I went to bed early, lol I needed the sleep (hell, I still feel like I need the sleep) and started reading a book, only to wake up a half hour later with the edges pressing into my face. It speaks nothing of the quality of the book, just of the fact that I really was very tired.

I dreamed a lot about babies. Mostly I was buying baby things, looking around shops, trying to decide what to spend my limited money on. I had some vouchers (vouchers rock!). In my dream my baby was going to be a girl, so I was looking at girlie things. I sometimes think that girls get the better end of the deal when it comes to clothing/toys/decorations, but maybe I just haven't looked in the right places.

Anyway... dreams are just dreams. I can honestly say that I no longer have a gender preference, I'll be totally blessed with whatever it is.

I managed to get to 28,057 words last night!

I didn't think I was going to make it, but I did meet my goal and then added enough words to cross over into 28K territory. I did so with the goal of trying to get 2000 words out today and hit the 30K mark while there are still a few days left in the month. I don't intend to have any days off any time soon, but I think I might allocate one in there somewhere and say that I am going to get to 35K for sure before August hits and I'm into the End is Nigh challenge - to complete the second draft of this novel.

This is a much bigger goal than any of the smaller ones I set myself last year. And the only reason I 'won' was because I opted for something smaller that wasn't on my list originally - I was way too tied up in school work to be focused enough on the real writing tasks.

This year I intend to win with the task I've set myself, though I have a couple back up projects that also need 'finishing' just in case ;-)

Also, last night, on one of the many occasions that I was awake I started thinking about a story idea that I had ages ago during the Dictionary: Impossible challenge we had back in Feb 07. The title of the story is Mocha Nihilism, and I loved the idea at the time, just wasn't sure how to write it.

I am getting more ideas for it now. And I am also thinking that I might slot it in for Januarys New Year Novella challenge (Link to last years challenge details, the new one won't be up for a few months yet). Though it means I am starting to see a theme in my novellas - they all start out in coffee shops! lol

Looking back on Dictionary:Impossible, I also realized that I had made use of The Hollow idea already as well. While I had completely forgotten about the challenge until Chibi brought it up, on reading through my post again it struck me that The Hollow is pretty much the novel I wrote for SoCNoC this year, without even realizing it. My main character is just coming up to her 18th birthday, strange things are going on with her, and her family is in on some pretty big secrets. Cept I ended up calling her Roma, not Jennifer lol. Oh well... things change.

Anyway... better get on with my writing for the day!

A kierőszakolt meghívásnak eleget téve, a férfi látogatást tesz a hősnőnél. De amíg hősnőnk tudatosan meghozott véleménnyel ítélkezik a férfi felett, a beszélgetésük közben mégis az ösztönös érzelmei uralkodnak el rajta és akaratlanul "leomlanak előítéletei". Ugyanis ekkor még nem tudja, s majd csak később fog arra fény derülni, hogy a férfinak rejtegetett titka van, s így a hősnőnek az a szándéka, hogy a férfit magába bolondítja, nem sikerülhet. Miközben tehát minden fortélyával azon igyekszik, hogy ezt a célját elérje, észrevétlenül maga esik szerelembe.

... [A hölgy] bizonyos volt abban, hogy a megmagyarázhatatlan vonzalma, bár kivételessé tette számára a férfit, de azért másokkal mégsem egyenlővé, s hogy szerelmének okai kizárólag saját magában voltak, s ha némileg a férfiban is, mégsem annak szellemi vagy fizikai fölényében. Csakis azért, mert szerette őt, egyetlen más arc, mosoly vagy fellépés nem volt oly kellemes neki, mint az övé, de nem azért szerette őt, mert arca, mosolya vagy fellépése kellemesebb lett volna másokénál. Voltak nála szebb és megnyerőbb férfiak, s ezt tudta jól.

Akkor is tudta, amikor [A férfi] megérkezett hozzá, nem sejtve, hogy akihez közelít, éppúgy a legszenvedélyesebb barátnő, miként a legéleseb szemű ellenfél. Ha szépsége a győzelemre volt felvértezve, az értelme nem kevésbé arra, hogy ítélkezzék; készen állott, hogy örömét lelje abban, mintha szúrós virágot szedne, hogy a férfit középszerűnek és a szerelmére, amit iránta érzett, nevetségesen érdemtelennek találja. S ez nem óvatosság volt ! megérezte, hogy újra és újra az igézet hálójába kerülne, hogy a férfi jelenlétében a hurokszemeket éles elméje szétszakítaná, de alighogy eltávozik, serény képzelőereje ismét helyreállítaná.

S valóban, hirtelen nyugalom fogta el, amint a férfi belépett; a kezét nyújtva felé, úgy érezte, mintha megvonna tőle minden hatalmat. [A férfi] már nem volt az egyedüli és kizárólagos uralkodója álmainak, hanem egy kellemes látogató, semmi más. Társalogtak, de aztán leomlottak előítéletei. [A férfi] gyöngéd tapintatosságában és metsző elmésségében [A hölgy] megfelelő alapokat talált szerelmére, amelyek bár teljesen nem igazolták, mégis megmagyarázták azt, legalábbis egy kissé, s mivel megmutatták, hogy szerelmében van valami, ami a valósággal megegyezik, szerelme gyökereit a valóság talajába engedte ereszkedni, hogy onnan egy hathatósabb életet merítsenek. Azt is megállapította, hogy a férfi XIII. Lajos korabeli, finom és nemes ábrázata sokkal szebb, mint hitte. Mindazok a művészeti emlékek, melyek ebből a korból való arcképekre vonatkoztak, mostantól fogva szerelme képzetével társultak, s annak egy új létet adtak számára, beléptetve azokat művészi szépérzékének rendszerébe. Amszterdamból meghozatta egy fiatalember arckép felvételét, aki hasonlított a férfira...

copyright © by Járday György

       But that was not all. There were other rules. “The wall,” it said in a memo that circulated through the lower tiers of power, “is not to be written on or defaced in any way. Furthermore, the individual whose turn it is to put a hole in the wall shall not swing with great force. The swingee must stand an arms length away (approximately one foot) with their shoulders square to the wall, and raise their swinging arm shoulder height so that it is at a right angle with the floor and, when in position, swing the hammer until it taps the wall. Holes must pierce the wall and can be placed anywhere. It is also to be noted that this, The Wall Project, is a one hundred year project. It borrows from the best of the Eastern traditions upon which this great American company is built. A Zen mentality is required. Holes will be counted nightly to ensure that no one staff member shall have more than their due share of swings. To all staff this wall represents unity. Treat it as if it were one of your own.”

       It was a long list of demands and the day before The Wall Project began several keen staff members were practicing their swings, and it was even rumored that a certain click was going to the local pub to practice. Others scorned this.  

       One of these rebellious, negative influences upon the company’s general atmosphere was Graham Nivens, the first to take the hammer to the wall. 

       The First Swing, as it became known, was a celebrated event in the company’s history and began to take on such hallowed allure as that attributed to the curse of the Bambino, the records set by Wayne Gretzky, Pele’s moves. Without doubt there was a great hubbub of excitement like had never been known before. The selection process was simple. Names were to be thrown into a hat and the first person selected would be granted the right to swing the hammer and inaugurate the grand vision of The Wall Project’s one hundred year plan, but the Media Guys on floor six objected to this archaic method and with a flurry of emails they contended that there were obvious and clear methods of cheating that could be employed if the staff were to take this route and as a result, they proposed to delay The First Swing contest for another week until they could concoct a highly encrypted computer program that would randomly generate the winner. After that, things would proceed alphabetically. The proposal was agreed upon by all those who cared. A week rolled by like a walrus and great tension, apprehension and excitement spread to all corners of the company. When the day in question finally arrived, it was determined that Graham Nivens would be granted the privilege of The First Swing.

       Talk circulated about where he was going to place the first hole. “Ah, hi Graham,” Aaron Stevens said appearing at Graham’s side as he headed up to the lounge to take his swing. “Have you decided where you’re gonna put it? Huh? The hole, I mean. Huh? Where?”

       “Yeah, yeah,” Ralph Evans piped in. “Where is it going, Graham?”

       Another member walked by and told them to shut up, the bets were in, and they shouldn’t try to tamper with the process. 

        Graham walked on in silence. He had dodged questions all day and now, at the end of his shift and the appointed hour for his swing, he was determined to remain silent.

       Zen even. 

       In the lounge a blue banner proclaiming “Hey! Hey! Its the Big Day!” in bright red letters faced Graham as he entered. He walked passed the cake and bunting and had to push through the wave of people who were supposed to be at their desks. They receded before him as he strode towards the table where the hammer, now known affectionately as “Bunter,” was laid in its cedar wood box and he hoisted it from its velvety blue bed. 

       Except for a holy semicircle of space where he now stood, the area before the wall was crowded with onlookers. He raised the hammer as per the directions and recited the phrase that had been added in an addendum e-mail from those at the top, “I swing, therefore I am!”

       And in a slow easy motion he dropped the hammer and broke the wall’s surface. 

       There in the wall’s one hundred year grandeur was a hole the size of a bottle cap. It stared back into the room. It wasn’t much really but gasps of awe and admiration went up nonetheless. People pushed in, squeezing Graham out of the way like he was yesterday’s news, to discuss the hole; its size and shape dissected in minute detail. In the frenzy that followed, those closest drove their fingers into the hole and others discussed the fact that he had chosen such a bold place at the center of the wall.

       Exhausted and with no one watching him, Graham put the hammer back in its velvety resting place and walked out of the lounge and back to his desk on the third floor. He was the only one there. With his hands shaking and an inability to focus on his work, he reflected on what had just happened. With no clear answers, he packed up and headed home.

       The next day Graham retained some of his celebrity status, but by mid week it had passed onto Jeremy Adams, the next in line. The money in the staff pools swelled. There were side bets; a fever broke over the whole population. Graham acted as though he were happy to have the spotlight off of him, but deep down his heart ached for another swing, another shot at the wall.  

       Indeed over the following months The Wall, which had once been an eyesore and a source of derision, was now the staff’s greatest ally and benefactor, a source of pride and respect. The Wall Project was off an running. And in short order there were larger and larger bets on where the next person would place their hole, leagues dedicated to whether or not the project would last a full one hundred years, and on that score, staff members pledged that their unborn babies would be raised to join the company in order to see the bets through; and there were wagers on whether or not the wall would be defiled and who, if anyone dared, would be the first to do so. 

        Jeremy Adams swung. 

        Ethel Barts swung. 

        Mark Brautigan swung. 

        Sam Dougherty swung. 

        And each time the fervor around the swing grew. Crowds came and stared and watched and returned the next day to their desks to discuss the previous day’s awesome event. Staff no longer gathered around the water coolers and it was even mentioned that they were now redundant features of the office space and that the staff could forgo water. Their was even a buzz going around that the toilets maybe removed. All they needed, it seemed, was the wall. The monthly stats came down from on high reporting that morale was at an all time high. Management even boldly stated that they “were happy.” Production was up. Profits too. 

        The first year of The Wall Project was a great success. Graham got two more swings that year and he placed his holes in the top right and bottom left hand corners, but both swings never really matched up. The First Swing, he began to think, just may have been his life’s defining moment and he began to wonder if he should have milked it for more than he did. 

       The wall was unity. There were those who proclaimed that the scattered holes bore an amazing likeness to the Shroud of Turin, that it was nothing short of a miracle and that the staff room was truly blessed. Pictures quickly shot up all over the Net. Others contended the holes predicted the future and some spent their life’s savings on lottery tickets. There was rumors of a group that wore dark hooded costumes and met on Sundays to purge and pray. They were an exclusive group and not much was known about them.

       Graham Niven, however, didn’t share the staff’s enthusiasm and his long fall into himself began. He passed through the second year of the project feeling more and more resentful of The First Swing and The Wall Project itself.

        One day he stopped his old buddy Ernie Ersatz in the hallway and asked him to come over to the water cooler to chat. Ernie furrowed his brow and scuttled away. Graham poured himself a paper cup of water and drank it as he leaned on the cooler’s smooth plastic surface. People passed him, eyeing him out of the corners of their eyes. The water cooler was out, the wall in. Everyone worked to get back to the wall and there they could analyze it, figure it out. 

        Right there and then Graham Niven began to formulate a plan for his next swing. He tossed the cup in the wastebasket and headed back to his desk. As he sat down a wry smile cut across his face: there was only two short months until his swing and he knew just what he had to do.

A novella hősnője attól való félelmében, hogy többet esetleg nem találkozhatnak, távozásuk előtt a színházi lépcsőn, meghívja a férfit, hogy a következő napok valamelyikén jöjjön hozzá vacsorára, aki csak háromszori kitérő válasz után egyezik bele. Hazatérésekor a nő mélyen megalázva érzi magát emiatt, de bízva saját szépségében és társaságbeli tekintélyében, elhatározza, hogy ezért az elutasításért a férfit magába bolondítja.

... Hazatértekor, miközben lassan levetkőzött, [A hölgy] felidézte az estély eseményeit. Ahhoz a pillanathoz érve, mikor [A férfi] elutasította, hogy az utolsó felvonás alatt vele maradjon, elvörösödött a megalázottságtól. A legelementárisabb kacérság és a legszigorúbb önérzet ezek után a tartózkodó hidegség megőrzését parancsolták volna. Ehelyett ez a háromszoros invitálás a lépcsőn ! Méltatlankodva, büszkén emelte föl a fejét, s a tükör mélyén oly szépnek látta magát, hogy kétsége sem volt, [A férfi] belé fog szeretni. Már csak a közelgő elutazása miatt gondolt nyugtalanul és mély szomorúsággal a gyöngédségére, melyet, maga sem tudta miért, a férfi el akart előtte titkolni. Talán bevallja, esetleg egy levélben, most, mindjárt, és semmi kétség, elhalasztja útját, s ővele utazik el... Hogyan? …ilyesmire gondolnia sem szabad. De látta a férfi szép, szerelmes arcát, amint az övéhez közelíti és bocsánatot kér tőle. »Gonosz« - mondta [A hölgy]. - De talán még nem is szereti őt; talán elutazna, anélkül, hogy ideje lenne szerelembe esnie... Búsan horgasztotta le fejét és tekintete a ruháján még nála is erőtlenebbül hervadó virágokra esett, melyek bágyadt pillái alatt máris sírni látszottak. Az a gondolat, hogy mily rövid ideig tartott saját öntudatlan álma, s hogy mily rövid ideig tartana a boldogsága, ha egyáltalán megvalósulna, összetársult a virágok szomorúságával, melyek mielőtt meghaltak volna, ellankadtak a szívén, melyet épp első szerelmében, első megaláztatásában és első bánatában érezhettek dobogni...

Másnap, mikor leveleket hoztak a számára és mert a férfitól egyet sem talált köztük, csalódás támadt benne.

...Lemérve tehát a távolságot egy olyan csalódás értelmetlensége, mely a legcsekélyebb mértékben sem táplálja a reményt, és a csalódásnak nagyon valóságos, nagyon kegyetlen ereje között, felfogta, hogy immár felhagyott kizárólag az élet tényei és eseményei alapján élni. Az ámítás fátyla kezdett beláthatatlan időre szeme elé ereszkedni. Ezen keresztül már nem fog mást látni, csak olyan dolgokat, talán többet, mint mások, amiket megismerni és megélni szeretne, valóságosan és [a férfihoz] hasonulva, olyasmiket, amik vele [A férfival] kapcsolatosak...

copyright © by Járday György

Chris Abani is a professor at UCR, the school that I'm currently going to and I want to work on my thesis with him, I've been waiting for over a month for his reply. He still has not e-mailed me. I'm going to have to email him before summer classes end, I do hope he lets me work under his supervision. Cross your fingers.

I've made a promise to myself to not stop reading. I had stopped fun reading for over a year and my writing has suffered because of it :(. Besides the fact that I love to read ever since I was able to, I really do want to improve my writing and one of the ways to improve your writing is through reading. It is so important! I cannot slack off anymore. I have to try to read at least an hour a day and write about thirty to sixty minutes, whether it'd be here, the other blog or short pieces.

Everything is lovely. Next book to read: The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory. Recommended by a friend of mine. I love all kinds of books. Contemporary or not.

Proust-novella - fordítás 2.

A szünetben a barátok elmennek, de [A férfi] épp meglátogatja a társaság páholyát, s ez [A hölgy] számára alkalmat nyújt, hogy a férfit felkérje, maradjon ott a következő felvonás alatt, de mindezt mégis egykedvű szívélyességgel teszi:

...mintha öntudatlanul a kacérkodás szabályait alkalmazná, melyet a »ha nem szeretlek, majd belém szeretsz« közismert mondás foglal magába...

A meghívást azonban a férfi nem fogadja el, dolga van és már éppen távozni készül, miközben az is kiderül, hogy hamarosan távoli, hosszú utazásra indul, ami a hölgyben nem várt érzelmi fordulatot vált ki.

... Egy gyermek, aki születésétől fogva úgy lélegzik, anélkül, hogy valaha is figyelne rá, nem tudja, hogy a mellkasát lassan fújtató levegő, amit észre sem vesz, életének feltétele. Netán fuldoklik egy görcsös lázroham folyamán? A kétségbeesett erőfeszítésében szinte az életéért küzd, az elveszített nyugalmáért, amit csakis a levegővel találhat meg újra, nem tudván, hogy ez a kettő egymástól elválaszthatatlan.
Épp így, abban a pillanatban, mikor [A hölgy] értesült [A férfi] elutazásáról, melyről nem tudott, fogta csak fel, ráeszmélve, hogy mi az, ami elszakad tőle és mi az, ami majd annak helyére lép. S egy enyhe lesújtottsággal, szomorúan nézett [a barátnőjére,] haragvás nélkül, miként a szegény, szorongatott beteg sem haragszik az asztmára, mely fojtogatja, mikor könnyekkel teli szemmel mosolyog a körülötte levőkre, akik sajnálják, de nem segíthetnek rajta. Hirtelen felállt:
- Jöjjön, kedves barátnőm, nem akarom, hogy miattam elkéssen...

copyright © Járday György

Let me also take this opportunity to say that I hope those of you who have been reading the entries for sWitch are enjoying them. It might be worth noting that the excerpts I'm publishing every Tuesday and Friday are basically brain dumps to a loose outline. When I go back to them, I'll flesh them out more, adding more dialog and other fun details. My idea was to do a sort of "live" writing experiment, and show my work a bit. The exercise has also been terrific for keeping me on schedule, and I hope to have the entire "treatment" completed by the end of next month, with a first draft of the full length novel ready for Halloween.

So mark those undeadlines on your calendars, and feel free to comment on how you're finding it so far.

A gazdag és szép arisztokrata hölgy, egy színházi est folyamán közelebbi ismeretségbe szeretne kerülni azzal a férfival, aki barátainak éppen beszédtémája, s akit ugyan mindnyájan barátságosnak, de nagyon jelentéktelennek tartanak.

... tehát nagyon kedves ember, de nagyon jelentéktelen, ez volt mindenki véleménye. [A hölgy] úgy érezte, ez nem egészen az ő nézete és ezen igen elcsodálkozott; de mivel a férfi távolléte nem okozott heves (csalódást - déception) hiányérzetet, a rokonszenve sem volt elegendő ahhoz, hogy ez nyugtalanítsa. A nézőtéren felé fordultak a fejek; már jöttek a barátok, hogy köszöntsék és bókokat mondjanak. Ebben nem volt számára semmi új, s mégis, mint egy jockey a futam alatt, vagy, mint egy színész az előadás közben, sötét előérzettel úgy sejtette, ezen az estén győzedelmeskedni fog, sokkal könnyebben és sokkal teljesebben, mint máskor. Az ékszer nélküli, sárga tüllből készült ruhaderék, amit viselt, orchidea-szirmokkal volt borítva, fekete hajába is néhány katléja-szálat tűzdelt, amik ezen az árnyas tornyon, mint sápadt fénygirlandok függeszkedtek. Frissen, miként a virágjai és eltűnődve, az elbűvölő polinéziai frizurájával, Pierre Loti és Reynaldo Hahn Mahenujára emlékeztetett. A boldog közönyébe, amellyel az elkápráztatott szemekben szemlélte saját bájának megbízható hűségű tükröződését, hamarosan az a sajnálkozás vegyült, hogy a férfi nem látja őt így.
- Mennyire szereti a virágokat! - kiáltott fel [a barátnője], szemügyre véve [A hölgy] ruháját.
Valóban szerette, abban az általános értelemben, hogy tudta, milyen mértékben szépek és milyen mértékben tesznek széppé. Szerette a szépségüket, a vidámságukat és a szomorúságukat is, de csak külsőleg, úgy, mint a szépségnek egyik kifejezésmódját. Ha már nem voltak frissek, kidobta, mint egy kifakult ruhát...

copyright © by Járday György

If you looked at it in the light, it looked like a normal, black puppy. Its ears pointed in little triangles above bright yellow eyes, golden like sunlight on a summer’s day. Its fluffy tail curved above its back and wagged delightedly when anyone came close.

It carefully skipped along the sidewalk, chasing the girl’s heels in amorous delight. It would have followed her even without the thin red leash dragging along the ground between them. Its tiny, sharp claws clicked along the cement as it occasionally nipped the hem of the little girl’s skirt.

“Not now, Fen,” chided the small child.

The puppy’s ears flattened and it lowered its head between its paws with round, apologetic eyes.

The child knelt down next to the puppy, running her hand over the silver guard hairs along its back. “We’ve got to go to the store for Mama. Come on.” Her thin blonde hair fell in her face while she crouched next to her dog. She tucked the fine gold threads behind her ear before standing up resolutely.

The pair ambled down the sidewalk to the collection of stores shoved close together like cars on a used lot, slowly rusting away and nearly on top of their neighbors. The girl stood on tiptoe to look in the bakery window. The creamy display of cupcakes looked like sugary white clouds begging to be either eaten or blown away as tiny soap bubbles. The child hooked the end of the leash around the red fire hydrant outside the door way. “Stay,” commanded the small voice.

The little dog sat back on his haunches. He whimpered as his tiny master walked through the store entrance. The little girl could barely see over the counter but reached up with determination to set down her wad of dollars and change. “Mama wants a loaf of French bread,” she directed.

The red-faced baker leaned across the counter to count the money. “Good morning little Mimi. Are you helping prepare dinner tonight?” he asked her with interest.

A bright grin spread over the little girl’s face. She nodded with glee. “Yes, we are having roast beef!”

The gentle man smiled at her enthusiasm and turned to the back of the store. He came out with a thick loaf of bread wrapped in a white cloth. He slid it across the counter to her. “Give your mother my best,” he added.

Mimi pulled the warm bread against her chest and smelled its fresh aroma. She hugged it close to her before trotting back out the door. She lifted Fen’s leash. The puppy sniffed expectantly at the warm bundle in Mimi’s arms. “No! Bad puppy!” she scolded him. He immediately dropped back and tagged along behind her.

With her mission accomplished, Mimi held her head high, walking with a quick pace and occasionally talking to the puppy trailing at her heels. In fact, she was so busy having a one-sided conversation with the dog that she never noticed the man step into her path.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing out this close to dark?”

The voice froze Mimi in her tracks. She glanced up at the talk man, outfitted in a black leather jacket and muddy jeans. Mimi stepped back.

“What’s that you’ve got?” he asked, motioning towards her prized French loaf.

Mimi glared at him and hugged the bread closer.

“Let’s see it,” continued the man. He reached out a hand and grabbed her arm, trying to pry her grip lose. The puppy stepped forward. All the fur along the ridge of his spine rose up. He curled back his black lips to reveal a row of white teeth like tiny glacier jutting out at sharp angles. A growl much deeper than the tiny ribcage should have allowed emanated through his fangs.

The man looked down at the small animal and laughed. He stood up straight, still holding the arm of little Mimi. As he did so, his figure blocked out the sun, casting a long dark shadow across Fen.

As the darkness spread across the sidewalk, it concealed the body of the black dog. Upon contact with the shadow, a sudden shift of colors started to take place on the fur of the animal. A blaze of red, followed by a gently swirling blue made its way across the coat of the puppy as though he were reflecting the aurora borealis. It looked as though a prism had suddenly shone down on his silver guard hairs; each primary color floated and merged in a Technicolor concert.

The man stopped and stared at the strange animal. He watched the long ivory teeth, covered in glistening saliva, snap at his knee. He released his hold on the girl. The puppy leaned back his head and launched into the long, low call of a wolf on the hunt, the bone-chilling calling card for death. The man turned, without another thought and lurched into a gallop, taking him faraway from Goldilocks and her tiny wolf.

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On bright and sunny days, Albert took the subway. On wet and rainy days, Albert took the bus.

On bright and sunny days, the sun shone brightly, dilating Albert's pupils and encouraging him to squint his way along the streets. He received great thrills entering the subway. Shuffling his feet down the stairs echoes reverberated off the walls, magnifying his presence. The experience made him feel as though he were some nameless Victorian archaeologist entering a deep cave in search of great wonders. The cool dampness gave off an earthy feel despite outward signs of industry and synthetics.

On wet and rainy days, Albert found nothing more soothing than the pitter patter of rain against windows and roofs. He had a tin roof installed above his bed in order to best enjoy the acoustics provided by striking droplets of water. Should he be forced to venture out on rainy days, or should he find himself already to have ventured out before the rain began, Albert would take the bus, glassy-eyed staring out the window as wind and water sloshed and drizzled, whipped and slid about the glass and metal. A light watering provided a chilly yet refreshing sensation during the scarce few steps requisite to leave a building and enter a bus stop. The bus womb was warm and safe and few things surpassed seeing his locale damp and dampening in terms of sheer pleasantness as far as Albert was concerned.

Musicians in the subway were deemed more pleasant. Polkas from accordion laden men and women were preferred, followed in a close second by fiddlers, but Albert was in general a great fan of all who sat about on the concrete and created repositories for idle change weighing down the pockets of would be passengers waiting for their train of choice to whisk them off to their destination of choice. Even the spoken word music of street preachers on the train were a pleasantry. Albert has always found music to be a blessing and anyone breaking up the monotony of crowds had his approval.

Despite the great joy he derived from subway musicians, Albert was a bit tone deaf and musically challenged and had only vague notions of the quality of the music. Besides, there was only so much individual musicians could do in terms of sound, as they are limited by the range of timbres and sounds they can produce with their selection of instruments and their voices. For these reasons, Albert's ultimate pleasure came from graffiti.

Albert did not enjoy graffiti for the sake of it. Unless there was an image or legible words, Albert simply passed it by, lamenting the wasted opportunity to create something wondrous. He appreciated the rebelliousness of said graffiti, but without focus and thought the graffiti was mostly just vandalism and an excuse for tax monies to be squandered and pollution incurred in the cleansing of the defiled surface. Though, certainly, Albert appreciated the post-modern irony of sorts derived from the act of arting the signature instead of signing the art or of claiming walls and medians as the work of art and garnishing them with signatures. However, this could only be justified so many times before being reduced to the status of hackneyed.

What Albert enjoyed about graffiti was the life innate in it. Graffiti was never static. At the very least, the building would decay or be replaced, leaving the graffiti in a constant state of decay (though perhaps gradual). More immediately, the graffiti would likely be cleansed or, better yet, altered. As soon as one artist marked up the wall, another could come behind and transform it. The transformation did not have to be mind boggling or dramatic; something as simple as adding genitals by the mouth of a spray paint Mona Lisa would suffice. Indeed, turning the once pristine walls into treasure troves of obscenity and vulgarity seemed to Albert a quite desirable goal. Above all, Albert appreciated artistic alterations of advertisements. Albert harbored a deep disdain for consumer culture and materialism. Useless clutter had gathered dust in his childhood home as he walked to school past legions of the downtrodden and he could not help but develop the sentiment that making a healthful sandwich and giving it to a street sleeper in exchange for life stories was a much better use of disposable income. He especially loathed posters for cosmetics. Destroying positive body images in order to cajole people into donning carcinogens in the name of profits left a bad taste in Albert's mouth. Needless to say, arbitrary profanities splattered across such ads always put a smile on his face. Even better were the creative remixes of the original message. Albert's personal favorite: "Maybe she's born with it. Maybe it's silicone."

Albert's love of graffiti extended beyond the subway. He frequently voiced the opinion that all surfaces should be decorated with graffiti and upon waking each morning checked the facades of his residence for graffiti, though he was always disappointed (his neighborhood being a bit nice). His only reservation, indeed, was that he feared the environmental consequences of spray paint and was rather unsure as to whether suitable alternatives existed. For this reason, Albert tended to favor graffiti etched on picnic tables and in bathrooms as it seemed lower impact. Additionally, the medium allowed for easy additions and emendations. Nearly all of the interesting ones were to be found in academic institutions, though. Standard public bathrooms were nearly uniform in their racism, homophobia, and profanities. Intellectuals make for interesting vandals. Albert's favorite had two authors, one adding to the other:

Fight the systm!

Stp th vwls!

During his 19th year of life graffiti changed Albert. Having completed his high school education, he grew weary of structured intellectualism and began charting his own course of learning while supporting himself through the noble profession of plumbing. His first intended learning outcome was to decipher the nature of the graffiti artist.

The problem was simple. The problem was straightforward. The problem was in no way difficult to understand: Albert did not know any graffiti artists. The difficulty in comprehension came from Albert's inability to figure out how he had managed to live so sheltered a life as to never befriend a member of the artistic movement he so cherished. Albert straightaway vowed to spend all of his waking hours attempting contact with his apparently elusive idols.

Albert's original plan was to simply wait in a bathroom stall until he heard the etchings of graffiti being made. However, he soon realized that this was not only unlikely to produce any results (graffiti artists preferring to do their work in solitude in order to avoid retribution), but additionally ran him the risk of garnering a sex crime for his resume. Riding the subway all day proved equally fruitless.

Plan B: enter the subway after the last run has been completed and sit in a corner, waiting for the sound of spray paint.

Albert rearranged his weekend sleeping hours to better suit his scheme. Unfortunately, several weeks passed with naught to show for it. Still, Albert prevailed.

One night, on the border of sleep with his knees hugged to his chest, Albert was stirred to alertness by the his of pressurized paint. Glancing quickly around, he spotted the artist in progress a scant ten meters from his position. Quickly and quietly, perhaps a bit too quietly, Albert approached the artist.

"Excuse me my good Sir--"

Albert was cut short as the hooded artist swung around, sprayed his eyes with the paint, gave him a quick kick in the groin, and darted off down the subway tunnel. Albert collapsed on the ground screaming and moaning and desperately trying to stop the burning sensation in his eyes.

He would probably have remained there indefinitely, pathetically squealing and squawking and thrashing about, had the artist not taken pity on him.

"Stand up," she said.

"Please, please don't hurt me anymore," he groveled.

"Stand up," she repeated.

Winded and crying, he obeyed. She dragged him by the arm to a nearby water fountain and helped him flush out the paint. Fortunately, not too much had gotten in and by the next morning he would be better.

"Thank you for helping me," he panted.

"You shouldn't be sneaking up on people, especially in a subway after dark. You're lucky I don't carry a knife or you'd have a handful of stomach right now," she growled.

"I... I didn't mean nothing by it. I have... a love for graffiti and was seeking to meet an artist. I didn't mean... to startle you," he stammered.

"Ha! An 'artist,'" she mocked condescendingly, "what a load of crap. What is this, some kind of suburbanite joke? Did your friends dare you to spend a night in a haunted house as well?"

"No, I'm sincere. I've always greatly enjoyed graffiti and felt it would be nice to meet a graffiti artist," he replied.

Albert went on to explain how he lived around the corner and had been spending nights here in hopes of meeting an artist, how he'd been unsuccessful until now, how he had plenty of questions concerning the craft. She remained suspicious and skeptical, but gradually was swayed to the notion of returning to his house for a few pints and a bit of chatter.

Gradually she warmed up to him and they spent the rest of the early morning discussing the intricacies of graffiti, her personal agenda, and their lives in general. Should you like to know the particulars, I recommend you follow your own Plan B, though learn the lesson of this story and make a bit more noise.

Having talked with her well into daylight, Albert felt a bit of a connection with the strapping young graffiti artist. After she took her leave, Albert decided to continue his regimen of haunting the underground on weekend evenings. At first he continued to encounter her only intermittently, but soon she was frequenting the subway as often as he was. Indeed, they had to make arrangements to visit other sections of the subway as the spray painting became so prolific and omnipresent that it caused a minor scandaled and caught the attention of the local newspaper.

Though she was a few years his elder, they found much in common and eventually began meeting during the day over tea. Then in the evenings over a nice dinner. Then for movies and popcorn. Then for a glass of wine in the evenings. Then, as lovers.

A jovial and good natured man already, Albert became walking bliss. His friends and family noticed, even his clients made note of his increased geniality. The sun never shone so bright, unclogging toilets never satisfied so. Albert slept soundly each night while dreaming of endless niceties. He lived in an opiate haze without needles or any of the other bothers. Albert was, deeply, profoundly, inextricably, happy.

It would not last.

       Night watches were set, cameras put in place. A thorough investigation into all staff members's activities over the last three weeks would be initiated. E-mails were tapped and re-read in order to see if they contained information, secret codes, glyphs. Memos were searched. Garbage dug through. People were brought in, or rather up, and questioned. Rumors blazed through the staff of ruthless interrogations and some employees were never seen from again. 

       The wall stood still. 

       Accusations spread through the staff and paranoia spread. Certain individuals suffered through smear campaigns and other people's cubicles were covered with hateful graffiti. Nivens, too, began to think that the others suspected him and he started looking over his shoulder more and more often. For safety he would sit for hours in front of his computer watching the fish tank screen saver. This calmed him a little but slowly dark circles began to appear under his eyes and he had a hard time eating. He avoided the water cooler, now. Just to be safe.

      The extra holes stopped. And peace was regained in the company.

      Silently, however, Graham Nivens felt cheated. Someone had stolen his limelight and it would be tougher for him to execute his plan. His hatred of "it" grew. Indeed, he could no longer refer to "the wall;" "it" was much better because "it" depersonalized "it" and made "it" more abstract. "It" became a thought that he could mould or discard as he saw fit and in this way, "it" was intangible and removed from the everyday. 

      The weekend before his swing Graham Nivens locked himself in his house watching a barrage of old movies. He started with Taxi Driver. Then moved on to Natural Born Killers. Finished with American Psycho. Inspired, he headed off that Saturday to the barber shop just down the corner from his house and had his head shaved. It was his Zen look. That Monday at work some people mentioned it but only in an offhanded way. In due course, as his day drew nearer, others started to notice and some even came to work with their heads shaved. Some proclaimed that it would improve their oneness with the wall, that their swing would land upon the wall's surface with perfect, peaceful serenity. 

       Finally, after a one month delay the One Hundred Year Project started up again.

       And Mary Plonkin swung. 

       Zoe Thoms swung. 

       And the day arrived for Graham Nivens's swing. They were back to the top of the order and as usual curiosity seekers crowded around; reseting the order always brought a certain excitement. He approached the wall and looking about him, Graham held Bunter high over his shoulder and with a final look at the crowd he brought the hammer down in a clean smooth arc while simultaneously extolling the virtuous creed, "I swing, therefore I am!" Just before the point of impact he let out a huge (fake) sneeze and the hammer took flight from his hand. It soared across the foot and a half of space, tumbling end over end until it s truck the wall and stayed there, suspended, the hammer head jutting out of the wall.

       Dead silence brought life to the room.

       The handle faced the room and everyone stared at it. It fell to the ground and pandemonium broke lose. There was a cry at the back and everyone exploded into angry screams and started pushing and shoving each other, wanting to get nearer to the wall. Someone yanked the hammer off of the floor and the violent motion errantly struck the wall gouging a larger hole in the surface. This evoked more cries and calls of foul play. There were more screams and more pushing. In the din of excitement Graham slid out of the room untouched.

       Throughout the next week Graham Nivens was blacklisted.  No one would talk to him and they even took a wide berth when they passed him in the hall. Everyone wondered what would happen. Was it a mistake? How would management deal with this? Was he the one who put in the extra holes? For safety reasons he was given a leave of absence until things "blew over." That is what the memo said, "until things blew over."

       That Friday, a third memo was released from the top. It stated that, after extensive research, the party involved, an individual whose name would remain undisclosed for safety reasons, was absolved of any intentional or criminal acts, but, to respect due process and the goals of management and the integrity of the One Hundred Year Wall Project, the aforementioned party will miss his next three swings, being the approximate number of holes that the unidentified party's erroneous swing accounted for.

       It now burned Graham Nivens in both his waking and sleeping life and he plotted once and for all for its demise. His new plan would not fail. This new plan would change everything.

       And he would do it tonight.

[Note to the Rubble Reader: if you like this story and need to find out more click on the story's title below or you can go to the right hand side of this page where you will see a "tag cloud."  Simply select the title you want to read. Better yet, you can find the complete story under the "Stories" option at the top of the right hand side of the page. Thanks--One Penny]

       That is where his memories ended: a quarter of an inch before the windshield. It was at this point that time and motion melted down to a slow candle wax drip. The windshield elongating before his eyes, he saw it as a large sheet of blue ice hovering there before him, a wide, bright surface with mysterious things swimming just beyond it. And then it engulfed his whole world and he crashed through it. And submerged.

       According to Sergeant MacClusky they found him four days later in a ditch about 25 miles from the crash site, somewhere just outside of Pittsfield, face down, bruised and scarred, with his green Army Surplus jacket on inside out and only one shoe on his left foot. They found the other one about eighteen meters from the crushed car. He saw the photos. Dark grainy pictures of the crushed hood and the shattered windshield with its web of white and blue lines and the shredded tires hanging like melted wax from the wheel wells. There were dents and scrapes over the whole thing. It reminded him of a piece of discarded tinfoil. 

       But no one could figure it out. how had he survived for four days without human contact and no food and water? According to reports, he had pulled himself out of the driver's side window tearing great hunks of flesh out of his back and then crawled up through the bramble and stinger nettles to the main road where, with shards of glass still lodged in his face and blood oozing out of the large gashes behind his ears, and wrists, and legs, and the ones crisscrossing his chest, he wandered aimlessly without food or water in the general vicinity of Pittsfield, population fourteen thousand. And no one noticed him. For four whole days and no one saw a thing.

        Nixon Burroughs couldn't explain it either. So he had to trust what they told him. He dug around but nothing came up. While recovering in the hospital he'd read and re-read the news clippings from The Pittsfield Press, The Telegram, The Tribute straining to remember something, to read a comment or see a familiar detail in the background of some photo that would stir something in his mind. But nothing came of it. He followed up on the police investigation (for whatever that was worth) but was met with terse facts and polite brush-offs that he should "take it easy" and "get well soon." 

       He shook his head to keep the memories back and crept up to the corner of Fifth and Davis and waited there with the others for the light to change. A faint gust of cold wind curled around him and he drew his used parka closer around his thin frame, trying to forget. When his memories overtook his waking life he would black out and there were times when he was submerged for a full ten, twenty, even thirty minutes--his longest so far was almost an hour--and once he swam back to consciousness, he would find himself a full block away from where the submerging started, other times he was in the same spot, barely registering the traffic and the stiff grumbles of people elbowing passed him on their way down the street.

      Every time this happened, he awoke to blistering headaches. The screws holding his right leg together felt as if they were tightening deeper and deeper in his bones and ligaments and he would be immobilized with the pain. Lately, his ribs started to hurt as well and the pain seemed to be creeping back towards his spine, a part of his body that was almost permanently damaged in the accident. 

       So he had to keep moving, keep body limber and his mind distracted. Waiting there on the corner of Fifth and Davis he tuned into the noise across the street, taking in the faint voices and hammers drifting out from behind the barricaded construction site and turned to watch a large flatbed truck back up onto a ramp, beep beep beeping, and drop off a large load of rebar. 

       The light changed and the crowd surged forward leaving Nixon Burroughs alone at the curb. He joined the flow a half step behind and headed across the street towards the construction site which was surrounded by a protective ten foot high barricade. Finally on the other side of the street he ran his hands along the iron fence sometimes grazing the posters that were slapped up on the barricade, not really reading them just sort of absorbing them as he passed by. He winced as a horn blasted from inside the construction site. Men with yellow hardhats leapt from their trucks and headed off through the wide entrance, silver lunch pails swinging by their side. He was curious. Construction sites always made him feel that way and he wanted a peek inside. Just see what they were doing, take a guess at what was going up. He picked up his pace and headed towards the entrance, the wind snapping the posters's dog-eared corners as he passed. 

        Just before the entrance, he stopped. Something was different. Out of place. He took one slow step backwards and shot a glance at a cluster of posters that hung at crooked angles. There amid the jumble was a single poster with a black and white photo on it. It was centered and perfectly squared as if it were hung in an art gallery. 

       He leaned in to get a better look and saw his own face staring back at him.

[Note to the Rubble Reader: if you like this story and need to find out more click on the story's title below or you can go to the right hand side of this page where you will see a "tag cloud."  Simply select the title you want to read. Better yet, you can find the complete story under the "Stories" option at the top of the right hand side of the page. Thanks--One Penny]

So here are some nice things people have said about it.

"Wonderful work... I finished it in one sitting" --Kevin M.

"I love it... The writing is great. I had to look up 'minacious'! The story is haunting. I found TH2's descent especially touching" --Margaret D.

"I've been reading David Hornbuckle for several years now, and his mind never ceases to amaze. His stories -- this one in particular -- manage a blending of neo-realism with the freest feats of imagination. His beautifully written worlds are ours and, I think, several others. He's carrying on the fine tradition of Southern writers ... only different." --Jim B.

So there. Feel free to add your own reviews, both positive and negative, in the comments.

Boku wa aru shiriai no hito no kekkon hirōshiki ni tsuranaru tame ni kaban o hitotsu sageta mama, Tōkaidō no aru teishajō e sono oku no hishochi kara jidōsha o tobashita. Jidōsha no hashiru michi no ryōgawa wa taitei matsu bakari shigette ita. Nobori ressha ni maniau ka dō ka wa kanari ayashii no ni chigai nakatta. Jidōsha ni wa chōdo boku no hoka ni aru rihatsuten no shujin mo noriawasete ita. Kare wa natsume no yō ni marumaru to futotta, mijikai agohige no mochinushi datta. Boku wa jikan o ki ni shi-nagara, tokidoki kare to hanashi o shita.

"Myō na koto mo arimasu ne. XX san no yashiki ni wa hiruma de mo yūrei ga deru tte iu n desu ga."

"Hiruma de mo ne."

Boku wa fuyu no nishibi no atatta mukō no matsuyama o nagame-nagara, ii
kagen ni chōshi o awasete ita.

"Mottomo tenki no ii hi ni wa denai sō desu. Ichiban ōi no wa ame no
furu hi datte iu n desu ga."

"Ame no furu hi ni nure ni kuru n ja nai ka?"

"Gojōdan de.... Shikashi reen kooto o kita yūrei datte iu n desu."

Jidōsha wa rappa o narashi-nagara, aru teishajō e yokozuke ni natta.
Boku wa aru rihatsuten no shujin ni wakare, teishajō no naka e haitte
itta. Suru to hatashite nobori ressha wa 2-3 fun-mae ni deta bakari
datta. Machiaishitsu no benchi ni wa reen kooto o kita otoko ga hitori
bon'yari soto o nagamete ita. Boku wa ima kiita bakari no yūrei no
hanashi o omoidashita. Ga, chotto nigawarai shita giri, tonikaku tsugi
no ressha o matsu tame ni teishajō-mae no kaffe e hairu koto ni shita.

Sore wa kaffe to iu na o ataeru no mo kangaemono ni chikai kaffe datta.
Boku wa sumi no teeburu ni suwari, kokoa o 1-pai chūmon shita. Teeburu
ni kaketa oiru kuroosu wa shiroji ni hosoi ao no sen o arai kōsi ni
hiita mono datta. Shikashi mō sumizumi ni wa usugitanai kanvasu o
arawashite ita. Boku wa nikawa-kusai kokoa o nomi-nagara, hitoge no nai
kaffe no naka o mimawashita. Hokori-jimita kaffe no kabe ni wa,
'oyakodon' da no 'katsuretsu' da no to iu kamifuda ga nan-mai mo hatte
atta.

JITAMAGO
OMURETSU

Boku wa kō iu kamifuda ni Tōkaidō-sen ni chikai inaka o kanjita. Sore
wa mugibatake ya kyabetsu-batake no aida ni denki kikansha no tōru
inaka datta....

Tsugi no nobori ressha ni notta no wa mō higure ni chikai koro datta.
Boku wa itsu mo 2-tō ni notte ita. Ga, nani ka no tsugō-jō, sono toki
wa 3-tō ni noru koto ni shita.

Kisha no naka wa kanari komiatte ita. Shikamo boku no zengo ni iru no
wa Ōiso ka doko ka e ensoku ni itta rashii shōgakkō no joseito bakari
datta. Boku wa makitabako ni hi o tsuke-nagara, kō iu joseito no mure o
nagamete ita. Karera wa izure mo kaikatsu datta. Nomi narazu hotondo
shaberi-tsuzuke datta.

"Shashin-ya San, rabu shiin tte nani?"

Yahari ensoku ni tsuite kita rashii, boku no mae ni ita 'Shashin-ya
San' wa nantoka ocha o nigoshite ita. Shikashi 14-5 no joseito no
hitori wa mada iroiro no koto o toikakete ita. Boku wa futo kanojo no
hana ni chikunō-shō no aru koto o kanji, nani ka hohoemazu ni wa
irarenakatta. Sore kara mata boku no tonari ni ita 12-3 no joseito no
hitori wa wakai jokyōshi no hiza no ue ni nori, katate ni kanojo no
kubi o daki-nagara, katate ni kanojo no hoho o sasutte ita. Shikamo
dare ka to hanasu aima ni tokidoki kō jokyōshi ni hanashikakete ita.

"Kawaii wa ne, sensei wa. Kawaii me o shite irassharu wa ne."

Karera wa boku ni wa joseito yori mo ichinimmae no onna to iu kanji o
ataeta. Ringo o marugoto kajitte itari, kyarameru no kami o muite iru
koto o nozokeba.... Shikashi toshikasa rashii joseito no hitori wa boku
no soba o tōru toki ni dare ka no ashi o funda to mie, "gomen
nasaimashi," to koe o kaketa. Kanojo dake wa karera yori mo masete iru
dake ni kaette boku ni wa joseito rashikatta. Boku wa makitabako o
kuwaeta mama, kono mujun o kanjita boku jishin o reishō shinai wake ni
wa ikanakatta.

GET FREE ACCESS! For free access to this article and more, you must be a registered member of ROMAJI LIBRARY.

Etai no shirenai fukitsu na katamari ga watashi no kokoro o shijū osaetsukete ita. Shōsō to iō ka, ken'o to iō ka — sake o nonda ato ni futsukayoi ga aru yō ni, sake o mainichi nonde iru to futsukayoi ni sōtō shita jiki ga yatte kuru. Sore ga kita no da. Kore wa chotto ikenakatta. Kekka shita haisen-kataru ya shinkei-suijaku ga ikenai no de wa nai. Mata se o yaku yō na shakkin nado ga ikenai no de wa nai. Ikenai no wa sono fukitsu na katamari da. Izen watashi o yorokobaseta donna utsukushii ongaku mo, donna utsukushii shi no issetsu mo shimbō ga naranaku natta. Chikuonki o kikasete morai ni wazawaza dekakete itte mo, saisho no 2-3 shōsetsu de fui ni tachiagatte shimaitaku naru. Nani ka ga watashi o itatamarazu saseru no da. Sore de shijū watashi wa machi kara machi o hōrō shi-tsuzukete ita.

Naze da ka sono koro watashi wa misuborashikute utsukushii mono ni tsuyoku hikitsukerareta no o oboete iru. Fūkei ni shite mo kowarekakatta machi da to ka, sono machi ni shite mo yosoyososhii omotedōri yori mo doko ka shitashimi no aru, kitanai sentakumono ga hoshite attari garakuta ga korogashite attari suru musakurushii heya ga nozoite itari suru uradōri ga suki de atta. Ame ya kaze ga mushibande yagate tsuchi ni kaette shimau, to itta yō na omomuki no aru machi de, dobei ga kuzurete itari ienami ga katamuki-kakatte itari — ikioi no ii no wa shokubutsu dake de, toki to suru to bikkuri saseru yō na himawari ga attari kanna ga saite itari suru.

Tokidoki watashi wa sonna michi o aruki-nagara, futo, soko ga Kyōto de wa nakute Kyōto kara nan-byaku-ri mo hanareta Sendai to ka Nagasaki to ka — sono yō na Shi e ima jibun ga kite iru no da — to iu sakkaku o okosō to tsutomeru. Watashi wa, dekiru koto nara Kyōto kara nigedashite dare hitori shiranai yō na Shi e itte shimaitakatta. Dai-ichi ni ansei. Garan to shita ryokan no isshitsu. Seijō na futon. Nioi no ii kaya to nori no yoku kiita yukata. Soko de hito-tsuki hodo nani mo omowazu yoko ni naritai. Negawaku wa koko ga itsu no ma ni ka sono Shi ni natte iru no dattara. — Sakkaku ga yōyaku seikō shi-hajimeru to watashi wa sore kara sore e sōzō no enogu o nuritsukete yuku. Nan no koto wa nai, watashi no sakkaku to koware-kakatta machi to no nijū-utsushi de aru. Soshite watashi wa sono naka ni genjitsu no watashi-jishin o miushinau no o tanoshinda.

Watashi wa mata ano hanabi to iu yatsu ga suki ni natta. Hanabi sono mono wa dai-2-dan to shite, ano yasuppoi enogu de aka ya murasaki ya ki ya ao ya, samazama no shimamoyō o motta hanabi no taba, Nakayamadera no hoshi-kudari, hana-gassen, kare-susuki. Sore kara nezumi-hanabi to iu no wa hitotsu zutsu wa ni natte ite hako ni tsumete aru. Sonna mono ga hen ni watashi no kokoro o sosotta.

Sore kara mata, biidoro to iu irogarasu de tai ya hana o uchidashite aru ohajiki ga suki ni natta shi, nankindama ga suki ni natta. Mata sore o namete miru no ga watashi ni totte nan to mo ienai kyōraku datta no da. Ano biidoro no aji hodo kasuka na suzushii aji ga aru mono ka. Watashi wa osanai toki yoku sore o kuchi ni irete wa fu-bo ni shikarareta mono da ga, sono yōji* (osanai-toki) no amai kioku ga ōkiku natte ochibureta watashi ni yomigaette kuru sei darō ka, mattaku ano aji ni wa kasuka na sawayaka na nan to naku shi-bi* (poetic-beauty) to itta yō na mikaku ga tadayotte kuru.

Sasshi wa tsuku darō ga watashi ni wa marude kane ga nakatta. To wa ie sonna mono o mite sukoshi de mo kokoro no ugoki-kaketa toki no watashi-jishin o nagusameru tame ni wa zeitaku to iu koto ga hitsuyō de atta. 2 sen ya 3 sen no mono — to itte zeitaku na mono. Utsukushii mono — to itte mukiryoku na watashi no shokkaku ni mushiro kobite kuru mono. — Sō itta mono ga shizen watashi o nagusameru no da.

Seikatsu ga mada mushibamarete inakatta izen watashi no suki de atta tokoro wa, tatoeba Maruzen de atta. Aka ya ki no oodokoron ya oodokinin. Shareta kiriko-zaiku ya tenga na rokoko-shumi no uki-moyō o motta kohakuiro ya hisuiiiro no kōsuibin. Kiseru, kogatana, sekken, tabako. Watashi wa sonna mono o miru no ni ko-ichi-jikan mo tsuiyasu koto ga atta. Soshite kekkyoku ittō ii empitsu o 1 pon kau kurai no zeitaku o suru no datta. Shikashi koko mo mō sono koro no watashi ni totte wa omokurushii basho ni suginakatta. Shoseki, gakusei, kanjōdai, korera wa mina shakkintori no bōrei no yō ni watashi ni wa mieru no datta.

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ISHIGURO, Kazuo. NUNCA ME ABANDONES (Never Let Me Go, 2005). Barcelona: Anagrama, 2005; 351 pp; traduït per Jesús Zulaika; ISBN 84-339-7079-8

       Als trenta-un anys, Kathy H. recorda la seva infantesa. L'internat de Hailsham, les Cottages, els seus companys, els seus amants. La memòria de la descoberta de la vida es barreja amb la certesa d'una veritat que durant molt de temps les institucions i els mestres havien amagat.

Passat i present que s'amaga i es descobreix. Sexe, amor i poder. Descoberta, engany i incertesa. Amistat, crueltat i por. El secret d'una societat.

"No es que temiera echarme a llorar o perder la compostura o algo parecido. Pero decidí dar media vuelta e irme. Incluso aquel día, más tarde, me dí cuenta de que había sido un gran error. Pero todo lo que puedo decir es que, en aquel momento, lo que más temía en el mundo era que cualquiera de los dos se fuera y yo tuviera que quedarme a solas con el otro. No sé por qué, pero me parecía una opción viable el que se fuera de allí bruscamente más de uno de nosotros, y quise asegurarme de que ese uno fuera yo."

L'aprenentatge mai resulta senzill. La dificultat augmenta quan hi ha qüestions amagades, silenciades, que es van enfosquint. La curiositat i la por fan voler saber més i, també, preferir continuar ignorant. La vida no té un manual d'instruccions, ni resulta senzilla. Sovint l'angoixa pren cos, ho pot cobrir tot amb una boira gris, on bellesa i desassossec van de la mà. Ishiguro crea aquesta atmosfera a mida que el lector queda captivat pel seu relat. El record de la infantesa i la joventut queden difuminades per un silenci latent i dens, que fa que la lectura, subtil i tendra, no deixi d'entreveure un neguit. Un relat pertorbador i inquietant es remou sota una aparença bella i reposada, que no deixia de fluir, com el temps, com la vida, davant els nostres ulls. Malgrat notes que podrien caure en classificacions de ciència ficció i distopies, Ishiguro no es recrea en elles, sinó que només les roça. La intensitat de la bellesa, la tristesa, la fatalitat i la malenconia, no deixen de buscar dins de la condició humana, aquella mena de vaga realitat o d'estranya quotidianitat que obren un cúmul de sentiments que van dels paratges més suaus als més salvatges.

... No busquis un final feliç. No sempre el trobaràs. No esperis aquella mena de porta de salvació, ni de llum al final de la foscor. No té perquè ser així. I malgrat això, no deixaràs de sentir que potser el destí et pica l'ullet, que potser les llàgrimes no brollaran i que el regust a la boca no serà ni dolç ni amarg, sinó tots dos alhora...

That being said, if you haven't watched the musical movie version, wait until after you've read the book. Why? Because if you're thoughtless, and watch it a week before picking up the novella, you'll have the "Thank Heaven for Little Girls" song running on an endless loop inside your head while you're trying to appreciate the way Colette creates an atmosphere. Also, Gigi in the book doesn't look much like movie Gigi, and with only fifty-seven pages, it will take a while to mentally adjust.

Since it is so short, I don't want to go too much into plot; for me, it was the setting that made the meat of the story. Turn-of-the-century Paris, and even though we don't get to see the city much (the story's set in two apartments), Colette created the perfect atmosphere. The ennui, the dissipation, the ageing old less than gracefully, all of this forms the backdrop for schoolgirl Gigi. Against it, she seems even brighter and more innocent, which is a wonderful contrast. My favourite character is Gigi's great aunt Alicia: she was a high-class courtesan in the good old days, and she's determined that Gigi will be the beneficiary of her experience in refinement. Watching the interaction between a restless young schoolgirl and a determined grand-dame was delicious. And then there's the inherent irony between the manners the great aunt affects-all studious refinement-and the actual way she lived in life. It all just makes for a wonderful little piece!

Here's a taste of the relationship between Gigi and her aunt:

"Oh! Do you too, Aunt, really believe that they bring bad luck?"
"Why in the world not? You silly little creature," Alicia went bubbling on, "you must pretend to believe in such things. Believe in opals, believe - let's see, what can I suggest - in turquioses that die, in the evil eye..."
"But," saud Gigi, haltingly, "those are...are superstitions!"
"Of course they are, child. They also go by the name of weaknesses. A pretty little collection of weaknesses are our indispensable stock-in-trade with the men."
"Why, Aunt?"
The old lady closed the casket, and kept Gilberte kneeling before her.
"Because nine out of ten men are superstitious, nineteen out of twenty elieve in the evil eye, and ninety eight out of a hundred are afraid of spiders. They forgive us - oh! for many things, but not for the absence in us of their own feelings. What makes you sigh?"
"I shall never remember all that!"

I highly recommend this one as a great way to spend a couple hours. Just as long as you don't have that song running through your head the whole time...

I've been told different things about distance -- 1 month, 6 mos, more than that, even.  I'm not sure I can wait that long.  Pirouette will call to me.  I'm sure it will, when it's good and ready.  I'm not writing to the market (I hear that's not a good thing) but I would like there to be a market for it when I start the agent rounds.  But I'm also not going to push it.  I don't want to send it in when it's clearly not ready for agent perusal.

Can we just fast forward to the end of the Revision and call it done? 

Just kidding.  This will be an interesting experience, being my first real revision.

Survivor is just moving along.  Things have changed a bit, but for the better, I think.  I think I have a shot of getting it done within the next few months (!).  If I work my butt off, that is.  Timeline-wise, we're just before the climax of the book.  So it's almost there.  Pantser me, I meandered a bit, but I'm not off course...just taking a detour.

I could wrap it up within the next few days, but that would take away from the power of the story.  There's a very specific thing that needs to happen to set the MC in a new, healthy direction.  I'm moving towards that.

I also have another idea percolating.  My awesome writing partner emailed it to me.. It's for Silouette Nocturne Bites, 15k novellas.  Paranormal.  That's about 40 pages.  And it would be a challenge to write something tighter.  Ideas....one of them is basing it off of a really cool song (by guess who?  Queensryche!) and another is a serial tracker thing.  Yet another is vampires underground.  Don't know how I'll choose.  But there's no deadline, so I'm just going to let this one simmer away.

That's about it.  No Revision, working hard on Survivor, got some new things to flog the muse with.

So, with that little disclaimer out of the way, on to the review.  This Shape We're In is a very odd and incredibly tightly written story.  It focuses on two characters searching for one of their sons who has run away to join a cult, as well as the purpose of their lives, oh and lest I forget the purpose of their environment as well.  The environment in question, the shape, is a body that may or may not be human.  It could also be a generational ship, a fallout shelter, or possibly a trojan horse.

The brilliance of the story comes from the craft on display.  For nearly any other writer a story this ambitious would form a novel.  For Lethem, the tale encompases a total of 55 pages and feels like it's exactly the length it ought to be.  This is world building of the first order, there is no extraneous exposition (or really any exposition at all for that matter), yet the environment feels fully realized.

This story (if you can still find a copy) makes a great introduction to Lethem's work, very highly recommended.

There's been a great deal of talk these past few years about Steampunk.  Ann and Jeff VanderMeer just released a landmark anthology of steampunk stories, and the wonderful Ellen Datlow has another promising anthology of steampunk stories coming out soon.  I enjoy steampunk.  I find the incredible gadgets and the clothes and Victorian sci fi great fun.  But it's not what I like to write.  So I figured what steampunk did for the Victorians, I would try to do for the expatriot generation of the 1930s.  "Something Permanent" is my first entry into this new field.  Hopefully, the story and the ideas behind it will resonate with the reading public.

More on this anthology as it develops.

      A memory snapped me out of my funk. I recalled the glossy pages of some big name magazine, G.Q. or something, which had proclaimed that the Far East was all the rage. But I was so fucking over it. In fact, I was sick to death of those tour buses taking over the city, turning cultural monuments into cheap pin-up whores; I was fed up with all of those flashing, popping cameras shooting at everything and nothing; and I was pissed off at those goddamned smiles; those wide, too toothy Asian smiles. “Dah-ling,” my mom interrupted my mental rant, “why don’t you be a dear and take off your sunglasses?”

      Cursing my bad luck, I snapped off my Blue Blockers and fumbled them into the inside pocket of my corduroy blazer, worried that my cover was blown. How the hell could I forget to take off my sunglasses? I must be in worse shape than I believed. The Fear grabbed me by the nuts. I whipped the menu up in order to shield my face, hoping to hide the grizzly truth: I was wasted; too fucked up to be anywhere near polite conversation. I slid down into my seat and darted my eyes suspiciously around the table hoping to christ that they were not blazing red and swimming in goo like laboratory fetuses in a pickling jar. No one seemed to notice. Satisfied, I lowered my eyes and returned my mind to my number one concern: the reason as to why we were here.

      Slowly, ever so slowly, I lowered my menu and peeked my eyes over the top. My heart thudded as I scanned the table and noticed that no one brought gifts. No cards either. I tried to think of ways to broach the topic when my father asked about work.

      ”Listen up: Did you get that message I sent you?”

      ”Yeah, that e-mail about nature or something? It was kinda weird.”

      ”No, no email,” he said sipping his Perrier, “a text.”

      ”Oh yeah, that message,” I said taking out my cell phone and noticing that my father’s message for the first time. There were thirteen other unanswered messages. Without reading my father’s text I pressed “Delete All” and then sighed deeply as I felt the carbonated fizz-pop release of stress bubbles bursting and floating away. Ahh….

      ”So what do you think?”

     “Uh…I say…go for it.”

      ”Really. How do you think the board will take it? You know how that shark, Faber, is.”

      ”Yeah, don’t worry,” I said. “I am on it,” but the only thing that I could think of that I was on was a bad diet of pills, powder, and Pernod.

      ”Well then, push it through first thing in the morning.”

      ”I –”

      ”–already took care of it,” Frank said, re-seating himself. “The format is perfect now and I’m just waiting for the final word to come through. I finished it last night and sent it along. Don’t worry I cleaned up the mess.” He let this last word hiss in space as if a whole had been blown in the side of our safe little family space shuttle. Yup. We were a regular Jetson’s space-aged family.

      ”Good job, Frank” my father said.

      I decided to play along, smiling and nodding to lord knows what but agreeing with ardent vigor nonetheless. With this new turn of events the cruise control function in my mind decided to take over and this allowed me to think back through season six of The Discovery Channel’s “Snake Charmers Series.” A list of the various ways that were suggested to kill snakes appeared. Frank was a snake and in this situation I liked my chances with the “Texas Boot Heel.” That was the best method for large poisonous bastards.

      ”I just figured we would take it to’em early,” Frank said. “This way we can break for the back nine just after lunch. Beat the crowd.” He said this with a wink. Can you believe it? A wink.

      ”You sly little codger….” my father said raising his glass of Taittinger in salute.

       “And listen to this,” Frank said leaning forward into the table, his voice low and his eyebrows high. “The network loves the commercial pitch and is going to push it through. Cheevers was pleased. Just one thing though, Paul was late and got short with the director. Story is he was high on something and throwing stuff around. I heard he was on the cocaine.“

       “Good call” Frank said, banging the table with one hand and pulling out his cell. With lickedy split finger action the text was written and sent. 

       “Steve?” My head swung wildly between my father and Frank. “Come on, man. Steve isn’t half as good as Pauley.” As soon as it came out of my mouth, I felt the cold slippery cod slap of guilt, a blow that was both ancient and officious, but, like the cod stocks, dwindling in modern times. Why? I had just left Pauley crashed out on my couch watching The Discovery Channel’s “Inside North Korea” with a whale sized pile of blow in front of him, his teeth grinding down to pebbles. “I mean come on. That’s weird for Pauley. Give him another shot.”

      ”Too late, son. This business waits for no one. You know that. Paul is out. Period.” 

      ”But, Pauley is a good guy…”

      ”Listen. We want good workers, not good guys.” He had that anchorman delivery: a nail gun staccato which hammered everything home as if it was a sturdy unchangeable fact. Butt fuck fags, right? I meant, but fuck facts. Ah. Losing it. 

       “But….”

       “Listen,” he said. “Period.’ Steve is in. Paul is out.”

       “Darling, we’re going with Steve,” my mother said snapping the dragon shut. She plopped a blue veined hand on my wrist and I knew that it was useless to push it any further. She reached over and fixed my younger brother, Jack’s, black hair. Jack didn’t even flinch; he just stared at his Gameboy Advance, bottom lip twitching occasionally, a series of zaps and beeps wafting up from the machine to do his talking for him. 

       “Well then let me deal with it, will ya’?”  

       “Like you dealt with the Faber account?” Frank asks.

       I turned to face him but the sun flashed through the window, blinding me momentarily. I hissed like a vampire and brought up both arms to cover my eyes. I yanked my Blue Blockers out of my inside pocket and shoved them on. “Look, Frank, I told you already, Faber….”

        ”Listen. That is enough of that Faber account crap,” my father interrupted. “The account is in the bag; it’s ancient history now.”  

        Frank nodded along. “That‘s right. As Dwight D. said, ‘Neither a wise man nor a brave man lies down on the tracks of history to wait for the train of the future to run over him.’”

       “Quite enough,” my mother said punctuating the point. She reached over the table and pulled off my sunglasses placing them next to my wine glass. “Let’s have a toast. To the future.” 

       “The future” dad said raising his glass of Taittinger.

       “The future” Frank said. A wide crocodile grin ate up his face. He didn’t move his head, but I think I saw his eye slither towards me in its socket. “And besides, we got other business to attend to.” 

        I raised my wine, but said nothing about the future. The fucking future? my mind spat. The thought of it made me want to lash out at someone and I turned towards Frank to resume my defense of the Faber account, but my rant was scooped out of my mouth and slapped to the floor as the waiter materialized at my side, pen nib poised on notepad. The sight of him sent a shiver through my body and I repeated to myself: Breath. Try. To. Act. Cool. Without thinking I ordered the wild mushroom consomme garnished with a pate a choux pastry stuffed with morels, chantrelles, and truffles. For my main course I got the gourmet smoked duck salad that my father recommended and which the waiter suggested showcased the fall colors, wherever they had disappeared to in this infernal heat. My father and Frank kept it simple and ordered seared cajun lamb chops with a side dish of fresh steamed vegetables and garlic smashed potatoes with sautéed onions and peppercorn gravy. My mother ordered a Waldorf salad with all organic vegetables and followed this with sushi wrapped avocado and a bowl of jasmine rice. Jack got a cheeseburger and fries, which my mother ordered for him. And a glass of ice cubes, no water, put in an Ice Age II: The Meltdowncup that Jack had brought with him from the Cinema 12. The cup had a cartoon picture of a large but friendly looking Mastodon who was winking and hugging a cocky looking saber toothed tiger. The tiger was giving me a thumbs up.

      He peered back at the eyes on the poster and they seemed to life right off of the page and tear through him. Is that me? He ran his hands over his face feeling the contours of his nose and cheek bones in order to reassure himself that he was still really there, to anchor himself into his self. 

       A sudden yoke of anxiety broke him. He jumped up from the ground and scanned the neighborhood expecting to see someone watching him. He looked at the windows in a row of hunched brownstones searching for a flash of light from the reflection of a pair of binoculars, a man in a black trenchcoat, a...a...a what?

      He turned in circles looking back down the street, up ahead, at the far corner but nothing struck him as unusual. It was Fifth and Davis draped with the typical Saturday afternoon activity: people in suits held briefcases while waiting for the walk signal, a mother hunched over a stroller snapping the plastic cover down in order to protect her child from the from the biting wind, a jogger in black spandex running on the spot, finger to neck taking her pulse. A delivery truck rumbled by. Trees whispered secrets to the wind.

      He headed around the construction site looking for a duplicate. There had to be another one; this was a prank or something. There had to be an explanation for it. But after covering the gated area for a full hour, he found nothing but the usual announcements for the events happening around town: the Cirque de Soliel halloween special, bands playing at The MIxture, reminders that there were only three days left for the Picasso exhibit at the Arts and Culture Center.   

      He went back to the original and tore it down. He stuffed it in his parka and headed down Davis, occasionally peering over his shoulder as he slid along. 

      Four blocks later he reached Burrard Street where he spotted a cafe among a row of undistinguished buildings. The Mug SHot Cafe was wedged between a stationary shop and a butcher's market. It was a run down shop with a clever window display of two grim looking coffee cups standing in a police line with the caption How You Seen This Mug? written in black letters and forming a circle around the sinister coffee mugs. It looked like a good enough place where he could sit and regroup. 

      It was busy but quiet. A group of university students sat in a booth laughing and chatting over a table scattered with novels and notebooks, at another table a couple hunched forward and talked in hushed tones; a man sat in the front window, a ray of sunshine slanting across his table while he read the newspaper. He shuffled passed a couple who were paying at the cash register and towards the back of the cafe.

      The store was lined with old black and white mug shots of John Dilinger, Ted Kaczynski and a young and defiant Al Capone number C28169. He slid in a booth with Lee Harvey Oswald on the wall. A waitress came. She was dressed in a prison orange shirt and a black skirt. According to the stenciling over her left breast her name was Eva and her number was Nf7533061. She laid a paper place mat with a sedated Jimi Hendrix after his Toronto bust, a wild eyed and frizzy haired Nick Nolte, and Anna Nicole Smith front of him. "What can I get ya?"

      "I'll have a cup of coffee. Two cream, one sugar," he said lighting a cigarette. 

      "Will that be all?"

      He nodded and she sped of into the kitchen. Burroughs took the poster out and spread it on the table. It was a typical, nondescript and slightly yellowed 81/2 by 10 inch poster. The picture had a grainy quality. The coal black pits where his eyes were supposed to be made him think of the sinister gaze of biblical prophets, Charles Manson, Raasputin. The jaw was chiseled and the chin more pronounced, nut even with these subtle gradations of of light and dark, there was no mistaking it. It was him. Or was it? 

      His coffee arrived. The waitress left. he sipped his drink and decided to call the waitress back. He put the poster on the edge of the table in order for her to see it. Maybe she would say something; give him the objective verification he needed that it was--or wasn't--him. But he had no idea what he would say if said it was him. Who carries around a poster of themselves? he figured he'd just pass it off as art or something. The bigger problem was if she said she recognized the person in the poster; that was her roommate from college or her brother's friend. How would he react to that?

      He waved her over.

      "Yeah?"

      "You guys sell bagels?" he asked, dropping his eyes to the poster in the hope that hers would follow.  

      "Yeah," she said without looking down. 

      "Okay," he said trying to stall. He needed her to see it. It just had to seem natural. He didn't want to ask her directly. Who asks if a picture of themselves is really them? "I'll have one then." 

      "Cream cheese?"

      "Got garlic and chives?"

      "Uh-huh." She left and he crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. He felt stupid and shoved the poster back in his parka. A new plan struck him. He crumbled the place mat and tossed it under the booth's long seat. He put the poster in its place. She would have to notice it there. 

      She returned. "Here's your ba-"

      The plate hung over the table top and she shot a look at the poster. for a split second a thought crinkled her face but it disappeared as soon as it came. Burroughs looked at her trying to read her but she flashed him a friendly smile and laid the plate down. 

       "Bagel," she finished and dashed off. 

       He finished his bagel and coffee in silence, left five bucks on the table and slid back into the city.  

[Note to the Rubble Reader: if you like this story and need to find out more click on the story's title below or you can go to the right hand side of this page where you will see a "tag cloud."  Simply select the title you want to read. Better yet, you can find the complete story under the "Stories" option at the top of the right hand side of the page. Thanks--One Penny]