beast would implore, But once secured l was ignored. So on I ride with feelings mixed, My palms are damp, my smile is fixed. But grim school days must start to fade. No longer need my nerves be frayed. "Journey's end" I hear announced. But from the cab see Gunna pounce Upon some wretch and make him moan. "Wrong night" I sigh. "Drop me back home."
Jackie Lee King: U.S.A. Michigan City, IN
**********
Reunions All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Locations are real and some historical facts have been included. This is a work in progress. London weather, supplemented with latter day gentrification, makes it more palatable for the flush crowd at this hoteltourist and local. You can still smell the tea and spices in the air, a brochure assures, mixed in a rack of museum and restaurant advertisements near the automatic revolving door. The River Thames trembles in the evening wind and Im coming on to my shift just eight hours from the previous. I need the money, and I have not slept as much of late, so this night is going to be a welcome release. It is ironic that the Tower of London, which I expected to be much taller in person, resides just across the banks of the river from this posh hotel. A bridge that is decorated in confectionary delight provides the contrast. It has all of the majesty that one would expect on a European expedition it is named for the tourist trap and not for the city in which it resides. A superfluous reminder that just a few waves away are some of the most undesirable accommodations, like Alcatraz, for tourists to experience, completely removed from any suffering. I like the history here, even though its sanitized. One can look down a street for hundreds of years. It makes
P. 25
me feel like I am a part of the landscape, without having to go out and do something. I begin to run my nightly reports and settle into the routine that has given me comfort over the past few years, after my grad school adventure up the coast. Its a shame youre working as a clerk with an Oxford degree, my night manager states as he leaves with an eighteen-year-old high school student from San Francisco, to show her the sights of the English. Most of the guests have retired for the evening, though some drift down the stairs in clouds of freshly scented evening attire. Im out for the night, Stewart says. I have to work aloneagain. Naturally. Dont worry, Ive got something for you, he says, offering me a manila folder. I am not doing your job. Not askingjust givin. Im a giver, but tonight I think I need a night out before I have to play caretaker again. Finally got those tickets for that Harry Potter actors show in the West End tourist didnt pick them up; heard it was a skin show. Now me, Id like to see him naked on stagelovely. Hopefully, I wont return this eve. Mates and I are gonna meet him at the stage door afterward, maybe a pint or two and Bobs your uncle. I never understood that expression. Starting a new job on Monday, he continues. Youre gonna have to learn how to do thisthat ison the short term. Well, it is not my job. Oh, come on, wheres your sense of spirit? She was right about you, you knowa bit bitter, maybe youve been over-brewed. Who? Lady in the Tower Suite. Pretty one, that is. Not my spice you know, but still worth a shag. I am about to give the folder back when he bounces toward the revolving door and strides for the taxi stand. A stocky porter comes inhis name escapes me - and brings me a package. Brilliant. Now I have to leave the desk and deliver something. This one goes up to the Tower, govner. I am not a governor. You know my name. Yes, Mister Jim. Just figuring that a little civility wouldnt urtbeing Mister Stewarts last night and ol.
Well, he still has duties to perform. relieve me in the morning.
He has to
Dont expect thatll happen like the way you want govner. Jim. RightMister Jim. Anyway, eres a package. Says take it up upon arrival. Wouldnt want to keep the lady waitin now would ya? No, we would not. And drop that insipid accent. I know you are from the Bronx. Takes one to know one, govner. All part of the experience: know-what-I-mean. Sides, youre a fellow New Amsterdamian right. It is called New York City; they changed the name years ago. All the same to me govner, he winks and places the package addressed to Theresia Bathbau, our resident recluse, on the counter. Fine. With that, he tips his cap and returns to the taxi stand, using the glass door marked emergency exit and ushering in some of the night air into the lobby. Great, the alarm must be off. I guess the brochure was right; a scent of Earl Grey drifts into the room with subtle hints of seawater and chips. Funny, there is no chip shop around here. In fact, most of them have gone to the wayside in favor of the new official English cuisineIndian. I grab the package, step into the elevator, and amuse myself with the adverts on display. They have one of those flat screens, just above the buttons, that highlight the many places to visit while you are here. Tallies International Linens, American Beths Confectionary Delights, Starbucks, and a new placeBathbaus Tea. This is why she is here. Great, like we need another teashop in London. Why would she want to do that? We serve high tea, for an additional fee, for those too lazy to dip a bag in hot water. Thats not popper Tea, Stewart had said in the past. Americans lack the civility that it takes to brew a good cup. Have to have a kettle and pot, service and sandwiches, biscuits and biscotti, cups and saucers, sugar and sweetener, milk and honey, and some Jammie Dodgers. A self-proclaimed expert, but then again, he proclaims a lot of things, and usually at the most inappropriate time. Glad to be rid of him. The elevator door opens and I step out onto the landing. Albta greets me; as she is finishing up polishing the floors. Dobr veer, Jim.
P. 26
Door Brief A Chair, Elizabeth. Is she here? I have not seen her leave the room Jim, but her foyer is clean. I put some fresh flowers in the vase and left her some female products. I do not need to know that. Dont be afraid of her vagina, Jim, she bleeds just like the rest of us. I never knew that Albta could be so blunt, she was always quiet around the hotel. Since the Berlin Wall fell, and the iron curtain parted, a plethora of former Czech Republic refugees have been settling into the service industry jobs, here in England. After my adventure at Oxford, nothing opened up for me, so I took a job at this hotel to still be in the place that I love, and to be around the ones who constantly leave. Maybe I will find a new place to go. I am not afraid of her Vagina! Good! Then I go. In twenty minutes I want to have sex. Im off then. I did not need to know that either. Sex is good. You should have sex with Theresia. It might loosen you up. She tells me these things, seems keen about you, but I cant account for her taste. I like her a lot. Dont do anything that would make her leave us. She is the girlfriend that I want here, we all like her here. I shrug and wish her, The Bro Knots, Elizabeth. Dobrou noc! Jim. And Jim, dont speak Czechits a dead language and you say it horribly. Besides, Im half Dutch. I left the room open for you so you can deliver your package. Im clocking out now. I walk into the suite and shiver at the temperature. I can almost see my breath as I pass the threshold. It really is a nice place, bigger than the house where I rent a room just up the street. The room is decorated in glass and marble, all in Greek white tones, with floral paintings flung about like some sort of royal garden. A collection flowers flourish by the Romanesque fireplace and several statures inhabit the room holding bowls of fruit at strategic angles that convey some sort of festival. I know that I would never be able to afford such a palace, which is why I do not like coming up here. It is like being invited to a party and then upon your arrival you are given an apron and a list of duties to perform while others dance around in the frivolity of the affair. It is hard seeing glimpses of the world and then returning to your sub par life.
The floor to ceiling windows let in the blue light from Tower Bridge, giving the room an ethereal glow. There is enough illumination that I do not need to turn on the lights to make my way around. It reminds me of that scene from To Catch a Thief, when Cary Grant and Grace Kelly are talking in her suite during the fireworks display. I see a stack of boxes carefully ordered over by the scarlet settee. I walk over and place my contribution to the collection, all the while looking at the bedroom door. She is sleeping, I guess, so I tiptoe out of the room. I decide to take the freight elevator so as to avoid the advertisements that continually remind me that I cannot afford anything around here. I get to the lobby level and Albta meets me at the elevator; only this time, she is dressed in a French Maid bondage uniform. What, she says, like a statement and not a question. Nothing. And I mean it. Just coming back from giving your desk a little attentionleft a little present for you, she says producing a duster that I am sure is not used for cleaning. What is up with everyone this evening? I do not even know if I want to go to my desk, but the reports are still running and it is about time that I settle some accounts for the evening before I do the final audit. No one would miss me if I were gone. We have enough staff around here so that employees can come and go as they please. I am sure that my absence from the desk is not even noticed. The Underground stops running right about now and the cabs become few and far between in advance of midnight which is upon arrival. Hey sport, a mischievous voice greets me as I approach the front desk. Miss Bathbau, good evening. What are you doing behind my desk? Well, I figure I can invade your space since you invaded mine. We do not have that kind of relationship Miss Bathbau. James, call me Theresia. Okay, Theresia, and my name is Jim, not James. Well, as long as you are on a break, wanna go out and pinch a fag, she giggles, pulling out a pack of Lucky Strikes.
P. 27
There is no smoking in here. Though I can use one right about now. I do like her candor. She is the only one that is consistent around here; I wonder when she will leave? She looks ready to go. Her Taylor Swift blonde locks cascade around her dainty shoulders as she sits up at attention. She is dressed in a nightclub outfit that can give a man the wrong impression. But then again, maybe that is what she is going for. I doubt that she cares what people think. Me, I care too much. I do not want to mislead someone, so I try to be clear in what I say, and avoid catch phrases and local slang. I wonder how our porteroh, what is his name, lost his New York accent? I am sure he is in the Witness Relocation Program. His current accent is enough to cause anyone alarm. I wonder if the batteries in the smoke detectors are fresh? Well, if I have to leave, so do you, you look like you could use one of these. Theyre Toasted, she says pulling out a cigarette. I have to work. My great-great-grandfather said that work is for suckers who dont know what to do with themselves. Gotta light. Ah, never mind, Ill use these hotel matchesoh, woodso retro. I do have things to do. And apparently, judging by your demeanor, you do as well. Please do not set off the smoke alarms, I say, hoping this will get her to stop from lighting up. Fiddle faddle, waitisnt that an American popcorn treat, though I like Garrets myself she says while blowing smoke up into the alarm. Yes, both made in Chicago. Where YOU were made, I suspect. No, I was born in the New York. Love the pizza therethin and crispy. Big slices, you know. Well theres no law against smoking there, like there is in Chicago. Yes, but it is here. Well I guess well have to do something about that, and with that she leaped over the counter and headed to the revolving door. Oh, and dont worry, I know where your keys are. I turn and see that the light change in her movement is making her outfit a little transparentshowing off luxurious amounts of skin. Great, I am getting the wrong
idea. It has been too long since I have entertained the company of a woman, and after all, she is a guest and I need to see to her needs. That just sounded bad. Why I am thinking this way. Damit Albta, I am not afraid of Theresias vagina. She turns and waves her hand at me like she is requesting a taxi. I look at the desk and do not see my keys. Theresia gives me a wink and the slight jiggle of her walk speaks to my-other-brain and I find that I am following her outside. There is a smoking area just across the entrance of the hotel with benches, shrubbery and a dolphin sculpture, that looks like it is springing out of the water fountain below. The lights from the bridge illuminate the petrified mammal statue. The base is a wishing well containing currency from all over the world and is protected by CCTV cameras so that no one makes an unauthorized withdrawal. Across the river, the Butlers Wharf red neon sign burns an image into the night sky. Decades ago, the abandoned warehouse was a commune for artists and their galleries before wealthy commuters decided that they wanted to live closer to the city. The quaint English cottage fantasy outlived the times and was traded in for expansive loft living. Ships still come and dock here but it is a far cry from the activity back in 1873 when these ports were coming into play. Now the tea smell comes from digital kettles wafting from the lofts instead of expansive barges moving their product from India to Amsterdam. For a moment she looks like a ghost, shimmering in the fog rolling up from the Thames. I am not sure if it is her exhale or the mist from the harbor that is making the image so magical. She skips down the path and looks back over her shoulder with an expression of, you commin? I pass the night porter and he says that he would watch the desk for me so that Theresia and I could become more acquainted. What is his name? Cancer isnt going to take me. These arent responsible. Then what is? Not sure, she says flipping ash on my collar and then shaking up her soft pack of cigarettes. My way of freeing up a fag, sowhats bothering you? Nothing. My point. You dont know what bothers you? Never really thought about it, but her outfit is all that I can think about. Well maybe you should.
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Why. Why not. Hey, lets get outta here, I wanna show you something. I really can not be Giovannis got it covered. Who? You know, the porternames Giovannibet you didnt know that Tex. My name is yeah yeah gopeople to do. And my keys? Oh, dont worry about them, youll get them back when were done talking. So I have to talk them out of you? Yeah, but first, we gotta go, now. She runs down the docks, beckoning me to follow her, to a little grotto of shops that are starting to develop around the area. The new Indian restaurant just opened across from the four-story pub that entertained tourists who want the genuine pint drinking experience. We pass a few places and stop in front of a new shop that is going to open on Monday. It looks like a teashopher teashop. She is taking me out so that I can tell her potential customers all about this quaint little place. I feel like I am being cheated. I do not need to be out here to sell a few bags of tea. There are other things that I want to do. I just cannot, for the life of me, remember what they are. I need to be back at the hotelwhere I am needed. You know, my great-great-grandfather used to import tea here, well thats not really the case, he wasnt really my great-great-grandfather. So. What. You see, he adopted my biological great grandfatherdid it after the accident. Mind if we walk a little further while we talk, she said as we turned down St. Katharine Docks. Sure. What else do I have to do to get those keys from her? yeahcommon, places to
Well, it was sort of an apology or maybe a business deal. At the time, the British Empire had banned the sale of Dutch Tea here in London. So if you were a tea baron from Amsterdam, you had a hard time getting your product to market. So, how is your great grandfather involved? Oh, turn here. Well, my great grandfather was an orphan at the timethink he was about 16 and it would be a few years till the port here would be open for business, so my great-great-grandfather adopted him. And why would he do that? Oh, to trade tea in this harbor. You had to be a resident of London to do that. part? I get the business part, but where is the apology Were here. We stop before a bronze plaque, mounted on the side of store, that reads, In memorial of those lives lost, circa 1872. Wait, I remember this from one of the brochures. Back in the early 1870s a collection of English businessmen helped finance the development of the neighborhood Shad Thames, it would later be known as the Docklandsthe largest tea warehouse in the world. In the process of building the docks, several workers were killed. Appropriations were made available for the families of the victims, but most refused the compensation citing that they did not want the businessmens blood money. It took almost two years to complete the project and upon its completion, many foreign companies had to find English representatives so that they could legally sell their products in London. Guess the English wanted a cut of the deal. My biological great grandfather, Nicolaas Beract was adopted by Alexander Beracht, my great-great-grandfather. Is this why we are here? Not really, its sort of a catalyst of bringing us where I we need to go. So why are we here? Now thats the ten-thousand dollar question, isnt it? To help outyou knowbeen out every night this week helping people, its your turn sweetie. And how do you plan on doing that? What else have you done this week?
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I go out and pick up little men. You know, out with their matesgive them a small thrill of picking up a pretty lady that is obviously above their ticket. I give them my mark. The approval of one woman so that other women will find them intriguing. I get them to talk about their dreams and what theyre passionate about. Women like passion in a man, gives them something to tap into. I like to ripen them so theyll be picked. I see whats broken in them and fix it. You know, getting us isnt all those things we say we like. Sure, some things like money, and a sense of humor is nice. We can take a man on different levels, but what really makes us happy is someone that can renew us. Get us back to where we didnt have so many things on our mind. Now say, for example, a clerk at a hotel is lost on his journey, I like to see him get back to what he wants to do. Hes wound up in doing his job that hes forgetting that hes an Oxford graduate. Something catapulted him to that place, but hes scared and shoves his head back into the sand. Yeah, its a different sand box, but you get the idea. My job is to filter thought that dirt and find that sparkly piece of something that flashes him forward. Were always missing something. So I am a project. Is that what you did with Steward? and Albta. Told her the cold war was over, and that she should get in touch with her steamy side. So, you have been telling them what to do. yours? Just pushin em toward their passion, so whats I do not remember. Okay, lets try it this way. How come you dont use contractions? What does my grammar have to do with anything? Hey, we all get a little sidetrackeddetours, you know. I just want to help people get back on the right track thats all. lives. But youre meddling in peoples And
Contractions! And thats not the point. Just made mine. I do not need this right now. I am sure that I am missed at the desk. No your not, its covered. I need to be where Im needed. Not necessarily. Where do you need to be? I dont know, but I feel like Im missing out on something. So, whats the problem? I feel like I am separated from my body. What, like living two lives? No. That there are things that my body wants and that there are other things that I want. Didnt think that you were schizophrenic. Not schizophrenia. Im diametrically opposed to how I live my life. Intriguing, she said, taking a drag from her cigarette. I feel trapped, kind of like being the black sheep in the family, only I am my own family. There is no compromise in what I want to do. My body does not agree with what I want to do.
They dont see it that way. anyways, youre starting to change. No Im not! Just used a contradiction.
Photo from Carolina Amoroso

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And what do you want to do? I want to be a part of something, anything. To be wanted and cared for, but I feel like I just dont have the will to do it. Thats just crazy. I just dont feel like the body I have is what can get me there. Okay, Ive heard enough of this crap. Youre just insecure. No. Yes. You dont think that you can do it. All you need is a little confidence. Look, I love you. Thank you. No I really mean itI love you. Do you know what it means when a woman says that she loves you? Yes, but Im sure youre going to tell me anyway. A woman wants a suggestion to see how her life will turn out, according to her planmost guys that confused by bossing her around and whatnot. She needs to know the outcome before anything happens. It calms her mind so that she can relaxand even thenhave the ability to turn her mind off and just go with what she knows is going to happen. There are no happy accidents; just things that make her feel specialthat her choices are effortless. That is what a woman means when she says that she wants to feel special. She wants you to show your work, even if you dont get the right answer, which you will rarely get. You get points for effort because she is putting so much into her self that she wants you to see the value in all of it. Even if she has a great body, she wants you to like it for the right reasonsmaybe she has good breeding or has augmented Mother Nature. When you ask her to shake her ass, she wants to know what all went into that process. See me how I see me and notice things Ive never known and make them holy, she will make them sacred. Got it, good, because I have somewhere I need to be. She blew smoke in my face and then disappeared into the fog. She yelled back, keys are on the counter. The day's heaviness mixed with the mist that hung low on the dock. I walk back to the hotel, draped in fog, trying to figure out her point in all of this. I turn the corner and see that Scotland Yard is descending upon the taxi stand. There are a few ambulances blocking the taxi stand, but I see no Giovanni. Hey, I remember his name. I guess the smoke alarms must have gone off.
Eveningah yessplendid evening, got to see a man naked on stageFull frontal. Though it was a story about a man and his horse, too weird for my taste. Didnt think you were coming back tonight Stewart. Na, thought Id pack it in early this evening, he say with a naughty look in his eye. Yeah, can you hook me up with a room so I can crash a couple of hours mate. I really need it. Make ya proper tea in the morning. Everyone has needs. Yeah, but mine are more than most. tea? Fine, sureand where are you going to get proper
Theresia! Yeah, I can hook you up with some samplesbeen getting them all week. Got a lot of our inventory stashed up in her room. You put one up there yourself this evening. Anyway, thats my big news, I start as her manager on Monday, so she told me to take the night off and give something to myself. Brilliant one she is. Hey, you get a chance to talk with her yet? And, whats with all the bobbies? Yeah, I mean Yes, Yes I did. She kinda did most of the talking, and a few other things, but why are the police here? Oh, yeah, right. Someone died. What? I dunnooverheard one of the coppers say that Giovanni found someone dead in their room. Been dead a while, just never knew it. Well anyway, so can you hook me up? Yes, I guess. I wonder who died. Yeah, me too luv, but you know, Im kinda not worried about it, ya know. Feel like meself again, and that cant be a bad thing ya know.
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Amy Lovat: Australia Newcastle
Are we supposed to let it all go? Switch off the life support? Was it all just a prolonged, serendipitous moment? All of us, together, enclosed in a bubble of wondrous fun by four ancient walls and a chapel. A mixed playlist of personalities and backgrounds and ambitions. In all of us, a beauty and a burning desire to push the pen. I write about you a lot, you know. I think you should know that Ive dreamed of you, too. We became fast friends (and more?) because we had to. We wouldnt have survived. We laughed and cried and visited places we werent supposed to go; we stood on the grass. All in the name of exhilaration and adventure. Then you wrote that poem and everything bad in the world slipped away; we had something to hold on to, to read on those lonely nights, and it meant something. It was all over, far too soon. Would it have been different, staying a fourth week in those ancient rooms with their creaky floors? The way you looked at me when you lit that cigarette, downed that glass of Pimms, read my story, waved to me from the window, took my photo, said goodbye in the common room, borrowed my fork, followed me to the bus stop. Ill never forget it. I needed no one but you. We were one; an entity. A living, breathing, mass of people who loved and laughed together for three weeks. You represent a time in my life when everything was crazy and beautiful. I left Oxford knowing what I wanted. I just didnt know how to get there. One year on, am I closer? Will you be proud of me? Will we find what makes us happy, grasp it in both palms and always be friends? Its been a year. Do you still think about me? I think about you, all the time. I see us, in my dreams, sitting together on the grass.
Reunion? This is incomplete, because we were incomplete. There wasnt enough time. This could be about anyone. The way we people fold in and out of each others lives. Open the story at a random page and connect the dots to find us; you and me, all thirty-six faces. In August last year, I disembarked the plane in Australia, shriveled and alone, yet filled with elation. I missed you. Your warmth, laughter and support. You brought me to life. I wasnt ready for reality for my real life to continue, exactly where Id left it. For months, I floated through in a daze, depressed and content. Clutching the memories of those three weeks like a life support machine. Who are you? I realized, during those vague meanderings down memory lane, that I dont even know you. Not really. Not truly. We didnt sleep and we talked, a lot. About what? That scar on my chin: you dont know how it came to be. Nor do I know the colour of your hair, down there. We learned the parts of each other that were available on the surface, for purchase. And yet we could go deeper, and share things, because we were the same. You and I. We see the world in similar ways.
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James Edwin McDonough: U.S.A. Charlottesville, VA
He walked the paths alone most of the time, admiring the landscape. Occasionally he found Miss Becket in a grove or in a sitting stall that rocked to and fro in the wind. She wore a long pink dress that flowed down midcalf. Underneath, stout leather boots of beige and black hide. Her sturdy legs supported her supple frame and she held her head in an impressive manner that seemed to laugh at what she perceived as brackishness in the tenderness of things. But these were dreams. No longer reality. Suh had to admit it to himself. Now he was castaway, or aboard some rogue ship, headed most likely towards an island in the Bahamas where he will surely be put into stocks and enslaved, or executed, but not until after being raped to and fro across the tables of many a disgruntled retired slave trader. * * *
Turl Tales of the Sea Or: Pirate, this book. * * *
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real or non-real persons is purely coincidental. Purely. * * *
Captain Suh woke up. Listening to the wind and the sea. It was dark. Where am I? He tried to move his legs. A barrage of spasms and pain shot up from his knees. He gasped. No. Legs broken. Arms working though. If only I had a violin. Captain Suh tried shouting. No answer came but the unappealing creaking hull and sway of the sea. His cracked and whispered voice was almost unbearable to him and he put his head back against the wooden slats and tried to remember. How did I get here? Eleanor. Yes. That was what he remembered. Back home, where apple orchards and roses grew for miles to no end throughout the late Summer and early Autumn.
Above, in the sunny decks of the stern, Captain Ballam surveyed the state of his crew. Unacceptable, he thought morosely and perhaps a bit cruelly. He carried a soft kind of cruelty, the type that makes one wonder how far it goes due to the presence of unabated softness. It startles everyone at first and then reminds them that yes, he can get worse, much worse. In fact, no one dared to test this hypothesis after the last crew were apparently jimmy-rigged together into rafts for the Captain and his chosen few. This fortuitous event occurred in the last encounter with redcoat merchants who were disguising a ruse planned by the Royal Navy. A deal gone bad, as it was Captain Ballam held a strong course and never showed any sign of the ruse having bothered him. Just a setback for the time being. What else is there to do? he thought. He found his First Mate, the estimable Sandy Byrnes, in a state of disrepair and he shrugged her worries off in the same manner that he had towards the cannonballs that whizzed past their heads barking at them as if they were nothing but a nuisance of flies. Pesky merchants! he spat. His First Mate was not convinced but held on to the mast in any case. After the dissolution of many a man who jumped ship, the Captain sought each one and violently strangled, shot, drowned, disemboweled, and slit the throats of every deserter and, using the innards of twenty men to tie together bits of ship that were left floating, he then sailed back to his lonely cove where another ship waited. This was Captain Ballam's genius. He was as ruthless as he was innovative and a keen survivalist. He was
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a devoted reader of Darwins work. * * *
world over and still there would be not enough to travel across stern and hull to stem the words pouring from his mouth every day. * * *
In a coast far away, Captain Amoroso gathered together a new crew for her next adventure based on a tip from her First Mate Sir King. Sir King was neither a Sir, nor a King, but depending on his reputation as a sort of ballast for his behaviour, one was inclined to call him both. He acted as though the world stood on its toes when he spoke, and in some cases this was true. He was brash as a bull shark and commanded ones attention. Sir King was not a dim man, though his parents and relatives found him to be a generally dopey, unaware, and clumsy child. From his youth, they gave up on the idea of fostering him as a diplomat. This played in his favour. Sir King had always longed for the sea. The games he played with himself were misunderstood by his parents. What they mistook for imbalance and babbling were his attempts to copy the magistrates descriptions of pirates which were read aloud to his father by a slim, rather featureless man. The little boy would sit in the corner with tattered dime novels and arrange them as rather flat ships and drive them across the wavy floorboards. Sir King had a real name but no one except his family knew this, and they cared little of his whereabouts. He left home and husbandry at an early age and learned how to gab with the best. And gab he did. He was secretly nicknamed by shipmates as The Gull. Not only was he verbose but also quick to the draw and a fierce strategist. He was a thief as well and could sneak your own food off your plate while charming the gold off your teeth at the same time. He was a mighty talker and was brilliant friends with one who was known as the least feared, yet most amiable pirate Prince Doss. Doss was in fact a Prince, whether a real one by descent or no, he was a Prince among men for certain. He held the attention of any man or woman and could spin a tale so well that shipmates would be repeating his stories for weeks across the seas. He was the acclaimed Prince Poet of our time. He sat down to write occasionally, but had an enduring difficulty to withstand the movement of boats in order to settle his already uneasy hand. For having been scorned by many a good person in his days he kept to himself in his cabin below the Captains, together with the First Mate, and quietly disposed himself to the work by providing limericks and song to the crew. Everyone needed a bard, and our Prince carried his role well. The Seven Seas were not large enough to fill with his sweet words and longing that dwelled deep inside him. One could create the
Life made a longing out of this crew. Amoroso made sure of it. She found a crafty pirate named Armstrong who carried a formidable ability to increase the labour of men by twofold yet at the same time she knew how to manage them in such a way that everyone felt like they were doing half the work. In fact, Armstrong was an old hand with long bouts on the stormy Irish seas and she had a penchant for destruction. People said she was the spirit of Bluebeard reborn, others said she was the ghost of Queen Mary I reborn to enact vengeance against the British. In either case, everyone knew she was unstoppable in her feats as a crude but straightforward dealer, tradeswoman, and fighter. When news spread across Spain, Morocco, Egypt, Italy and Greece, even into Saudi Arabia, one person's ears perked up with quiet disdain. Lady Attaelmanan was a soft spirit yet rugged in intellect. She was not one who was swayed easily and she held fast her ideas just the same as her contempt for the turbulence of the seas. She broke away from the fold long ago for the cities and sands to educate herself. Yet, when she heard of this crew, she could not help but be somewhat intrigued. She put in a query by letter to the First Mate stationed in Madrid to see if there was a ship or if one needed to be built. Building a ship for a Pirate is not easy. Usually they were stolen, or salvaged and rebuilt. This was a tricky endeavor but Attaelmanan was clever. She had the benefit of being a prominent international member with ties to various central banks. She knew the Dutch spirit and money well enough to navigate the pragmatic shores of a particular Nordic statesman with whom she had previous relations and who also held a high position in the Swedish Riksbank. Her

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skill was unmatched save for the Elite. * * *
everything pass by in its transience. The pirates kicked him and pulled him out of his hovel, but short of killing him they could not elicit a single squawk. They were appalled and threw him into a hammock, tied him, and carried him between two camels until they reached Luxor. The palace of Doss was situated near Amenhotep IIIs temple. Some say he was related to this same pharaoh. * * *
When news arrived to Amoroso's door in a sleepy town hidden away in a small valley in Italy she was overjoyed, yet worried. She knew Attaelmanan well but doubted it could be done, passably at least. She conferred with Armstrong over their need to carry and hide the ship away. They knew of one person, a hardy, almost invisible, and reliable shipper who could manage this. They would approach the slick Naval Expert Sean McIntyre, who was previously arrested 44 times and solidly locked away in a prison somewhere in newly-colonized Australia. But this was no common sheep farmers son, no. This man was the intimate of an heiress to an entire Vietnamese fleet. He could have controlled the Asian market if only his cousins had not destroyed his chances by murdering his wife in contempt of her culture and framing his own family against him. There was tears and bloodshed for years. Our sad pirate struck out heavy blows of revenge and paid for the sins of killing his kin. Billows of unease stirred these Oriental shores, and only the best undercover lockmaster could free their friend. The two pirates had to approach the likes of a Belgian American both being traits that held undeniably reproachable attitudes towards life. Extremely fickle and unruly. They knew they could not trust him completely, yet he was indebted to them in a way that was embarrassing even for him. Deep within the sordid halls of embargo and diplomacy registrars they found details regarding his whereabouts. * * *
Doss looked out over his barren landscape, listening to the wind call of old times and new times. His eyes glazed as he thought of the grassy pastures Egypt once had. He saw the future and knew it all would crumble, just like his ancestors did. He berated himself and his people for their crudeness and cruelty and weakness but he also praised their strength at the same time. He loved his people and knew no other way but to leave or be dragged down under the setting sun and become another cold statue waiting in darkness. He saw the oncoming caravan and expected happy faces. On the contrary, everyone was glum. The Prince bade them welcome and honoured them as old friends and esteemed guests. Servants came out bringing scented incense and refreshing date juice. Lesser servants scurried around picking at their luggage and hastily carrying them back to their rooms. That evening when the Prince asked of their expedition and why they appeared dismayed, the crew retorted several reasons and unburdened themselves with the exhaustive account. They were lost without McSwedes spoken word, for only he knew the exact location of his solemn friend's prison. But years of apathy and muteness, what to speak of a feral existence and being unaccustomed to human touch, had made this man a beast of burden. A helm without a rudder. A sloth of a being. An undulated miscreant turned inward left to exorcise his own devils and demons. * * *
On Mr. Stephensons recommendation, they almost had to go to Mecca in order to find a nosy, ruddy fiend who went by McSwede. Some said he was five times crossed by others, left stranded; others said that he waved to sinking ships after he had shot them down; still others told they heard him say it meant that he wished peace upon the souls of the dying. Whichever the case, he was a soulless bastard and that distinction was agreed upon by most. He had a peculiar intensity. This slave to the sordid secret ways of the mystics was long said to be the bastard descendant of Jacques de Molay himself. He looked at his surroundings as if impatient with it all. He was deep in the caves and when approached he would neither speak nor listen. He sat and stared without giving or taking anything through his eyes. He left the world untouched and let
This was it at last, McSwede blurted after they had bathed him, soaked him, and placed him before the altar of Isis. This is it he repeated. Everyone shrugged, not caring any more what he mumbled. For he had mumbled a lot. He stood up. Everyone turned, shocked. He turned and faced his friends in quiet solemnity. He spoke of the Sun worship and remained gliding across the hall while pressing his face
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against the hieroglyphs. When time stopped everything came together, all of existence became what it is now. And we, so sure in ourselves, attributed this to god. Oh dear. My. I must go now. His sermon finished, everyone pleaded with him, they praised his recovery and asked him to stay. No, I have to move into the mountains of the Caucus range and will be found in two years time. I will be ready then. They said this was impossible, for him and them, and they pressed him to come with them or at least tell them where to find McIntyre. He looked at them. He has been dead since long ago, hadnt you known that you fools. Ill kill him. Ill kill him, let me shoot him! burst Sir King. Armstrong held Sir King back as Amoroso stared. McSwede turned and left the company to gather his supplies and two camels. No matter him dead or alive now, and after all this time said the Prince. He offered all his help to his friends and did neither to persuade nor condemn either party. He was indiscriminate and reviewed each partys needs as separate and equal. He was wise. As the storm of their disbelief abated, Mr. Stephenson rose. We will have to find another way. Doss mentioned that he knew someone in Australia that might be of some help and placed orders to his messenger to find out and send word back if they knew whether or not McIntyre lived. They waited long. Our party separated and went their ways in order to prepare. This was a difficult time, with ships disappearing left and right. They were not sure the letter or messenger even had been sent or arrived. * * *
She discovered news of Sean McIntyre while she was stationed in a Virginia harbour and passing by good company as she always does, her fianc introduced her to his business partner in the hemp trading company. Dirty business but it has to be done, he said lightly and shook her hand. She could not care less but within moments was pulled into discussion regarding pirates and thefts of large amounts of supplies. For whatever reason, good god knows why, but I hear they roll up our inventory in order to smoke it! laughed the young gentleman. Of course, it is a ridiculous thought, only some kind of joke, but it is good stock they are pulling from our home country and we are observing strict guidelines in order to set in motion orders for deception and trade routes that will ensure our safety. Our Kings fleet will not be reduced by a few pirates, no, in fact we have a great ally to our cause, this Mr. McIntyre. Im sure youve heard of him? No? Ghastly fellow, not a creature of the wildest sorts. He is however, compliant and willing to forge us relevant documents that will surrender any Spanish tax collectors to obey our strict applications by the King of Spain himself. You see, our routes are now swinging through their corridors and we simply cannot afford to pay their taxes on top of what is already in place what with the Navigation Acts. So then we will quickly pass through safely through the South and then promptly make our way North to join with the Royal Navy. This helps us to avoid paying taxes on both sides. The fianc slapped his friend on the shoulders from across the crocheted covered table by the window overlooking the bay, and glanced over to his wife. Isnt he something? Mrs. Lovat had taken note of the young businessmans every word and made sure to appear as uninterested as if someone had mentioned the weather. Yes love, I am quite happy for you and your friends success, will we go into the city soon? Her soon-to-be flashed his eyes over to his friend and let his crooked smile falter somewhat, Yes, well we have more business to discuss and my friend will be leaving shortly to carry on with this ships voyage. He turned his head back and forth. Shall we go to the hotel and then Ill meet up with you back here shortly? The happy couple laid their bags in the lavishly decorated spacious suite. Mrs. Lovat undressed and walked over to the bathroom. While she was changing, Mark sauntered over to her bags and let his hands drift over her petticoat and smalls. So I will see you this evening then? Yes. I have left you here a calling card and an address, I will not be able to meet you here but please do not hesitate to call downstairs and have a carriage ready for you. No matter, I will settle it on my way out. It will be there waiting
Meanwhile, Amy the Sneak had traveled across the British colonies. She was appalled at their accents and most of all their lack of manners. At least they could have had some decent spirits but everything was malt beer and cheap tobacco. She found none of her savored wines or familiar porto-vino in this region of the world. Such a sad state of affairs she would often remark to herself while walking through city streets in the North. She heard much of the area South and took a coastal trip by steamer into the Spanish regions towards Florida. Here was more to her taste; at least the Spaniards could import decent accoutrements to their hot, sticky life. And the beaches, just like her home, stretched for miles. Very familiar. If it wasnt for the drenched sweating backs of her coachmen and assistants she would have thought to live there, but the reminder of colour and the mixture of sickly sweet humidity and sea salt offended her tastes beyond redemption.
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for you outside at 8 oclock, alright? Yes. The door hit the frame softly as Mark exited the bedroom. The petticoat and other clothes were arranged neatly across the face of the bed. Amy the Sneak came out of the bathroom and stretched her arms across the silk sheets diving her hands under the pillows and turned her face over to admire the sculpted cornices outside the window. She looked around at the thick, red curtains, then towards the graceful crown molding, and the gilded, coffered ceiling. She sighed and breathed in the potpourri scented air deeply while smiling to herself smugly thinking about the unexpected and happy progress she made. Apart from getting everything she needed to know, she had one more job to do and was almost there. * * *
A quick witted man by the name of David Jeffrey met them at the Boston port in Massachusetts and showed them their rooms in his city apartment. He said that the place had been tidy before but with him being a writer he was uninspired to be a housemaid. He nevertheless kept good stock and all had a good time. He was a formidable host, both in manner and hospitality. He had a clear charm about him and always a glint in his eyes as if they were laughing at some reminisced joke. His accent was strange but the pirates being accustomed to the strangeness of the modern day nevertheless appreciated his deep American Midwestern and Australian pronunciations. They could not help but be amused and entertained in his company. His laughter came out in rolling waves and was like the sea itself for he knew how to live well. To Be Continued * * *
It wasnt until six months later that Prince Doss received word. The letter stated that McIntyre was alive and he was not in Australia but apparently in America working as an indentured servant in a colony in Northern Massachusetts. It also mentioned to send McSwede her regards. He smiled and chuckled she wouldn't recognize him if she saw him now. McSwede was always wearing hats and had mostly holes for teeth. When the pirates in turn heard from the Prince, each of their faces changed to stiff grimaces. Neither had any desire to go to America nor had anyone an inclination of what or where to find this Masterchussits. Dear Lord they exclaimed, what a sordid affair this truly was. Without a ransom of help nothing would pass through to the New World shores. They came in contact with a Canadian who knew the land well and conspired against the French and the British for their misdeeds against her native half-kin. * * *
Photo from Sheeba Shah
They asked in way of sending Sir King to find Mrs. Williams. Neither was happy to see each other but knew that it was a long time coming. Both had disagreements over a pudding in England and things were never right, before or after.
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Sean McIntyre: Australia Melbourne
both. Instantly. Its fair to say that the seventh commandment simply dissolved there and then in a state of thoughtful sin. Pretending to ignore my interest, she reclined back on one elbow. Balanced on the arm of the chair we were sharing, her luminous black mane flowed freely as if draped by Bruce Weber himself. I reached out gently at the fabric covering her right breast to gauge the material between my forefinger and my thumb. I couldnt help myself. In effect, it was the top piece of a bikini outfit. Except it wasnt swimwear. I couldnt work out what it was made out of. Latex? Leather. She smiled knowingly out into the middle distance. PVC? Whatever it was, the two blood red patches that graced her chest were seemingly united by a silky shoestring. It journeyed easily across the breadth of her back where each end met in the middle in a lazy, self-assured knot. One end trailed away on an angle from her spine to dangle about her waistline where a black belt snaked languidly around her hips. Darling. You have to give me their name, I shouted, even though our heads were within earshot of each other. She pressed downwards into my personal space aiming her exotic broken English at my ear.
Red.Circle.Three Youre who? My designer. You have a designer. No. I bought from my designer. You dont have a designer but you bought it from your designer. Yes. I couldnt pick the logic. Id had more to drink than I realised. I think I heard her say I amsomething ...English my first language. Sorry? Im sorry...this noise...crowd... Pulsating lights conveniently offered more opportunities to admire her outfit. Well to be honest I wasnt really admiring it, per se. Or the body within. I coveted
Two rules in life. One. Never share designer. Two. Never mix secrets with stranger... A waitress descended into our shadows to enquire about a top-up. ...buy me drink. I tell secret. Besotted, I neglected to point out that I had bought the last two rounds. Niemen doesnt sound Chinese. Her eyebrows arched as if to say really? Nup, I interrupted. What it sound like? I shrugged. My eyes fell upon her back, which like the rest of her body sported a light tan. Most Asians detest suntans. Some feel that it indicates a life outdoors, suggesting an uneducated existence. Raised by factory workers, Niems didnt care either way. Are the pants made out of the same material? Mmmm....? Id lost her attention. Probably. Lets go to the bar.
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I remember watching her arse sashay abruptly into the alluring masses enveloped in a pair of insanely well-fitted red slacks. Each hemline washed over ankles encased in a set of pearl-coloured high heels that she always wore whenever she wanted to make a fashion statement. Which was often. And she pulled it off better than any other woman I could think of. Including me. Classy, yet understated, her outfit turned heads and worked over more imaginations. Barely five foot nine, the length of her legs suggested a refined, heightened elegance. Each looked like a well-wrapped Christmas present. One that you never wanted to open. Gliding through the crowd that night, Niems affected the look of a cool drink in a tall glass on a hot day. That was the moment Niemen entered my life. I decided there and then that this unique creature was now my mlange of choice. * * *
to Twitter as a substitute for contact. She simply said KT CU LUV U NO WHO!! I couldnt sleep for three nights. I was so excited to see them. * * *
Dyllan had arrived on the evening flight from Frankfurt dressed in his customary trek-gear: scuffed trail boots, the gore-tex parka and all weather cords that he saved for circulating about civilised city streets. He looked lean, fit and content. This time hed been on a four-month escapade quite short for him. He was quietly reading me excerpts from his travel journal to kill time, when Niems gambolled through customs. She was ninety minutes late, courtesy of a delayed flight from Tokyo. She squealed like a school kid. We ran at her, scooped each other up and held on for dear life. From the arrival lounge to my pokey little kitchen, Niems didnt draw breath. But the moment we arrived back at the apartment, she promptly disappeared into my bedroom for a quick nap completely ignoring the spare bed I had set up. Dyllan brewed coffee before we dined on pate and crackers while I brought him up to speed on the logistics surrounding my career-defining exhibition in Berlin. I showed him a selection of sketches. KT? Is it just me, or is the circle of three a prominent theme here? Its my muse. So what? You must be stuck for inspiration more often than you realise, he noted wryly. Hole-lee fuck, KT. We decided to call it a night. Clearly Niems had no intention of waking from her nap. As a trio, tramping the South Island together was still a far-off, fairy-tale bucket-list item. While we chatted about New Zealand, I washed and Dyllan dried. Extinguishing the kitchen lights, I found his silhouette breaking in the doorway like the opening credits of a classic film noir. I approached to hug it goodnight. His unlit form smelt like a Scandinavian pine forest. Holding him tightly, I swigged in his aroma like an oft-broken alcoholic. He didnt move. I lifted my face into his neck, pretending to salve an
I loved my Russia experience. That said I was looking forward to completing my studies. Compounded by the combination of arctic-like weather and loneliness, the semester was dragging on forever. I hadnt counted on the latter affecting me so much. I didnt regret uprooting my life from its routine god, I never thought the day would come when Id hear myself define Berlin as routine - yet two years into my Arts studies, I was feeling tied down and listless. I found myself daydreaming at the canvas. I yearned for fresh inspiration. I needed to take risks in new surroundings, unsullied by the familiar. The Moscow opportunity appeared like an oasis in my creative desert. My preference was St Petersburg, but it simply didnt offer the same program. Ive been to St Petersburg countless times since. Travel is cheap and affordable. Even for a child of the world like me. It remained one of the few places Dyllan had yet to
visit.
He sounded his usual disaffected self. His email was short and to the point: Katie. See you Moscow on 24th. Stock up on the vodka. Dyllan XXX. Niems didnt do email. She abhorred all social media, but had lost her mobile phone so often shed reverted
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itch on the tip of my nose against his two-day growth. He dropped his head on the pretence of a peck on the cheek. We dropped hopelessly into old habits to kiss each other the way we used to. I pushed him greedily towards my room. After a couple of minutes, we taxied down the short hallway without breaking our embrace. I led him to my bed where we silently eased ourselves either side of the sleeping figure on it. She didnt stir but naturally in her unconscious slumber, Niems sensed us. Her right arm went out to Dyllan and she accepted my stomach into her back. I went to sleep with her hand caressing my face. I was out like a light within seconds. For the first time since Shanghai, the circle of three was once again complete. * * *
Sunset, Moscow Chill. Cosmopolitan Cocktail and Cuban Breeze. The White Russian was a no brainer. Spontaneous night-life activity naturally occupied our evenings in the first couple of weeks and as tour-guide, I pulled out all stops. I took it upon myself to introduce them to all my favourite local nightspots. The strict face control at A Priori meant we had to beg Dyllan to be on his bestdressed behaviour. I knew Niems would love Bar 30/7 on the Boulevard Ring. I mean, it is the place to see and be seen after all. The grunge of Bunker was just for me. With Dyllans gentlemanly demeanour and Niems dressed to kill in her traditional red bikini top, we undoubtedly presented as a curious trio to the casual native observer. Niems had by then augmented her red slacks with a matching pair of washed out, frilly pink go-go boots. As always, she had little time for fashion victims. It was the only topic that brought out the acid in her normally civil tongue. Russian girls dress like whores, she sniffed. Generations forced to curtail every natural fashion instinct I called, applying a final veneer of magenta lippy in my bathroom. Who can blame them? Economic austerity... Ninety years of Soviet toil... chimed Dyllan The themselves. poor dears had no outlet to express
During the day, I still had classes to attend and left each to their own devices. Glasnost may be consigned to history and the influence of the West now basically a fact of life, but you still need to be on alert. Urban jungles demand respect. Still, the prospect of a Moscow kidnapping for body organs never held fears for Dyllan and Niemen. They knew how to take care of themselves. Perhaps it was the city of Moscow that needed protection from them. Niems launched a one woman shopping foray upon Stoleshnikov, where nothing is too over-priced or extravagant - provided you slot into the new ranks of Russian wealth. Even Chapurin Couture proved fair game. Instigating raid after raid on many of his favourite cerebral pastimes, Dyllan gravitated towards Moscows more sophisticated precincts: the Mars Contemporary Arts Centre, Tsentralny Dom Khudozhnikov and like every other tourist, he spent time queuing to see Lenins mummified corpse laid out on a white-grey slab. He came home reporting that the queue had moved at the speed of light: it only took three and a half hours to reach the body. I arrived home from University every night to their cheerful camaraderie. After so many months on my own, I felt obscenely spoilt by all the attention and feasted selfishly upon their company. Dyllan improvised a banquet every night to make even the most banal collection of ingredients sing from the orchestra-pit that is my pantry. And if I forgot to stock up on the red, Niems took charge of the bar. She overwhelmed us with all manner of concoctions: Russian
Theyre overcompensating, drawled Dyllan. KT! Youre making me bored. Where are you? I poured myself out into the living room. You going out in that? Yes, Niems. Its called reverse psychology. Holy fuck, KT. You look like a... Dont you start Dyllan. You know I would never be caught dead in black. That doesnt mean we have fit in, KT. Darling. Fit into what. KT. You should be raising standards, not walk all on them. My fashion choices were dictated primarily by my family genes: stubbornness and obstinacy. And my
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godfather. Such amazing style. As self-appointed Russian style queen, I christened my current look tacky bohemian wonderland meets off-beat nanna in his honour. Niems. My sense of fashion delivers me more than my fair share of babniks. KT. Dear. You wear a pale blue-stripes. shorts jump-suit. The stockings...blue! On
I know! Arent they just the D, Niems! I got the shorts at a Gunfunstag market in Munich and... When were you in Munich? Dyllan scoffed. Oh, I saved for a rainy day, got bored and grabbed a last minute ticket for a lost weekend instead. Do you want to know about my outfit or not? Niems collapsed into the couch. Yes, dear. Tell me all. Tell me KT, tell me. My head fell on an angle and I let rip. ok, the Gunfenstag mar...dont you dare interrupt me Dyllan Maleney...so, the market for the jump-suit, then the stockings. Got those from a sock shop. These are Michael Kors. I splayed my suede brown, ankle high beauties on an angle letting each spin back and forth on its heel in turn. Not bad, eh? The leather bag and the Ted Baker rip-offs I picked up in Hoi Anh. Had to haggle like shit for em. What about other bag? The floral one? I made it myself! KT. You fucking just clever. Niems would never give up the designer labels. Its so much more fun buying clothes when they have a story to them. You dont have to be clever to shop at markets, Darling. She made a face while Dyllan grinned and rolled his eyes, before pretending to puke. I revelled in their faux theatrics. Dyllan simply saw clothes as a serviceable necessity. Despite a life lived outdoors, he was a pale cat. Milky and smooth in his youth, his skin had grown comfortably weathered, amiably accepting the onset of creases around his forehead and eyes. He wasnt one for dressing up. He
would drag out whatever his hand landed on from his backpack and make it work. He preferred trim, tight shirts worn under a jacket that hed owned for years. Still, between the two of us we couldnt help but contribute a guiding hand. Hed long since given up protesting at our attempts to haul his wardrobe kicking and screaming into some semblance of the 21st century. Secretly I think he grew to see the advantages of two women topping up his apparel with fashionable items from time to time. Neither of us could convince him to give up the manky suede, protesting that for him it was like putting on home. I could see where he was coming from. In the traditional sense of the word, Id been homeless for longer than I cared to remember. I was also aware that my own relentless wildness was now receding. Home for me had long been a place that existed wherever I laid out my most precious possessions: my mothers picture, my brothers ashes and my easel. So long as I had a couple of vases around decorated with flowers while I painted, I was happy. Using the time to recharge his batteries, Dyllan could always contrive a way to drop in one or both of us no matter where we were in the world. All I need is a roof over the head, KT. It always does the trick, he would say. I once heard Niems tell somebody that we shared a boyfriend. I never looked at it that way at all. We shared each other. I wanted for nothing. I had the circle of three. That was four months ago. * * *
Niems died somewhere around the point where my in-flight map kissed the south-west coast of Sri Lanka. Werent departing spirits of loved ones supposed to announce their departure to you in a spooky, super-natural way? Air-conditioning was the only deviant wind that blew over me in the cabin. All I could think about during that flight was the surreal injustice of it all, the friggin Morroccan smart-arse who tried me on for size with a dodgy Berlin cab fare and the shit-fight to have my exhibition post-phoned. It grates at me endlessly that I wasnt thinking of her at the time she passed away. I hadnt offered up any prayers for her. What kind of friend was I? I had no empathy. None at all. Just anger and confusion. I was in shock. Twenty-six hours of in-flight entertainment and alcohol brought no clarity. No sane person should have that much time alone in the solitude of their own head-space.
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Not including stop-overs in Hong Kong and Sydney, my flight to Christchurch was uneventful. All the action took place in my imagination. A million thoughts ran headlong into each other, punctuated only by endless, pointless unspoken conversations. KT. with me. I was blind-sided. I thought she was in love
at Niems, but god bless him, Dyllan defused every situation with his smouldering Canadian poise. We laughed about it at brunch each day. Reducing us to tears with yet another near-perfect impersonation, Dyllan had confided one morning that he wasnt so keen to return to the trail just yet. When she declined to join us for another all-nighter, it did register. Id already noticed an uncharacteristic lethargy. Maybe life was finally catching up with our elegant Chinese model. I mean sooner or later, we all have to face that question: is it all catching up with me? You cant burn the nightlife midnight oil forever. Perhaps Niems was beginning to sense the passage of time. Wed had this conversation many times but no, she simply wanted to experience life. That was that. She would chide me for being so serious. It is good life KT. Niems Im not saying you cant enjoy yourself while you work. Theres no harm in having balance. But...dont you ever want to reduce your travel? Slow the partying? No! I want it last forever! Besides, you look after me. My family. You. Dyllan. The leg-work for the exhibition that would announce me to the European art world as a career artist sat in front of me. It was Niems who suggested that we all meet up again in Berlin. They departed Moscow with a nine day head-start on me. Focus on your planning, KT Dear. She was so happy for me. It made sense. Why wouldnt it? * * *
Spare me, Dyllan. We were all in love at one time or another. She lied to me KT. She said she told you. The day before we left. What fucking planet are you on Dyllan? Why didnt you contact me? I didnt know Niems was dying, KT. I didnt know she had so little time left. She made me promise... Promise to shut me out? What possible justification could you both have for treating me like that? What the fuck, Dyllan. I slumped into one of those fitful sleeping patterns you have when youre trapped on a long haul flight with the female spawn of some lower, middle class yobbo kicking your seat from behind. Lapsing in and out of the worlds biggest emotional blizzard, I dreamt myself into a white-out. Blinded, I tripped and stumbled countless times over clothes lying on unseen frozen ground. Tangled in vines of ice, I straightened up and from a distance, found myself approaching a washed-out block of stone. Slogging through white-grey slush, it became apparent that a figure dressed in a black mourning coat was laid out upon it. It seemed to be saying something. I approached it. I bent forward. The little shit kicked my seat again. * * *
Niems was always too focused on the present to want a future. In terms of attitude, Niems and the Moscow scene had made a good fit. Eye-catching, but not what youd ever call a good catch, she drew many a dirty look while fending off the advances of the local men. Lets face it Russian women are vain and insecure to the point of psychosis. More than one woman shaped to throw a drink
Id never felt so lonely since I awoke to the realisation that my two loves conspired to keep Niemens deteriorating health a secret from me. Dyllan argued simply that Niems was too scared to tell me. Too scared to die alone. Too scared to impose upon the exhibition. opportunity of my lifetime. The
Dyllan wont be coming to spend time with me any time soon.
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Niemen had the ability to alight out of nowhere at your shoulder like a butterfly. She was flighty, genuine and thoughtful with a short attention span she fed with animated activity. The life force spilling out of her every pore purred deity. As if she was the walking image of Diana. Not the princess. The goddess. Comfortable in her own skin, with an innate sense of god given inner beauty, she was impossible to ignore. She knew it. However, if you were partial to women of style and confidence, it would take you a month of Sundays to work out that beneath that chic sensibility was a woman who was terrified at the thought life unfolding without her in the thick of it. Niems didnt waste energy. She knew how to let go and move on. Just the right outlook. For life. And death. * * *
Torrents of red water began gushing wildly at me from the frozen body. Run. RUN! My hands stuck fast to the icy sides of the block of stone. The viney icicles climbed, wrapped and tightened around my throat. For Fucks Sake! RUN!!! Suddenly a water-laden tempest carried me off. I was in the middle of its red spout, gagging on fiery red liquid gushing through my brain, into my throat and out my eye-balls. My family. No! Look after me. I want it to last forever! NO! Family! Look after me... I awoke to find myself thrashing out at the darkness. * * *
outfit.
We were family. It began with that delicious red
I knew Niemen for six years. It didnt last forever. It wasnt our destiny. When it counted most. She didnt want me there for
her. I tramped the trail for a day and a half, arriving at the hut in the late afternoon well before sunset. I dont know why I picked Lake Harris on the South Island. Maybe it offered itself up to me as a destination of closure. That night I went to bed alone. Alone. Cold. Morose. Another emotional blizzard wrought merry hell upon my unguarded subconscious. Once more, I approached a figure laid out on a pyre of stony ice. I tripped and stumbled over the familiar, icy white dreamscapes. For the first time in many attempts, I finally arrived at its side. The mouth was wide open. My hands rested uneasily against the granite surface. Stillness defined the snowy, silent atmosphere where the embalmed corpse lay before me, this time in a red mourning coat. Red liquid now dripped off an indistinguishable face. Vines of icicles rose up, reaching towards my throat. The drip increased to a stream. Its head lolled towards me and it started crying. Soft. Female. Look after me...family... Unnerved, I panicked. Run.
Of the many places Ive been, it is the first time Ive journeyed through Grief. Spent time in Shock. Missed the stop for Disbelief. Denial. Not much to see there. On to Sadness. Then I was marooned at Angry for some time. Quite a time. Eventually, Acceptance. I hope to find a place called
Focus on your planning, KT Dear. It was her way of saying goodbye. I didnt get to say good-bye. The surviving two cant reconcile. There will be no family reunion.
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Stefanie Sabathy Austria Vienna
Well keep in touch And then we dont. There is silence on your end. A silence that is louder than anything else. A silence that screams at me but I cover my ears and get on with my life. Day 1 Work has piled up and I have got so much to do - I cant think. Day 2 My friends and family want to meet up. After all, I have been away for so long. Have I? Day 3 Does the three-day-rule apply to us as well? Should I write? Well, you havent yet, so I will wait. Day 4 You seem to be back in your old life by now. Well, I have my own life, too. Day 5 I have been working overtime and I cant see straight. In this state of mind, I cannot call you. Day 6 Too late for asking - how was your trip home that night? Day 7 I could call. But I really dont know what to say. Nothing worse than silence on the other end. Better not. Day 8 It already seems like ages ago that we met. Day 9 By now, I would have to have a really good reason why I havent contacted you yet. All of the above are not good reasons. Day 10 And all days following that day It seems too late now. Too much has happened already. I cant just send a short Facebook message saying hi now. I am sure to have missed important dates by now. Birthdays. The one, or the other, life crises.
Reunion I hope we will meet again I know it is unlikely If you ever come to Austria give me a call I guess you will never even set foot in Europe. I will never forget the fun times we had Everyday life will just take over. Yeah, nowadays there is always e-mail An email can never express anything accurately. Keep me up-to-date on your life Neither you, nor I, will find our lives interesting enough to tell the other about it. Post me your photos on Facebook Pictures that mean something to us are not for everybody on the net to see. Ill miss you We mean it. Every word. We hug and say our goodbyes. Its not the end of the world And yet for us, it is. And it hurts.
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It is definitely too late already. Endless possibilities of communicationFacebook , Skype, MSN, you name it. But there is silence. A loooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooooooong silence. Until there is REUNION I have spotted you. You are standing there with your back to me. Waiting. Looking around you. Havent seen me yet. Anticipation. Will it be different? Will it be awkward? Will we have changed too much? Will we still like each other? You turn around. Our eyes meet.
The moment of recognition And then You wave I smile. You smile. All the time that has passed between us, Doesnt matter anymore. The world has come to a standstill, It is like old times We laugh. We hug each other. We are reunited. Yes, we do have all the possibilities of communication today. But there is nothing. Like A Reunion.
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Calvin Sandiford Canada Montreal
We brought into this world But what of us who are here To sound a bit Like these happy ghosts Let us rejoice and revel in Of our own life we bring Some things fused into new And pass on to the world we raised Collective dreams renewed Home drums beat The loudest they say Res ipsa loquitur Proven as said From the past into this day A day of joy love and hope For those who have lived And of those still here We never shed a tear
We Shed No Tears Dedicated to the Memory of Dennis and Joyce Walcott For in these times Of laughter present brings Joy with loved ones past we unite We eat and dance And see anew The great ghosts that greet us Through the eyes of those whom
Photo from Lorenza Haddad
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Agnieszka (Aggie) Stachura: U.S.A North Carolina
My daughter hands me a slip of paper, glances at her watch, smiles. When she crushes her cigarette and rises to go, I follow her graceful lead, keenly aware of the paunch that slides over the top of my bronze belt buckle like risen dough, aware of the looks she attracts as she stands. Long looks. Speculative. Appraising. The way I looked at young women once. The thrust of her hip tells me she notices. I remind myself that I want this for herfor my daughterto be self-assured, confident, comfortable in her skin. She walks me to my rental car with the efficient disinterest of a cowboy leading a calf to its fate. The sidewalks are crowded with the milling young, and I slip on the mirrored sunglasses that reflect to them their own fresh faces as they pass. Tomorrow I will sit beside her mother and her mothers husband in the hot stands and I will watch my daughter graduate. Afterwards I will hug her, quick and hard, feel the thin bones beneath the skin, smell her scent, spring and smoke. Then I will let her go. It is her turn to ride the bucking future. To slip from the chute like energy incarnate. Freedom and jolt. I remember that, too. This piece originally appeared in The Dirty Napkin with the title ''In the Chute.''
Secondhand Smoke I sip iced tea while she smokes. The straw fits my mouth like a cigarette, and I try hard not to remember the feel of a Camel between my lips; the suck and pull of the filter. She sits across from me at the small table and tells me about internships, workshops, opportunity, pausing every few moments to blow smoke from the side of her mouth in sharp, straight gusts. Expert. I remember that. She is beautiful, my daughter. She looks a little like me, a lot like her mother, a honey-skinned memento of that long-ago tryst. We are an unlikely pair, me with my paunch and my cowboy hat and the mirrored sunglasses tucked into the neck of a plain blue T-shirt, she in her mini skirt and the thin fitted top with the straps that slip from her shoulders like a lover's caress when she bends to root in her slouchy bag forwhat? A daytimer? A cellphone? What do women put in these bags? Where do they find so many things? This daughter who has burst into my life fully grownwhere did she learn this arcana, when did she become a young woman? She chose when to meet, she chose this place socially conscious, locally owned. She arranged for the hotel. As if I needed help negotiating this town, with its college, its cafe, its fresh-scrubbed youth. It would be easier if I was still smoking. But, If you want to meet your grandchildren, the doctor had shrugged. Both of us knowing I didnt have a child.
Photo from Jackie Lee King
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BULLETIN BOARD
Carolina Amoroso: Caro is still trying to make it through the school year after having taken on more teaching jobs than is humanly possible. She has also gone back to school for reasons she now cant comprehend, and has found that dancing is liberating (although also time-consuming). While she tries to live with the consequences of her decisions, she is still very much boyfriend-less and looking.
Janet Barr: Is caught up in pre-production work at film school in Melbourne. Having great fun writing and directing her own short film while acting and crewing for fellow students over the next two months.

Trisha Bhattacharya: Trisha is from the land of the Vedas and currently lives in Kolkata. At present, she is working independently as a writer writing short fiction, poetry and selective journalistic art, literature, culture and travel features for print and online. A travel feature written by her about Oxford was recently published in the Hans India, a print daily. Another feature about Durga Puja celebrations is forthcoming shortly in the same daily. Her personal travel diaries over the years include travel trips as a student, traveler and as a working professional to Orlando, Ontario, Manhattan, Bangkok, Oxford and many famous cities within India and also as a very young girl to Baghdad and Ramadi. Her work (poetry, fiction and features) has appeared in the Times of India, South Kolkata Plus, and journals including the11th Issue of 34thParallel, two issues of Fashion and Beyond, On the Grass, the winter issue and summer collaborative issue of Twenty20 Journal (a popular minimalist journal). A considerable volume of features written by her can also be seen in Caleidoscope.in (their theme: a pinch of jazz and loads of nostalgia) and some of her work can also be read in Kolkatamirror.com (a Times of India endeavour), more.com, flash-fiction chronicles & others. You can take a look at her webpage at www.trishabhattacharya.wordpress.com, which she has recently refurbished. She would like
Photo from Omnya Attaelmanan

Dipti Anand: To-Do-List as of September 2011: 1. Write Honors Thesis titled Deconstructing the Metaphor and Reader -Response Theories in Literature 2. Travel plans in the pipeline: Montreal, Vegas, New York, Delhi, Bangkok, London 3. Make some outrageous art 4. Apply to Graduate School for an MA in Creative Writing!! 5. Remember motto for senior year: Work Harder, Play Even Harder 6. Be positive, be healthy, be happy
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to share one of her favourite quotes by Hermann Hesse here, which is a wonderful source of inspiration for her. When trying to remember my share in the glow of the eternal present, in the smile of God, I return to my childhood, too, for that is where the most significant discoveries turn up.
behind me. Back in Cairo got trapped at home fought off thugs with my brother, stood in line with 2000 others of our neighbor villagers. Everyone, and when I say every one I do not mean majority BUT EVERYONE, that had hands had a gun. Pistols, rifles, knives the world was chaos and it was not! And I stood at the center of it. Revolution came and went I washed my countrys streets of its rubbish. Fought back to college. And where walks Indiana Fiko must follow riots! And lo! Now a few weeks into college I along with the good community of my American University in Cairo we strike against an unruly authority yet again! Whilst I and a friend work on a very secret project everyone knows about we fight a younger battle for a greater community! Oh and Im also reapplying full time for oxfordfingers crossed! Tune in next time for more on INDIANA FIKO! With a Revolutionary heart, will he still have to convince people just because he does crazy things does not mean hes insanesomewhator will he finally agree to it? NAH

Rebecca Brothers: After many months exploring crumbling pyramids and decoding mysterious runes, has discovered an ancient secret, which she will now share with you at great personal risk: Getting Paid Is Overrated. For a few blissful summer days, she devoted her time to doing Sudoku, watching Friends, purchasing outrageously expensive biology textbooks, and that age-old folly, writing. By the time you read this, those days will be over, and she will be immersed once more in seventeen credits and three jobs. She will also be working hard at revising her first novel and trying to get it published stay tuned.
Cilla Henriette: Since the last edition, Cilla has turned 34 and traveled to 38 countries. She enjoys the life between continents, time zones and deadlines. She recently became a partner with Innate Motion, the company she has been working for in the past four years. She keeps writing and keeps trying to find the time to start working on her book. She is also planning to launch her own website, hopefully soon. David Jeffrey: Baking, biking, Open micing, Acting, singing, Children hiking. Nephew-sitting, Singing, writting, Texting, celling, Checking speling.

Fiko Doss: Hola hola pepsi colas! Now yall know I can ramble on so heres life since Oxford in a nutshell. Fast-forward, rewind, no wait, stupid remote! Anyway with oxford over I ran back to Upper Egypt my blood nation, wrestled a couple of cobras around my neck, as a revolution slowly rose
Photo from Jackie Lee King

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Jackie Lee King: Is watching the wheels go round and roundhe relly loves to watch them roll. He is learning to want what he wants and to not want what he does not want. Ohand getting back upon the publishing horse. Short stories are on the riseand check out his music blog. http://www.a2une2u.blogspot.com Kyoko Koda: has surfaced and is back in Japan.
December 2011 - 2 short plays (Melbourne-based international playwright Josie Parelli) and producing a staged reading of Fikos outstanding script: The Heart of Rex. Thanks Fiko! Cast for Fikos play announced during October 2011 (www.wisewords.com.au/events). Media manager for 2 full length independent plays: Bomb The Base (2011 Melbourne Fringe Festival) and Times Arrow by Melbourne-based international playwright Mark Andrew 7 short film roles including leads and support leads plus 2 support leads in independent features. Bid writer with somewhat less work/life/creative balance than planned since June 2011.

Amy Lovat: is finishing her Honours thesis in Creative Writing, still sorting through photos from her USA trip, and wondering what to do next. James Edwin McDonough: Is straight sober and staying in Europe until January.

Stephanie Reighart: After finishing grad school in June, Stephanie left the beauty of New Hampshire and moved to York, Pennsylvania. There, she spent the summer on home improvement projects, her blog (idleadventure.blogspot.com) and being a proud member of America's unemployed. The financial drought ended a couple of weeks ago when she was hired at the York Daily Record (ydr.com) as a multi-platform journalist. Now she's getting paid to do what she went to school for!
Photo from Vanita Singh

Sean McIntyre: Creative Producer for my script reading series: A Fistful Of Scripts (www.facebook.com/afistfulofscripts): April 2011 2 short plays, 1 short film (Sean McIntyre). 400 actors applied for 16 roles!
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Calvin Sandiford: I will be studying and writing this year. I hope and plan to complete what I am working on by the Spring of 2012 and successful complete my course of study shortly thereafter. In the fall of 2012 I will be starting the BPTC at BPP University College, London, England. Lynn Suh: Is still missing in action, but we are working on locating himstay tuned.

Camilla Mrk Rstvik: People/ I am moving to Manchester on Thursday [September 15, 2011] to do my masters there. It aint Oxford, but there are lots of pretty Jane Austen ish mansions and plenty of art so please feel free to come on up and visit. With all this writing about reunions, what about the real deal? [Taken from Facebook Post]

Agnieszka (Aggie) Stachura: Aggie has been trying to convince herself that library books, afternoon naps, and two windfall weekends at the beach constitute a summer vacation. To date, she has been unsuccessful in suspending her disbelief. She's set her sights on an actual, non-budget-breaking, real time winter getaway--she's just not sure where, yet. In the meantime, she's begun amassing books and notes towards her master's thesis and can be found reading, scribbling, and watching DVRed episodes of Hoarders. For more updates check the Oxford Creative Writing Summer School 2010 FB page: https://www.facebook.com/home.php?sk=group_ 129866503694125 If you have an update for next issue to be listed here, make sure you specify that it is to go to the Bulletin Board. Thanks!

Stefanie Sabathy: Was reunited with Oxford this summer. Met her wonderful teacher for young adult novels again. Had a hard time leaving Turl Street and the place of creativity again to go back to her home in Vienna. Was reminded that this was a business trip by her many students who wanted to go to Disneyland in Paris on their way back. Okay, Steff wanted to see Mickey Mouse too. She admits. And now she is back in working life. But at least there was one real reunion that interrupted the mundane everyday life. James came for a visit. That was awesome. Thanks for the fun-filled-days, James! Steff still hopes for more people to pay her a visit. But what she really dreams about is a rrrrrrrrrreal rrrrrreunion!!!! Steff is just too bad at keeping in touch, but loves you all so let's make it a real meetand-greet and...let's make it happen in 2012!
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Next Issue Theme: Dreams (2,000 4,000 word submissions) Deadline: December 20, 2011 Publication: January 1, 2012 Introduction: by James Edwin McDonough Editors Final Note: So much to do! Guest introductions are being set for the next year. Sean McIntyre is doing the April 1 2012 issue while Stefanie Sabathy is doing the July 2012 issue. Let me know if you are interested. You can set the theme of the issue and in addition to the Introduction you have to submit a pice for that issue as well. Next big project is to revamp all of your bios for the new year. The staff and I will be sending out emails so that we can update your static bios as well as your bulliten board updates. Thak you all. BBBS-JLK Note on Submissions: Make sure you put your name and title as the first two lines of your submission in the document. Also, if you could title the document
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with your name and the issue that would be peachy. Have fun traveling the globe. I bid you a fond greeting from the home office in Michigan City, IN, U.S.A. Yeehaw! Photo Credits The Students of the Oxford Creative Writing Group 2010. A special thank you to Rebecca Brothers for the cover photo.
Contributors
(Cont.)
Amy Lovat - Ever walked down a dark alley and felt the presence of someone behind you? Thats Amy. In addition to sporadically stalking and killing strangers (or, at least writing about it), Amy loves editing. She first realized this love of spelling and grammar when she was six. She stole her best friends writing book and vandalized it with a red crayon. She remembers the rush, followed by profound contentment. Amy is a self-confessed grammar and punctuation freak and one day hopes to make a career out of correcting the mistakes of others. Either that, or stay a Uni student forever. In the mean time, she takes photos of Public Spelling Mistakes at http://publicspelling-mistakes.tumblr.com. Amy is currently finishing her Honours thesis in Creative Writing at University of Newcastle, Australia, and is deciding whether to finish that dreaded Law degree, or pursue a Doctorate in Creative Writing. She spends her time oscillating between writing, traveling, working in a cafe, teaching ballet and Pilates, and blogging about the awesomeness of Newcastle at http://novocastriantourist.wordpress.com. James McDonough - I write. Sean McIntyre - Based in Melbourne, Australia Sean McIntyre employs obscurity and compelling story structure to create personal essays, short stories, plays and film scripts. Exploring themes and issues through human behavior, Seans work is at its best when he examines the questions his observations raise. His goal is to create a discussion that draws the reader or viewer into an experience they will enjoy, question and feel satisfied by. As well as acting and performing in theatre and film, Sean McIntyres plays have been performed in Australia, Ireland and the United States. Omnya Attaelmanan - 22 and 52, has spent the past few months interning at Wiley Publishing following her graduation in January with a BA in English literature (very useful for covering up particularly blank patches of wall and such). She plans to spend her summer taking courses at the University of Utrecht in global migration, international conflict management, and ethnic relations and integration (because that all ties up nicely with English literature) in preparation for Masters studies. Shell also be using it as an opportunity to eat a lot of cheese, look at a lot of tulips, do something else vaguely Dutch and spend as much time as possible with a certain hazel-eyed gentleman who happens to live nearby. She writes because not writing makes her feel increasingly uncomfortable the longer that she allows it to happen, kind of like not doing her laundry, and makes absolutely no guarantees about quality.
Amanda Redinger - was born in Providence, Rhode Island, USA. Her primary job at Oxford this summer was writing everyone else's bios for the anthology, while almost never doing any of her own work. Camilla Mrk Rstvik - 22 summers old, divides her time between Student politics, Art and Architecture History studies at the University of Oslo, traveling and drawing princesses. Enjoys anything Alice in Wonderland, aesthetically pleasing and/or Spanish. Dislikes waiting, non-vegan food on the vegan-menu and British Boy Bastards (a rare, but terrifying breed) She is also known as Always-in-a-dress, Norwegian Ninja and Princess. Stefanie Sabathy - who is also known as Steff has studied English and German, taught at the University of Mexico City and is now teaching kids and teenagers in her hometown of Vienna, Austria. She loves traveling which has brought her to remote places in Mexico, Australia, New Zealand, Great Britain and the USA and to many cities in Europe like Amsterdam, Paris, Rome and Berlin to name but a few. She has been writing since she was little, has studied Creative Writing at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champain and has done workshops at the Vienna School of Poetry and the Scuola Holden in Turin, Italy. In the summer of 2010 she attended the Oxford Summer School of Creative Writing and she is deeply moved that within this circle she now has the opportunity to publish her stories in The Turl. Calvin Sandiford - was born in Montral, Qubec, Canada. He obtained a Bachelors of Arts in Political Science from the McGill University. He read law and was granted an Honors degree in Law from the University of Wales, UWIST. He is a member of the Honorable Society of Lincolns Inn. He was a tutor of law at the City of London Polytechnic in England. He has written on a constitution for the Nlaka' Pamux of British Columbia. He read and received a Masters of Laws in Maritime Law from the University of London. He has sat as an Arbitration Judge. He retired as an Officer from the Canadian Forces in 2010 having served in all three branches twice serving overseas in accordance with Canada's NATO obligations. He was awarded the Canadian Forces Decoration. He has attended the University of Oxford, Exeter College where he undertook a creative writing programme. He is spending his retirement time reading, writing, time with his son and re-entering the practice of law. David Sgarlata - teaches English and humanities at Robert Morris University of Illinois. He had completed a doctorate in literature and critical theory at Northwestern University but later returned to graduate school at DePaul University for a masters degree in creative writing. David lives with his long-time partner, Scott, and their German shepherd, Flip, in Oak
Park, outside Chicago, and at their farm in western Illinois. Sheeba Shah - I am a published writer from Nepal. I write fiction. My first, LOYALS OF THE CROWN, is a historical fiction dating back to the 1840's. My second, BEYOND THE ILLUSIONS, is a spiritual fiction that describes in detail and rather dramatically the intensity of belief in Kali worship in India. My third and the latest is called FACING MY PHANTOMS. This novel is seen from the perspective of the bewildered mind of the chaotic youth during the Maoist insurgency period in Nepal. It too is a period novel as it keeps skipping time from the 1940's to 2001 and there after. Aggie Stachuraa; I miss y'all! Oxford seems like a happy dream. Publication-wise, it's been a good fall; I've had work published in Hint Fiction, Fifth Wednesday Journal, and The Sun. But four months of full-time work plus graduate school have left too little time for new writing. Now that my work hours have dropped and I'm between semesters, I'm in a much better mood. Laptop + cafe + writing time = happy gal. Milou Stella - I started writing from an early age, initially in Italian and then, after I moved to London, in English. I will be enrolled on the Mst Creative Writing here at Oxford University this September. In London I am currently part of, and founder member of a writers workshop called Literary Kitchen (http://literarykitchen.blogspot.com), we regularly organize readings and have been doing so for the past two years. This September we are going to have our first anthology published and are taking an active part in Herne Hill Literary Festival. I also had two of my poems published, one in Streetcake Magazine, issue number 7, (http://www.streetcakemagazine.com/archive.ht ml) and the other one on the London Underground (http://hparkart.com/work_2010_poemsontheun derground.html). Writing means a lot to me and I hope Ill be doing it as a full-time occupation one day. Danielle Williams - My name is Danielle, and Im currently sipping wine and listening to music trying to figure out how to define myself in a hundred words. I suppose the word that defines me most honestly is: searching. I am searching for a way to connect what is inside me with the world outside me. Often times, Im bewildered by how our world operates, and more often, I feel very alien. Im on the outside observing and noting observations. My noting methodologies include words, drawings, videos, performances, and conversations. But these are things I do, not who I am. I suppose, most honestly, Im still searching for who I am...
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I pushed upon my gate and found it gone. - David Jeffrey

Photo from Dipti Anand

Forward to the Turl Times

Turl Times October 1, 2011

Carolina Amoroso: Argentina Buenos Aires

Turl Times Vol. II Issue 4

Janet, Anna, Ambrose, Rhonda, Calvin, Rebecca, To

Photo from Steffi Sabathy

Photo from Steffi Sabathy

Dipti Anand India New Delhi

Janet Barr Australia Melbourne

Turl Times Vol. II Issue 4

Turl Times October 1, 2011

Turl Times Vol. II Issue 4

Trisha Bhattacharya Kolkata India

Turl Times October 1, 2011

Turl Times Vol. II Issue 4

Photo from Rebecca Brothers

Turl Times October 1, 2011

Rebecca Brothers U.S.A. Oregon

Turl Times Vol. II Issue 4

Turl Times October 1, 2011

Turl Times Vol. II Issue 4

Turl Times October 1, 2011

Photo from Cilla Henriette

Turl Times October 1, 2011

Turl Times Vol. II Issue 4

Photo from Steffi Sabathy

Turl Times October 1, 2011

Lorenza Haddad: Mexico Cuernavaca currently living in Houston, TX

Turl Times Vol. II Issue 4

Turl Times October 1, 2011

Cilla Henriette Indonesia currently living in Amsterdam

Turl Times Vol. II Issue 4

Im getting married next year! Oh my God! Congratulations!

Turl Times October 1, 2011

Photo from Carolina Amoroso

David Jeffrey: Australia - Sydney currently living in Sleepy Hollow, NY

Turl Times October 1, 2011

Jackie Lee King: U.S.A. Michigan City, IN

Photo from Steffi Sabathy

Turl Times Vol. II Issue 4

Well, he still has duties to perform. relieve me in the morning.

Turl Times October 1, 2011

Turl Times Vol. II Issue 4

Turl Times October 1, 2011

Turl Times Vol. II Issue 4

Photo from Carolina Amoroso

Turl Times Vol. II Issue 4

Amy Lovat: Australia Newcastle

Turl Times October 1, 2011

James Edwin McDonough: U.S.A. Charlottesville, VA

Turl Tales of the Sea Or: Pirate, this book. * * *

Turl Times Vol. II Issue 4

a devoted reader of Darwins work. * * *

Photo from Steffi Sabathy

skill was unmatched save for the Elite. * * *

Turl Times Vol. II Issue 4

Turl Times October 1, 2011

Photo from Sheeba Shah

Turl Times Vol. II Issue 4

Sean McIntyre: Australia Melbourne

Turl Times October 1, 2011