WORK IN PROGRESS 2Parties"Oui, Monsieur, we do ‘ave a spare table, eef you would care to sit down." The Maitre d’ pulled the chair back and Roger sat down. It was not the most comfortable chair he had ever sat on, but it was comfortable enough for his liking. One of its legs was a little shorter than the others, which made the chair wobble whenever Roger moved. He was about to say something about it to the Maitre d’ but he was cut short. "Comfortable, I ‘ope, monsieur?" There was something so odious in the way he said it and in the way he stared right into Roger’s eyes that Roger was compelled to answer: "Oh, yes." "Bon. Euh, now, would Monsieur care to see ze wine leest or ze menu feurst?" The Maitre d’ smiled with false charm and handed Roger the menu. Roger was about to open it when the Maitre d’ held it shut. Roger looked up with surprise and reproach at the waiter’s face and was about to protest when the Maitre d’ slid into his oily speech again. "At your own pace, Monsieur." "Er. . .yes, no hurry, eh?" "Absolutement not, Monsieur. Call me when you ‘ave decided," then he added in a voice as cold as the ice in the wine basket, "at your own pace." The Maitre d’ walked away, smiling at the other, more glamorous diners. Roger felt embarrassed. He could see the woman at the table next to him looking at him disdainfully. She turned to say something to the gentleman next to her, and then they both began staring at Roger. He pretended not to notice. And opened the menu. It was all in French. And he could not speak a word of it. At last he hit upon something which seemed vaguely familiar - duck and vegetable stew, he thought it was - and he called the Maitre d’. The waiter was on the other side of the room, talking to some nickel tycoon in a dinner suit, smiling and laughing not falsely but genuinely at what the diner was saying. He signaled to Roger that he would be a few moments, so Roger put his menu down and began to look around the restaurant. It was enormous. Great columns of concrete encased with mirrors held up the roof, which was ornately decorated. The carpet was red, as well as the curtains, with tables packed so tightly that it was almost impossible to move. But the thing which made it seem even bigger was the crowd. At least two hundred people were dining there that night, many in large parties. And here was Roger McKillon in the midst of it all, alone at a small table in a sea of people. Completely alone. What a way to spend his thirtieth birthday. Alone, without a single person to talk to or eat with. He had rung his parents, but they had told him to have a nice night with his friends and see them later. It was only afterwards that he had discovered that David was in Canada, Kang was out with his girlfriend, Peter had to go to a wedding and Ron was down with shingles. So he was alone in unfamiliar territory with an odious waiter and people staring at him. The endless chatter around him seemed to grow louder and louder. All those parties - people together, laughing, talking and eating. All the tables around him had at least three people at them; the one to his right had twelve, all the men in suits and the women in outlandish finery, chatting away without a care in the world except the quality of the wine. Roger felt depressed. He needed to talk to someone. He needed his own party to go to. He needed- "Alors, Monsieur, would you like to ordeur?" The Maitre d’ was at his elbow. Roger didn’t know how long he had been there. "Er. . .yes, I’ll have the, er. . . ‘Canard avec legumes’ please." "Verra well, Monsieur, in no time at all. Would you like to see ze wine leest?" With that he looked at Roger with the same odiousness in his eyes that he had used before. Roger shifted a little in his seat, wobbling it uncontrollably. "Er. . .no, thanks." The waiter’s nostrils flared. "I’ll just have. . .er. . .a Moselle. I don’t mind which." "Certainement, Monsieur," said the Maitre d’. He then amplified his voice, "Eez Monsieur alone tonight?" The large party next to Roger roared. Maybe it was just a good joke somebody told, thought Roger. He was becoming more and more aware of his isolation in that chaotic sea. An island being eroded away to nothingness. "Er. . . yes, I am." "I see. Zen you are treating yourself?" "It’s my birthday," said Roger, a little indignantly. "Many ‘appy returns, zen, Monsieur. I ‘ope you ‘ave a big party sometime for eet." Again the large party near them roared. Almost every minute, one party somewhere in that cavernous restaurant burst into laughter. Roger was alone, with nobody to laugh with or converse with. The Maitre d’ looked across at the large party and smiled charmingly at its host. He turned around to look down at Roger with that same smile on his face He then walked off. Roger felt very uneasy. The talking was even louder, as if it was all over him, covering him. Every so often an explosion of laughter would come from some table or other, at which he would start and almost break his chair to pieces. So many parties around him, with Roger McKillon as the one outsider, whose party was himself that night. Why wasn’t Kang here to tell a great story? Surely Ron couldn’t have shingles that badly? David was probably going to ten million parties in Canada, and Peter was at the ultimate party - a wedding. Parties everywhere. Except at one little table in a cavern of mirrors and chandeliers. Roger felt trapped - seeing himself in the mirrors on every column just made the restaurant seem bigger and himself smaller. The talking intensified to fever pitch, the explosions of laughter more and more frequent. Parties of people all staring at him and talking disdainfully. One table began to sing "Happy Birthday" to a young girl. Not to him. Why did he not have twenty people singing to him? Self-centredness or suffering? The parties went on and on, their noise growing louder and louder, their presence becoming greater and greater, the cavern becoming even more huge. The Maitre d’ put something in front of him. The stew, Roger thought. But it wasn’t. It was a piece of chocolate cake with whipped cream. A man came forward in a smart dinner suit and began playing a violin. Three chefs began to sing "Happy Birthday" to him. The other parties stopped talking and listened. Roger was amazed. He looked over at the large party near him. They were staring harder than ever. But he didn’t mind. The management had done something for him and him alone. He was determined to come back next year. . . THEODORE ELL -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Study 1Write a dialogue in English between 2 characters where only one of the characters speaks English. Or, Write a dialogue between 2 characters where one character has something important to say but finds it impossible to say it. The dialogues are to be written in narrative form (i.e. not in the form of a script), and the aim is to convey the interaction with as little spoken language as possible. Good dialogue is not just about what comes between the inverted commas, but the narrative that goes on around the direct speech. In this study concentrate on the bodies, let the narrator do the work, so the direct speech is sparse and realistic. The direct speech, that is, should serve a dramatic rather than a narrative (information-giving) function. "Hello. Are you lost?" "Loss." "Where are your parents?" "Loss." "You've lost your parents?" "P'ents. Loss. Hm." The child was beginning to lose interest in this conversation. The woman was too tall and he didn't like her voice and he was suffocating on her perfume. He ran over to the swing and climbed onto it. He couldn't quite work out what it was meant to do, but it had a pretty blue and red frame. "I think we should go and try to find your parents, don't you?" Misunderstanding his clutching tightly to the chain of the swing as an affirmative, she tried to take him by the hand and pull him along. He was really beginning to feel that this creature was taking too many liberties, so he sat down on the ground, pulling off one of the woman's gold rings in the process. "Now that isn't very helpful," she said condescendingly, replacing the gaudy gold band. "We have to go and find your parents. Did they tell you when they would be back?" She was speaking more to keep her train of thought than to find information, and had no idea where one goes to hand in lost children. She made up for this by looking concernedly around her, hoping to catch the eye of a particularly motherly-looking person. And having taken responsibility for this child, she was beginning to feel that she should do something about the fact that he was sitting on the ground stuffing woodchips into his shirt. She knelt down on the ground so as to be more at his level. "Now, listen very carefully. Did your mother say anything about where she was going?" He recognised that word. It had something to do with directions. People walking in them, that is. "Going," he said triumphantly, pointing his finger out dramatically, smiling at this new game. The woman followed his finger. It led into a park. There was no-one there except some early-morning football players. They were of quite a tender age, and were unsupervised. Determined to take full advantage of their freedom, one was pushing another's face into the mud repeatedly, while another was 'passing' the ball at his friends head with an unwarranted ferocity, with another standing on the side, plaintively saying that they were supposed to be playing by the rules. None of them were of a particularly promising appearance with regard to them being in charge of the little boy. "Is one of those your brother?" she asked doubtfully. The little boy had a brother. "Brother," he said earnestly, shaking his head. "That is your brother?" This conversation had really exhausted all small vestiges of interest for the little boy. It really was much more fun stuffing bracken into his shirt (and ears and mouth and nose, as it turned out). Mrs. Matthews looked around helplessly, and wandered away. Someone would come and pick up the boy eventually. Jude Hungerford -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A slightly built boy strolled by the side of the park, trailing a party of chattering adults. He could not understand any of the signs on the building or by the road, but that was okay with him, so long as he blended in. A new metallic blue Citroen pulled up at the lights and he scrutinised its sleek lines approvingly. Even this far from home our workmanship is recognised, he concluded smugly. For some reason he suddenly looked up. The absence of the halo of chatter that floated around the adults became evident. No more sibilant ‘that Christian…’ followed by a studied, casual tossing of hair from one shoulder to another. He turned with a cynical air to see if they were playing a joke on him. He ran back to the park gates and glanced around. Halting, he smoothed down his designer jacket and tried desperately to read the signs. They had said they were looking for the…railway station?museum?hotel-where-third-cousin-Arnaud-is? Shoulders drooping he started to distil the disconnected concepts that he had last absorbed from the halo. "Hello sonny. Are you lost?" Mako wraparounds stared at Yves St. Laurent aviators. Christian flicked off his glasses with the polished action of the man in the advertisement and slotted them into his jacket pocket. He poised himself on his back foot and started explaining what had happened and who his parents were and where his hotel was and how exactly did this man plan to help him and who was this man anyway? The man tried to contain the fast ebbing flow by waving his hand wildly and repeating some strange phrase: "Just stay here, stay here, stay here now… just a sec." Christian considered a quick dash across the road. The traffic was extremely fast but there were only six lanes and maybe if there were a clear patch he could make it. Maybe this was one of the beggars he had been warned about in the park. Make sure anyone who accosts you is well dressed, nagged his aunt in his mind… "718 in park. Lost kid here, doesn’t speak English? No idea where he comes from…look, I’ll see if I can get a hotel…" Christian studied the man as he stepped away. Black shoes, bomber jacket, blue creased pants…refugee from the ‘70s, he thought contemptuously. "Listen, sonny. You…stay…in...hotel?" The boy pulled his jacket around his waist and zipped it up. He used the tips of his Nikes to chip chunks of grass out of the lawn. Although he had not understood what the man had said, he was beginning to feel insecure. Was this man a local police officer? Officers didn’t dress like this back home. He surveyed the belt of equipment. A baton, handcuffs and a pistol. He must be a policeman. Now what could he be asking for? Policemen didn’t behave like this back home. They could all see that he was a member of the Slick Clique. He decided to keep his mouth shut, secure in the fact that he could not have made himself understood anyway. "What…is…the…name…of…the…hotel?" The boy leaned back against the wall and tried to look nonchalant. He looked up his nose at the towering policeman. "718. He’s got no idea what I’m saying. Going to try some sign language." Christian decided that he would run at the next convenient moment. The policeman poked himself in the chest with his finger and said "Mark". Christian remembered the World Athletic Championships that he had watched on TV. That was what they said before the race started, wasn’t it? The constable deduced that his point had not gotten across. He drew his baton and poked himself in the chest again and repeated "Mark". Then he poked Christian in the chest and wrenched up hid eyebrows to look inquiring. It was abruptly snatched from him and the boy dashed across the road. Christian took the baton and set off on the final 100 metres of the relay. Another competitor was closing rapidly from the left. His team-mate shouted a warning behind him: " The Jag! Watch out for the Jag!" He accelerated. The other competitor had been catching up but was slowing now… The constable watched the car brake, fishtail, and slam into the boy side on. Zi-Yang Lim -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The rain fell heavily on the misty forest. As the mind focuses in on this place, a settlement is revealed through the heavy tree growth. Carefully constructed houses serve as shelter, whilst the area is peppered with delicate shrines to the gods, a huge pantheon of greater beings to watch over the tribe. The tracks to important nearby sites are marked by a series of complex markings on nearby trees, and the residents live in blissful coexistence with the land’s other creatures. Dr McGhan looked down on all this wonder from a neighbouring hill, and saw just another bloody village of savages. He turned to the rest of his party. "Looks like another settlement here. Let’s move down and meet the natives." As the party moved into the village, residents gathered around in awed astonishment at the sight of these white ghosts, who the leaders claimed had come to deliver news of the gods, or perhaps to exact vengeance for some sin that a tribe member had committed. Their leader, Bhim, cautiously approached the first ghost to enter the village. "Namaste, devaduta. Kim tvaya sthayate? Asti mama guna an duhkam?" Dr McGhan stood patiently and waited for the savage to finish his muttering. Sloppiness, that was the problem. Too much of it around these days. If someone could just persuade these natives to speak proper English instead of this drivel they insisted on using. Sheer stubborn bloody-mindedness, that was what it was. He sighed, took a deep breath, and addressed the filthy man slowly and loudly, so he could understand, "WHO ARE YOU? WHAT IS THIS PLACE CALLED? I AM AN EXPLORER, MY NAME IS DAVID MCGHAN!" The villagers, naturally, were somewhat taken aback by this approach, Bhim in particular. Had the gods sent this ghost to punish them through his incomprehensible screaming? Or were they being tested? His mind buzzed in contemplation of this dilemma. He decided to try again. "Na janami, devaduta. Tad uktas, na janami kim krtam." Dr McGhan sighed again, and reverted to sign language. He pointed at himself and shouted "DAVID!", then pointed at the native and shouted "JOHN!", since it was the first name he thought of for this stubborn, stupid man. "Jon?" A sacrifice? This was bad news indeed, if the ghost wanted a sacrifice. The gods must have been truly upset. Bhim readied himself to appease the gods. He pointed to himself and nodded at the white ghost. "Asmi jon." Dr McGhan nodded in a business-like fashion at the savage, who it seemed could learn at last. This only proved that his refusal to speak English was stubborn, of course. He turned to his men, and said "Let’s go back to our camp. We’ll take this one with us, send him back to Britain on one of the ships. We can set up the outpost and the school for these natives tomorrow." The villagers turned away, already mourning their chief who had gone as a sacrifice of the white ghosts. Ahead of Dr McGhan’s exploration and education party, the limitless forest stretched, and the still the cascades of water fell. Each drop was a nourishing piece of life sent by the guardian gods of nature to help the land and the people to grow. Behind the expedition, it just rained. Simon Hammond -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Who in hell ate my iceblock?" I asked loudly, turning, waiting for an answer, only to see that my brother was still fixed on his magazine. "What are you looking at me for?" he demanded, after finally looking up. "I want to know who took my iceblock," I repeated. "And you would be looking at me, why?" "Because I think you…" "Well I didn’t." "Look, did you take my iceblock? Yes or no! Come on be honest." "Read my lips. I did not take your stupid iceblock." "Yeah right!" I said as I turned around in exaggerated disgust. "What? I told you I didn’t and I didn’t! What? You can’t believe your own brother now?" "Should I?" "I told you that I didn’t…" "Well if you didn’t take it then who did?" "I don’t know! The man on the moon or someone! Who gives a damn? I mean look, what would I want with your stupid iceblock?" "To eat it!" "Yeah, well, even if I did take it, what does it matter? It’s not as if it was the last iceblock. You know, it’s not as if there’s gonna be a great iceblock shortage around the world and you’re never gonna eat another one." "I don’t care, it was my iceblock, it was the last one we had, and you ate it. Say it. You ate it didn’t you?" "It was just an iceblock!" "Yeah, my iceblock! And if you think you can just waltz in and eat other peo…" "OK! I ate it! I ate your goddamn iceblock! Are you happy?" "Yes," I said simply, after a short but glorious pause. "Look, if you really want I can buy you another one," he offered, tinges of guilt spreading across his face. "No, don’t worry. I didn’t really want it anyway," I answered coolly, happily observing his reaction. "Then what on earth have you been biting my head off for?" he asked despairingly. "You took something that was mine." "You didn’t want it!" "You didn’t know that!" I said. He went silent, not able to put his frustration into words. Finally he let out a short sigh and stormed off. Happily I sat down and picked up his magazine and began to read. Hugh Atkin -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Study 2This study is about mood, about describing a location in such a way that you tell the reader something about your story or characters without referring to them directly. Setting a scene is not always about establishing mood (locating a story physically is an important function in itself), but in this study I want it to be our focus. Think of a mood you want to convey. Without direct reference to this mood, or to any characters, evoke the mood purely through your description of a physical location. It is a difficult task, and you wouldn’t have your hands so tied behind your back when writing an actual story where your characters can be there from the start, but for the purpose of this study, we should be able to recognise the mood you want to convey without having to be told what it is. As you enter the room you will notice that everything is arranged in geological order: the oldest at the bottom up to the newest carelessly tossed on top. Under the sprawl of books and papers it is just possible to make out the last reorganisation, books shelved by subject. On spare shelves temporarily unused books and sheets are piled haphazardly. Wandering in deeper, boxes and slabs of styrofoam lean against the wall. A monolithic white wardrobe seems to grow out of the wall, posters hanging askew on the sliding doors. The walls are all lined with unmatched furniture, a bed, bookshelves and three desks. Piles of paper cover most of the desk space. Handouts for subjects, magazines, old newspapers, books, game manuals are all littered throughout the room, accumulated slowly over a month or two. There is one chair at the central desk. It is wooden, but few notice because of the layers of discarded clothing heaped on it. A tie hanging on one side and a belt on the other gives it form. The central desk displays distinct strata: the latest Time on the top, handouts from various classes all the way down to last months’ New Scientist. The extensive collection of pens and pencils on the desk is the same. Towards the front of the desk are the latest pens, smooth medium-point biros leaking ink, to the still useable fineliners from last year to the moisture absorbing primary school survivors. Once you have examined every feature of this attraction, please exit the way you came. Zi-Yang Lim -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- That room would have put a war zone in its place. It was hard to believe that such an outwardly neat person as Simon would have such a disaster area as a bedroom. The carpet was practically invisible, as it was covered with assorted articles of clothing of every size and colour. A sock, whose original colour was obviously lost under a layer of grime, was draped unceremoniously over the back of the only chair in the room. The seat was buried under a pile of rather intimate garments that, if slightly more compressed, would serve as well as any brick. The stench emanating from that part of the room was worse than that of an open sewer with a dash of coal gas. The desk was buried some three or four feet deep in a gigantic mess of papers, files and folders. It was sagging under all the weight and looked about to snap at any moment, sending the whole pile into further disarray. What was more worrying about the papers was that those at the bottom were all ready yellow with age - which meant that they had been there for an awfully long time. Cobwebs had developed between the bottom few pages and the desk, some of them looking years old. The strewn clothing on the floor was arranged (well, not quite) as though it had all been blasted out of the big cupboard at my end of the room. Shirts, trousers, socks - all were draped over the furniture, the floor and the bed as though some great explosion had flung them there. There was even a pair of underpants hanging on the curtain rail. The curtains themselves were lacerated and torn; the pulley system which opened and shut them was tangled out of recognition - obviously it hadn’t worked in years. The windows were covered in fingerprints and stray paint, as Simon had been, as he said, "Touching up the paintwork" in his room only the week before. I tried to walk into the middle of the room, but some article of clothing got tangled around my leg and I tripped. My fall was broken by other bits and pieces - a few shirts, I think - and I found myself on the floor, trapped in a fabricated marsh of clothing. While I was thus incapacitated, I caught a glimpse of the carpet. It was obviously something that hadn’t been done in a long time, judging from what I saw. Whatever colour it had been, it certainly hadn’t been stale brown. It was the colour of cow dung, and it smelt the same way. Some of the clothes had clearly been lying there for some time, as their undersides were of the same colour and odour. It was foul to look at. I managed to disentangle myself from the heap of cotton refuse and stood up. The bed caught my sight. Of course, it was unmade, but down the centre of the mattress were various multicoloured stains of many sizes and colours. I was nearly sick. I started to make my way out of that disgusting room, thinking that I might have lost all respect for Simon and his apparent neatness. At the door, I met him. He looked at me rather oddly and said, "What were you doing in my brother’s room?" Simon Hammond -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The air was cold, the moisture on the ground freezing the grasses into a mat of icicles, to be crushed under the fall of stealthy feet. The moon, waxing close to full, lit the shifting mists in eerie blades between the trees, the stars lighting the net of clouds that hung timeless in the night sky. An owl cried, the hunter's exultation barely sounding in the absolute silence of its woodland domain. A line of trees would fall away to a brief plain, and further to a river hurtling by, fed by the clouds and rains of several nights, mirrors of this, but distorted in their perception, unique in the eyes of the night creatures. For each had their own memories, their own reflections on the cries of the owl, and the plaintive cries for help, of anguish, that followed. The banks of the river were absolutely wild, and terrifying in their blooms of life. The river had receded from a flood, leaving the banks reshaped and fair ground for all who wished to claim territory. The briars were the most vicious, desperately clawing their way up from the dead sands, taking all the land they could. The rabbits and mice would then furtively move in, hoping the initial ferocity of the briars would have died, hoping to be allowed to live among roots and thorns, away from the noses of foxes. The clouds were forever shifting, yet maintained their eqilibrium, their even distribution over the sky by some unnamed intelligence. They channeled the light of the moon and the stars, capturing it all in their net and sending it down on the sleeping earth, making the eyes of the sylvan creatures gleam. Under such a light, none can challenge the trees in their dominance. None can hope to live but by the whim of a force they do not understand and never can, by the whim of a force that has no desire, no feeling, no caring for the insignificant forms that dwell on its surface and impose destruction where they can. All that remains after it is the dwindling supply of sorrow it leaves behind. Jude Hungerford ________________________________________________________________ We had shot past it in the train; Billourds, Billod, Millard…the name escapes me now. It was in no way an eye-catching or even attractive place. Yet there was something about its uniformity, its indistinctness, which fascinated a fatigued traveler. After seeing the sites of many a great city, the sheer honesty of the location proved striking. It had no facades to mask the grimness, no reputation to maintain. A grey mist hung ominously over the town, a mostly desolate mix of bleak warehouses and asphalt. Electricity pylons dotted the landscape, humming contentedly. Enormous fan-like structures were another feature, though completely lacking any of the tweeness of their Dutch counterparts, the windmill. It had not occurred to anyone to make the setting picturesque, to harmonize technology with the environment, and ugliness did indeed prevail. The only signs of life came from the yellow glow in some houses’ windows, where ruddy-faced men in berets might greet each other with a cheery "Bonjour!", while on the road the odd Renault or Citroen would scamper about like a dusty, little beetle. Snow fell that afternoon outside the train windows, two squares of thick glass that yielded much of the weak December light. A wind from across the town lofted snowflakes against the panes, where they melted and ran towards the margins of the glass. Beyond the station the town spread along the extremities of the railway line for about a kilometre or so, obviously the life-line of the communities now that most of the factories had closed their doors. A few weatherworn villas, remnants of a lost era of industrial optimism, loomed out of the snowfall on the town’s sporadic hills. Beyond them, pines wove a mat of still green. The snow blurred from vision the contours of these wooded hills and the horizon remained indistinct. The wind drove snowflakes steadily towards the hills, hurling them against the pines, and snow began to settle imperceptibly on their branches…then as fast as it had come into vision, the town abruptly ended and vanished into the bleakness, an ugly blemish on the plane of space, as the train sped into the darkness. Andrew McGovern -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Signor Granado’s villa was stunningly beautiful. It had a red-bricked façade, with square windows and a verandah for both floors. A kind of porch stood out to further shelter the front door. This porch was supported by white stone pillars, with a Corinthian design at their ends. The front garden was quite large, with a circular gravel drive and a small, round patio in the centre. In the middle of this splendid front garden, there was a beautiful fountain, composed of statues of fish and Goddesses. However, it was at the back of the house that Granado’s craftsmanship was laid bare. The back garden was enormous; fully seven acres of virtual parkland. Around the back verandah, he had turned dead patches of grass into blazing flowerbeds, in which grew many a rare plant. The vast expanses of the lawn were dotted with immense pine trees and small plots of hedges, which had been sculpted into such intricate forms of topiary that they looked like lithe, green animals. One could have walked around that area all day and would still not have explored everything. There were benches scattered around the garden in individual patios, where one could sit and take in the blooming roses and the immense trees. Around these patios, bees indefatigably buzzed around the flowers, their buzzing giving the whole garden a relaxed and lazy air. About a quarter of a mile from the villa itself was a hedge maze. The bushes that created it were squarely cut, as if austerely telling those lost within them that it would take forever to get out. On a hot day, one could take a short dip in the fountain at the centre of the maze, which lay at the end of such ingenious twists and turns that it took a long time to get to. If one walked to the end of the garden, about half a mile away, one could look back down the long avenue of silent trees at the villa, so small compared to that enormous, beautiful garden. Theodore Ell -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Study 3Writing with limitations once again. This time describe a setting but without the use of any adjectives. The aim is to focus on correct choice of noun and verb. Too often we use adjectives because we haven’t chosen the strongest noun or verb. The resonances have to come from here. Once we force ourselves to think in this way we can then introduce adjectives, sparingly, and therefore to greatest effect. ________________________________________________________________ I do not like the temperature. Nor do I like the humidity. In fact, this place has a lot of problems. The people are no less of a problem than the air. The humidity makes my clothes stick to my skin and the heat makes me cough and choke and the people sicken me. No, there's not much about this place that I can compliment. I look out the window. They put bars over them. Grilles over the windows that sit there and rust on the outside. They say it's to stop people from breaking in. I understand. There are people for whom this place is a haven. People don't normally come here except by force, making it a sanctuary for people who don't want their screams heard. And they won't be. Not here. No sounds come out of this place that are not planned by the management, so no-one worries about the inmates. People are concerned by silence, so they play music here. The sort of music they play across phonelines to people who don't want to be kept waiting there. It's a cover used by criminals. Everyone listens, nobody allows themself to be frightened. It covers what lies underneath, it quiets the baby whose schedule isn't the same as that of its parents. I look up and the scene doesn't change. Do you know how disconcerting it can be to move your eyes up and down and turn around and around and retain the same view wherever you look? Of course, grey is not the colour I see. I see beige and pale orange. God? We are told every day about god. I met someone who saw him once. Said he was a light on the horizon. Everyone knows, though, that he erred. You never get to see the horizon any more than you get to see god. The horizon is the wall or the ceiling or sometimes it's the top of a skyscraper if you're lucky enough to see the sky. I need to sleep but I can't. Not with the noise playing through the Public Announcement System. Have you noticed that they never capitalise the S? I wonder why. Such trivialities are not noticed. If we noticed them we might be able to disentangle things, pick the silence from the noise. But we don't, and so we awaken every time a dream disentangles itself from the mass of disease and hatred. A fly is crawling up the wall. I watch it and wish more such creatures could break the monotony. Jude Hungerford _____________________________________________________ The grimoire creaked open in Tourach’s hands. All his life he had been working towards this moment… he could almost feel the power coruscating through his veins already. Perhaps now they would let him take his place at the academy, and allow him to become a mage. Perhaps now he could force them to ‘overlook’ his "instability". Instability, his eye! No-one but a genius could have penetrated so far into the catacombs of the Duke’s castle itself, no-one but him… Tourach paused briefly as he sensed an inconsistency in the flow of magic flooding from the book’s open pages, and chuckled to himself. The Elders must have been napping when they set this trap, he told himself. A babe in arms could navigate around the deadlocks here. He relaxed a little as his mind bypassed the runes designed to explode on sight, and he allowed himself a smirk of triumph. This was his moment at last! As he worked easily through the motions of each ritual, of each phrase and nuance of the ceremonies in the tome, his consciousness drew back, to take in the scene around him, that he might treasure it when he was the Arch Mage. The vault – almost a cavern, it seemed to him – dated back as far as the Elders themselves, and its location on top of the caldera that fed the castle’s heating and energy supplies made concentration a challenge for all but a master of his craft. As the flames danced around the altar on which he perused the Book of Power, he was reminded of his time in the underworld, researching the enchantments that had gained him access to this very chamber. The bridge on which he had crossed seemed to have its origins before even the spirits of the underworld, and its age was perhaps the peril he had overcome most easily on his journey here, to the heart of the Caves. The Caves themselves needed no description other than their name; when peasants from the town had spoken of them, Tourach could hear the capital being applied, could hear the importance they attached to the network. Finally he was here. And, having mastered the contents of the book while his consciousness examined the vault, he could begin. Tourach raised his hands skywards (ironic, given the depth of the chamber), and began to intone the Words. These were much more than mere collections of syllables; each had a power and significance of its own, and as he pronounced them, each coalesced into existence, a colour which brooded in the air around him. When he had completed the vortex of energy, he gazed with satisfaction on the whirlwind which now filled the vault and yet did not disturb the flames at all, and he slammed the grimoire. And saw the rune which adorned the back of the book’s cover. He barely had time for the sliver of a scream before the vortex collapsed, folding in on itself until it reached Tourach… and suddenly the chamber was devoid of all life, of anything at all except an altar, a bridge, and a slightly larger Book of Power. Simon Hammond -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Jason walked down the street. He kicked the leaves. He had on a hat and a coat. He walked with his hands in his pockets. Searching for his place. The place among the trees. In the shadows. Where the voices were quelled and silenced. Along the foot-path he went, getting closer. Rising up before him were birds. Flying all around. Moving in spirals. Faster he went. Faster. Almost there now. He was running now. To that safe place… There it was, the tree. Now just round the other side. NO! It was gone. His place of safety. His Castle. His Boat. His Trench. Gone. How could this happen? Where was it? No more defending against sieges, climbing Mount Everest. A woman walked up and Jason went over crying. "Well where is it?" said Jason through the tears. "Why, I don’t… " the lady began… "Where is it?" Jason was shouting now. "It was getting old," said the woman. "Even dangerous." "I don’t care! Get it back." "You know I can’t. How about we go and play on that thing. We could get ice-cream," "It’s stupid," said Jason sullenly. "I want the fort back, Granny. "Look," said the lady almost desperately, "How about we go and see a movie?" "Ok," said Jason, the fort completely forgotten. And off they went. Out of the park. Holding hands. Jason didn’t even look back at the dirt patch where the fort had been. David Halpern ______________________________________________________________ Life and death. Always mourning. Up and down. Always falling. Suddenly appearing, forever interfering. This wind that brings the first of morning’s light. The trees are growing, all around the sky is snowing. The snow is falling up as well as falling down. The trees are heavy, the light is sagging, the forest is again filled with night. Footprints in a clearing, forever disappearing. The purposeless meandering of fate. God is dying, the night is sighing, the music of the ground begins to cease. Daytime rises, the chirping near the houses yet farther than forever and a day. The city wakes in the way the city does. Never knowing quite what it does. All its rhymes and all its reasons all so one race can commit a treason. Who defines what I can do? No-one’s out there, not even you. The slinking continues, the light is almost down here. Sending a signal, a signal to begin….begin what will never be done. Who can tell me when he will see me? Who can tell me when I will be me? God is dying as the wind is flying. Flying round the chimneys – in and out the trees. It is the wind that brought us, it is the wind that chills us, so it is the wind we cut out from our lives. The wind that made us we will try to hide. The noises of the morning. One of the monsters has found what it can. Something it should have left alone. The trees must give way in search of this nothing. The trees are falling, the snow stops falling, the music of the ground will never play. Daylight fastens upon a vast newness. The sea of life has once more dried to dust. The gold in the ground has made the fuss. In and out. Always moving. Side to side. Always choosing. Suddenly appearing, forever interfering. The man that brings the bareness of the light. The man that kills the music of the night. Joshua Libling ________________________________________________________________ I am sitting in a room. I take a Strepsil and suck on it, for I have the flu. Cat Stevens drones on in the background, and I enjoy listening to him strain out "Father and Son" over and over again. I am sitting at a desk, of course. In front I see a computer, to the left, a tissue-box, to the right, a pencil-case and books. I pick up a pen and begin the work I had meant to start earlier. It is later now, but I am not tired. I don’t get tired until late, and it’s not late yet. Only later. You see, for me, time is not "twelve o’clock" or "two thirty" or "seven fifteen", but a relativity, in a sense: it is earlier or later, or later still, but what the clock says doesn’t seem to matter, if you get the point. The reason for this is the life I choose to live- I don’t have time to think, let alone worry, what the clock reads! It is simply either early or late enough to do what I plan to do, and that’s it. I find it simpler to live like this than otherwise, though. No time to worry means no worries, doesn’t it! And so the reason why I am sitting in a room, sucking on Strepsils and listening to Cat Stevens pump it out (he’s gotten better since I began writing this) in the background is because I can. To live freely is to live best, and I do what I want. Jeremy Raper ________________________________________________________________ The blackness smudged across the horizon was no illusion, as it turned out. Ruha had never actually seen Rhuannach, but she had heard tales of it. As she rode, the strip took on the appearance of the abyss marking the site of the apocalypse before the Scattering. The Bedine believed that this was where the gods, centuries before, had destroyed the denizens from the Camp of the Dead. When Ruha was close enough to peer over the edge of the hollow she saw that it assumed the shape of a bowl. It was beyond comprehension, this place. She tasted dust in her mouth and checked the cloth that covered her face. Readjusting it, she continued studying the hollow. Except for a few dunes of silt, the walls were covered entirely with soot. In the centre of the basin a cone made of amber, said to be made from the ashes of the denizens, rose nearly as high as the lips of the basin. A pair of lakes, both formed in the crescent of a scimitar's blade, formed a ring around the base of the cone. One of the two was emerald-green and the other was silver like a jambaiya's blade. Ruha carefully climbed down the slope of the basin, glancing behind her occasionally to check on the train of camels following her. Slicing the tether on all but one of the camels, she released them to eke out what life they could, here in the centre of the desert. Hauling the remaining camel by its reins she began to stumble towards the lakes, desperately concentrating on walking upright. It seemed that days passed before she finally stood on the shore of one of the lakes. The silver of the water reflected nothing of her image, didn't alter or change one whit as she stood staring into the waters. Drawing her jambaiya, she quickly slashed out at the camel's throat. The camel didn't make a sound as it fell forwards; quickly swallowed up by the mercury that was the lake. Ruha watched, unable to breathe, as the corpse sank into the water. She sat by the shore of that lake for hours, waiting and watching for a miracle that did not come. Gradually, gradually, her sight faded. Darkness took over her world as she realised that the things she had held sacred for most of her life were just lies. No miracles would appear. Nothing was going to happen. She was stranded here, miles from everything and everyone she knew. The dagger left its sheath again and the camel's corpse was joined by another. Alastair Corrigall ________________________________________________________________ For those who’ve come across the seas… Sydney Morning Herald, Tuesday 8th May 2003 The Prime Minister and the new Minister of Immigration announced a host of new restrictions last night to combat the growing trend of violence among boatloads of illegal immigrants. New guidelines for the use of force by coast guard and navy vessels were introduced, including for the first time permission to use light weapons (such as the Steyr AUG assault rifle) to ‘deter or neutralise threats to (Navy/Coast guard) personnel and other parties’. The Prime Minister acknowledged that the recent exchange of fire between Indonesian Navy vessels and pirates transporting illegal immigrants had strongly influenced the government’s decision. * * * Rating Norton shouldered the assault rifle and strolled to the range. Any faster and the red dust shimmering at his ankles would billow up to knee height. The Army quartermaster had emphasised that the battledress pants he had been lent were to be ‘retoined assyergoddem’. The range master motioned him to the firing line. The first magazine had to be fired at targets 40m away. Norton took careful aim and fired three quick shots. The trouble with these small bullets was you couldn’t see the holes from more than 20m away…someone hoisted a red flag behind the targets. Heartburn stung his throat. It was plain that no-one else was on this part of the range so Maggie’s Drawers had to be for him. Three consecutive complete misses from aimed shots! You could be transferred to shore duty for basic training with that kind of marksmanship. "Norton’s well below par, Lieutenant." "I think he’s using the scope now sir." "A toddler could use that better than he does. Anyway, he’s leaving on sea patrol tomorrow." * * * The girl slumped on an inner tube in the bilge had no name. The book of English names slowly moving between the passengers had not reached her family yet, but she was familiar with its opening passage: The Missionary’s Handbook was conceived to aid missionaries in the conversion of pagans by supplying suitable names for people of all ages. Great care has been taken to make sure these names are in contemporary use so as to aid the integration of the converted into Christian society. Young girls, for example, should take a name such as Agatha or Olga. She had decided on Margaret before they left Indonesia. Her English teacher back home had given them readers that charted little Margaret’s activities from her daily life at home to the interesting people she met at the beach. Australia was so famous for its beaches, another Margaret would easily fit in. The corvette fumbled its way through the choppy seas as the sun dashed for the horizon. At the port rail, Norton used night vision binoculars to ‘scan for people smugglers’. He’d heard that on a current-affairs programme. A fine term for watching bright green waves march relentlessly across your field of view. The wireless ships’ phone in his jacket whistled: " Contact at 313° ." A distant green blob moved close to the beach. A crewman shouted into the bilge: "Get off and wade to the beach!" Get off! Get off!" Margaret found herself liberated from the glow of the bilge’s oil lamps and saw a pale emaciated body of sand a few hundred metres away. Following the others around her she leapt over the side. * * * Sydney Morning Herald, Thursday 10th May 2003 News of yet another people smuggling operation landing on the shores of Western Australia was accompanied by rumours that a young girl was injured contrary to Navy reports. In an official statement an ADF spokesperson speculated that Royal Australian Navy (RAN) personnel opened fire in an attempt to prevent the illegal immigrants from landing. However, a prominent RAN officer stated that this was not the case and disclosed that a Rating Norton shot a crocodile in defence of a family on a sandbar. The official denied persistent reports that a young girl was hit in the incident on the grounds that Norton was an ‘expert marksman’. Zi-Yang Lim -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Special thanks to the editors of this edition: Joshua Libling and Hugh Atkin JJH |